Dealing with myself,looking at the man in the mirror.

10 07 2009

This post has nothing to do with writing or being a writer but maybe a little, depending on where it takes me. I finally managed to open up to a group of people tonight. Telling them some of the anguish and pain I have had to go through the past few months. It’s actually a huge step for me to open up to a group of people. I am dreadfully private and wary around people.

Ironically, it’s in my writing that I feel liberated to speak. As I conjure up stories, I inevitably write about my life. Write about my thoughts and aches and pains and anguish and joys. It through the channel of putting thoughts to paper, I find release. A non judgmental world where I can roam free.

Maybe it’s me, but writers seemed to be people who look at themselves in the mirror and seek avenues upon which they can describe the image that they see. Often times, attempting to mirror the image as a picture of what society or life should be like. But there’s a problem with the image in the mirror. It is a picture of a singular person and we may be faulted as being a narcissi when talking too much about one’s own self.

So tonight I looked at the man in the mirror and attempted to describe him to a group of people. In a small way, it was my way to deal with my own inner demons. A form of inner therapy, from which healing may take place. I’ve been through a lot the past few months. I’ve made mistakes and brought immense pain to those around me. Partly, because I’ve been a narcist about things and also a total ass. Couple that with stubbornness of the nth degree and an inability to listen to reason.

Unfortunately, that’s me.





Throw the blinds open, gain new insight. A writer’s need.

15 06 2009

I’ve just moved into a new office at my workplace. New location, new department, it is a step up from my previous department. I now have the luxury of a bird’s eye view of my surroundings. It great to be on the fifth floor especially when the windows also substitute as a wall for your office. So I merely turn to my right and the view greets me. I love it. I needed it.

In life we need new experiences and views in order to move forward. There are times we get pigeon-holed in a particular location or within a certain mind-set. It is arresting and unhealthy. Situations like that will quickly push you into a state of decomposition. You rot and eventually die from being stagnant. We need new experiences to open up new mind-sets and thought patterns. And with new ideas come inspiration; the very energy a writer thrives on.

Having my fifth floor view energizes me into action. Opens my mind to ideas and inspires me to think differently. It motivates me to think along strange paths or paths least travelled by other writers. Explore subject matters, which none dare write about or create scenarios that defy conventional thinking.

Isn’t that the goal of writing?

To spur, to poke fun at established idea, to be the driver of iconoclastic motives? Writers should want their writings to create a sense of wonderment and thought among their readers. If your reader can have an opinion about your work, then you would have done your job well. You would have ignited a thought within them.

So throw your blinds open, see the world from a higher place or a lower place, and be inspired to write.





Drawing from life experiences for story plots.

10 06 2009

Writing is an art fairly dependent on your imagination, yet there are times imagination needs to be sparked into life. It is necessary that writers read and read anything that interest them. You never know how that bit of information about the sleeping habits of Amazonian otters could help out in your next spy thriller. Now before you start subscribing to National Geographic of Nature magazine, another source of inspiration is your own life experiences. Some writers may not agree with me on this one because it could lead to writing that is pompous and bordering on indulgence.

True. Writing from life experience can be inhibiting to the imagination because one can be locked into a plot that is linear. It is always better that one uses life experiences as a guide to a story. Life experiences can give the air of authenticity to the story. Give the story the sense of realism, that is often times missing in a tale. Conversations will sound real, actions logical and reactions will be seemingly recognizable by the reader.

But in using life experiences, one must make liberties to stretch the story a little. To add surprises to the tale. Surprise yourself even. Don’t be muzzled by the outcome of the experiences. Sometimes, in the story, the character may want a different outcome or may guide the plot in a direction totally different then what you know it should be.

Use life experiences but allow room for surprises. Happy writing!





2nd book accepted (in principle).

31 05 2009

After waiting 2 months (normal evaluation period in Malaysia), I finally got the green light from my publisher for my 2nd book.In their email to me, they seem to imply that they will take their time with this book. Stating that they will be publishing it “in the near future”. The email was quite confusing but the very next day, I get a request to send over the manuscript in .doc format for editing purposes.

I’m not going to push for a timeline cause being pushy can translate to being irritating and they may just can me for being a desperate-wanna-be-published writer. So I am going to take this patiently and see what happens. I have one foot in the door and it may take some time to put the other one through too.

Publishers won’t be too desperate if they feel your book is a hard sale and I foresee this is the challenge ahead for me. Novels in English especially written by local writers like me have to go head-to-head with the imported titles. By putting my book into a bookstore in Malaysia, I have to compete with Dan Brown, JK Rowling or Stephen King.

It’s a tough sell and carving your place among giants is a daunting task for there is a stigma that local writers are not up to par with our illustrious cousins writing from abroad. Which is a myth since writing is universal, the telling of a story is a human trait birth from the long nights our ancestors had sitting around campfires and family communes. Story telling is colorful and never meant to be stagnant and the same. So if there is to be judgement, then judge the story not the story teller. This way, we become color blind to the writer and give all stories their due respect.





The Reclusive Writer

23 04 2009

I am quick to admit that I am a very reclusive person. By nature I am painfully private about things in my life. There was a period in my life where I sought to fit in but that was as successful as trying to drown fish in water. I have since come back home to being the recluse that I am. Yet in being reclusive, intoxicated in my own reality, I find the well-spring of creativity. I imagine the lives of other people. Living and breathing the air of the characters that populate the world of my mind. It is a world undisturbed by the harsh reality of this world.

There is nothing bad about being shy about yourself. In looking myself, I realized that I have a lot of acquittances yet only a handful of close friends. People with whom I can be vulnerable with and comfortable to share my thoughts and ideas.

Yet it is in my own quiet retreat, I am able to write and spin the tales that flash within my head. I put on my beenie, wake up my iBook and type away. Some stories go unfinished, some take flight yet others remain empty pages waiting for another visit.

I sometimes shun writer gatherings for the very reason, I prefer to write alone. I am not saying writer groups are bad. No. By all means join one if you feel it would help your craft. All I am saying is, it may not work for me. I enjoy writing alone. In the comfort of my own thoughts and the quietness of my own space. Do what is best to express your craft. Don’t compromise on what makes you a writer.

If you are a reclusive writer like me, don’t worry. You are in good company.





Train Man..sweet story

13 04 2009

I just finished reading a book called Train Man. I bought it some time last year and only now I have gotten round to reading it and boy, did I miss something. It is a sweet, sweet book. It is a story that would make you smile and realize fairy tales do happen in the real world.

There is an online version of the story available here: http://www.rinji.tv/densha/

Densha Otoko, or ‘Train Man’ is the name of a very popular book published in Japan in early 2005, which tells the true story of a nerdy guy who falls in love with a girl who he saved from a drunk on a train. This entire story takes place on a Japanese bulletin board system called 2ch, or ‘ni-channel’, particularly in a thread called ‘Men Being Shot from Behind’, where single men get together and gripe about being single.

In typical Japanese fashion, after the tremendous success of the book, both a movie version and a TV drama series were released. ‘Densha Otoko’ is really the “it” book of 2005 for Japan. It’s a really great story and I hope that this translation helps you enjoy it, too.

I’ve heard of writers publishing their blog entries in the form of books but this is the first time I’ve come across a book that is comprise of forum postings. The replies from the other netizens are funny, ridiculous yet honest. It’s not scripted. Not plotted. Train Man is a simple story but what makes it special is the sense of community. You become part of the group, rooting for Train Man as he pursues his lady, Hermes. You are drawn into their discussions and at times you would disagree with them yet you see the fun side of things.

Give it a try and you’ll see why I am still smiling when I think of the book.





Second book off to publishers.

9 04 2009

I finally took the step to submit my 2nd book to the publisher of my 1st after waiting (fruitlessly) for MPH to respond to my queries. Here is chapter 7 from my second book – The Bicycle.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A gang of ducks made their way toward the lake. They waddled confidently in single file across the foot path and manicured lawns of the Butterfly Gardens, oblivious to onlookers on their routine afternoon walks, who found the whole scene rather cute.

The bicycle lanes at the Butterfly Gardens were leveled and smooth (for it was a new park planted with various flowers to attract butterflies). Sam did not want to take the chance with the bicycle on an uneven path neither would he ever think of riding on the main road for Malaysian drivers had a habit of hitting anything without the customary four wheel setup.

Getting Elizabeth to sit on the top tube of the frame took some convincing on his part. Fearing the tube would buckle under her weight, he had asked that she peddled and he walk alongside her. She waved it away as nonsense, knowing full well that she was not that heavy and that he was merely being fussy, insisting instead that he peddled them through the park.

She sat on the top tube and he steadied himself and slowly he pushed on the peddle and they moved forward. Initially a little slow but eventually they picked up speed as Sam got into his rhythm.

It was a beautiful afternoon for a bicycle ride. The sun was low and a gentle breeze blew among the trees. The lanes were shaded with low overhanging trees growing along the sides with hibiscus hedges planted in between the trees. The sound of crackling dry leaves accompanied them as they rode along the path that winded its way round a lake shape like a pear.

She leaned against him and once again he caught the scent of her perfume, intermingling with the warm air and blooming flowers bathed by the afternoon sun. Just you and me, the thought crossed his mind. Just two people caught in a web of emotions bordering on friendship? He could walk away from this if he wanted to but something deep inside convinced him to stay on, to walk down a path he was not familiar with, to peer into the darkness and grapple with a feeling he knew little about.

“I like this,” she said, turning her head to gaze up at him.

“I like it too,” he replied, catching a twinkle in her hazel brown eyes. ‘I can’t keep my eyes of off you,’ he thought. ‘Why?’

He held his gaze for a second longer and permitted himself to savor the moment. Knowing full well, moments like these do not come often. There was that feeling again, the kind you get when you are waiting for your new car or when you are expecting your boss to announce your promotion. It was a tingling in his stomach, butterflies? Or was it more like crazy South American killer bees on a rampage. Whatever it was, it only happened when he was close to her and now having her sitting on the bicycle with him intensified the buzzing in his stomach to the point he was now weak in the knees.

It was a deep yearning. A yearning for something more than just friendship. It was a yearning to have her with him at all times. For as he cycled he realized that as everything around them moved by, she was still with him. The scenery changed and morphed into various pictures yet she was still there with him, still the same person he had grown to…love? Was he falling in love? Could he actually be falling for Elizabeth? Why now? Why did it not happen before, during their early years? Or maybe they have been in love all this while, dormant and silent, only to be awakened by the bicycle. A bicycle, which had seen love beforehand and now passing it on to them. Serendipity. The word flashed in Sam’s mind.

There was a time he would not have given a hoot about her but ever-since entering university, where one can choose how they spend their time, he had spent most of his time with her. He needed a friend and there was none closer to him than Elizabeth.

She was the constant in his life. The fixed point that did not change as the surroundings moved along and that was the way he wanted it and that was the way he hope it would stay.

She hummed a tune as he cycled down the path heading towards the lake. It was a tune he recognized, a song from the play where they first met. She rested her head on his chest, “I can hear your heartbeat.”

“You like that don’t you?” He asked. Not the smartest of questions but heck, he wanted to know what she would say in reply.

“Duh? You know I do. You have a nice heartbeat. Steady and soft.”

“A heartbeat is a heartbeat,” he commented, ‘it beats for you,’ he added, though it was only in his mind. A thought he wished he had the courage to speak out.

He quickened his pace, allowing the wind to gently caress her hair, which she had untied and allowed to fall free.

Elizabeth looked up at him, “Are you okay?”

“Besides having your hair poking up my nose. I should be fine,” he replied and winked at her.

“Funny? You think that’s funny?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not working,” she smiled at him. She was being cheeky with him, flirtatious even but this was Sam, the unromantic moron, who probably would not know if a girl was interested in him even if she said it into his face.

“What’s not working?”

‘Yup. Sam, the unromantic moron.’ Elizabeth felt safe around him. Safe to be herself, knowing Sam would not flop over silly to impress her in order to gain her attention or win her affection. No, Sam was her best buddy and she could count on him to be her best friend, no strings attached, no emotional connection.

“You, trying to be sweet, funny. Trying to be romantic,” Elizabeth replied.

“You told me that I needed to be romantic around girls. So who else can I practice on?”

“Your mother.”

“Crazy girl!”

She laughed and pressed her head against his chest, “I like this.”

‘Me too,’ Sam thought, ‘I love it too.’

“Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you so nice to me?”

“Why? Cannot-kah?”

“No. Just that you’re nice…when you’re like this.”

‘Like this? What do you mean by that?’ He thought. “It’s always good to be nice to people…it’s…it’s the right thing to do.”

“Being nice?” She asked, shifting her head slightly.

“Yes,” he replied.

“But you’re only like this to me.”

He smiled, “Because I spend most of my time with you,” he replied.

“Why?”

He cycled along a curve where the path was level. Hedged on both sides with little red and white roses. He peddled slowly, taking his time to mull an answer.

“I’m comfortable with you,” he replied.

“But most of the time we argue and have those intellectual debates and I call you names.”

“And then we laugh.”

“Yeah. Then we laugh.”

She shifted her head, the top of her head touching his chin.

“Don’t you get irritated by me?” She asked.

“Crazily irritated. You drive me nuts.”

“Then why do you stick with me?”

“Because you’re fun to be with and I wouldn’t want to trade that for anything.”

“It’s not working,” she smiled and gently pressed her head into his chest.

He smiled and quickened his pace. His peddling was smooth, his thoughts were at peace knowing that she was happy. He knew that regardless of what she did to him (teasing, battering, sarcasm), he would take it and at times laugh it off.

He was always gentle with her. Always the friend who stuck by her during the hard and good times. He was there for her even during the times she said she did not need him and there were those times when she got depressed and shut the world out. Those were the times he hated the most. He would not hear from her for a day or two. His calls would go unanswered and his messages un-replied.

They went by the lake, scaring a flock of ducks waddling on the shore. The water sparkle like fireworks as the ducks scampered into the water, quaking angrily at the two intruders on the black bicycle with white trimmed tires.

They stopped under a low hanging willow tree by the water’s edge where they sat down to enjoy the scenery.

She sat beside him, tucking her legs up and resting her chin on her knees. Her hair was tousled and he found it charming.

“That was fun,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, we should do this more often.”

“Won’t you get bored?”

“Not as long as the company is good.”

She giggled, hearing him say that, “The company is good?”

“What?”

“Trying to be romantic again? It’s not working.”

“Romantic? I’m just stating a fact. Having good company is a…a…good thing…especially when I’m…with you.”

“Why do you stammer when you say that?”

He did not answer her, choosing instead to look out onto the lake. It was not easy for him to talk about his feelings. He got tongue-twisted and messed up his words so he preferred to keep quiet than risk talking.

“Why so emo?” She waved her hand in front of his face, breaking his gaze.

“Nah, just thinking.”

“About your grandmother? You should ask her to tell you more. Maybe you can write a play out of it.”

“Yeah. Just that she still loves the man. After all these years she still thinks of him. Like it happened 50 years ago. How can she hold on to something for so long?”

“It meant a lot to her, I guess. You don’t really forget your first love. It’s takes a long time,” she replied.

“You still think of him?”

“Him?”

“Jason,” he replied.

Elizabeth turned her gaze towards the lake as angry quaking ducks swam by them. Tucking her stray hair behind her ears she sighed, “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Well, I still think of him. I still get angry. I still feel hurt. It makes me cry. Like I sometimes wonder why I wasted my time with him. That jerk! How easy it was for him to forget me and chase after that other girl, what’s her name?”

“Tina.”

“Yeah, Tina! Bimbo! After all we’ve been through. He takes off just like that, with a dumb bimbo who thought Guatemala was an African state.”

“Er…where is Guatemala anyway?”

“Look it’s in Central America. Everybody knows that,” she said.

“Alright, geography aside. You were the one who wanted some time off. You wanted the space, right?”

“Yeah. But I told him I wanted time to rethink the direction of our relationship. I felt it was not going anywhere. With all that pestering. You know, be more lady-like, be more feminine. He wasn’t doing any good,” she replied, agitated and upset. “It took him only two months to find a replacement. Two months! Am I that easy to forget? Am I that easy to let go?”

The question hung in the air as Sam pondered an answer. He had heard this a hundred times before, during the months following her break-up with Jason. He had heard her reasoning, her tears, her laments and her anger.

She took out her frustrations on him, pinching his arms or punching his stomach. But she did far worse then just hurting Sam, she also hurt herself. The lines on her wrist visible as she tucked another stray hair behind her ear.

“No, you’re not that easy to forget. You’re special, unforgettable. Only fools cannot see that you are a wonderful person. You didn’t do anything wrong. You listened to your heart and told him what you thought. You were willing to give it another go but he was the one who couldn’t wait. So don’t take it out on yourself. okay?” he replied.

Her hazel brown eyes held his gaze. Eyes that sparkle when she was happy and glazed over when she cried.

He wiped a tear-drop, clear as crystal, streaking down her right cheek, “You did not do anything wrong. You loved him yet he did not reply it in kind. So he’s the one missing out on something wonderful, something beautiful.”

“I’m not beautiful,” she said softly, her voice drowned by the passing breeze.

“Well…cute?”

“Cute?” She whispered, “Ugly but adorable?”

He smiled and reached forward to hold her. She did not object, falling willingly into his embrace. He gently rub her back for he knew she liked that.

‘You will always be beautiful to me,’ the thought made him tighten his hold.

A gentle breeze blew and the willow tree swayed, its branches dancing on the surface of the water. Stray rays of sunlight cut through the tree tops and like golden blades they pierced the lake water. The ducks made a game out of swimming between the golden blades oblivious to the two on the lake shore.

“I’ll be fine,” she said as she broke free from his embrace. “I don’t want to fall in love anymore. It hurts too much.”

He had heard that statement before. It was still her choice but it struck him hard each time he heard it. Now how was he going to tell her how he felt?

There was a chance that she would turn him away the moment he revealed his feelings and he could lose the one person that truly mattered to him.

Sam nodded, he understood fully what she meant. She was shutting out any idea of love from her life. It also meant he would have to keep his feelings to himself.

‘You have to be honest with yourself even if it hurts. It is a risk worth taking,’ his grandmother’s words echoed in his ears. No, he was not willing to take that risk. He was not going to disturb a friendship that meant so much to him. He would keep it to himself even if it hurt him most.

His grandmother was wrong, this was not a risk worth taking.

“Well, if you don’t want to fall in love ever then that is your choice. No-one can stop you from making that choice. Right?”

“Right! And you would remind me of that, okay?”

“Right,” he replied, though deep down he regretted his answer.

“Oh my gosh! That would mean I’d be a spinster.”

“Isn’t that your life-long dream?” Sam asked.

She threw him a look, a face contorted like an angry duck which proved hard not to laugh at. He chuckled softly.

“You always laugh at me.”

He tried hard to restrain himself.

“Fine! Go ahead and laugh. Ish!”

He broke into a fit of laughter and she threw her hands into the air as she watched him roll over to his side. It did not take long for her to laugh along with him.

He sat up, wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled, “Look..one day, you’ll find that special someone. Someone like you would never end up alone.”

“What if I do end up alone?”

“Well, you have me around,” he said confidently.

“Yeah, I’d probably get so irritated. Probably get married just to escape you!”

He allowed the statement to fly over his head. She did not mean it but it still struck him. He had meant what he said. He would be there for her and he would gladly do so even if it meant he would be hurting the whole time.

“Sam, you’re a great friend,” she reached for his hand, “You know what? I’m glad you’re here with me. I want you to know that,” she held his hand as she said it. Her thumb moving in a circular motion over the ball of his palm.

“Eli, I’ll always be there for you…someone has to look out for you.”

“That…might just work,” she said, holding his hand and smiling.





Standing Still in Life

31 03 2009

Life is life and in life all things are fair. In good and in bad, life is fair because that is life. So we shouldn’t scream over in-perfections of life. We stand still and accept the role life has to play. And it is in times of bad, we stand still and view our life with keener eyes. It is during those times we seek our strengths and gauge the force that pushes us up and down the mountains of life itself.

We stand still even when it hurts or when others view it differently. My view will be different then yours and I stand still base on my view not yours. Should you then judge me for my stand base on your view? Instead, it would be wise to catch a glimpse of my view and align your view to mine. If you still cannot accept it then be it so but allow it to enrich your view. To teach you that in life, views can vary and it can provide us much insight and knowledge. Start a collection of views.

Standing still and allowing life to be life would teach us to live to the fullest.

Sometimes even when standing on the wrong side of things could teach you lessons those who stand on the right; would never learn. Avoidance of life would merely mean your bottle of experience is either half empty or less full. Let life be life, and understand that in life, all things are fair. It is life being life.

Standing still would teach us, life moves to its own beat. And it is a beat that moves the universe. As a writer, it is this beat that we train our ears to hear. We write about life and how life orchestrate peoples’ tempo. We write so others may see the depth of life itself.

As for me, at the end of my time here. I want to be able to say, “Look at my bottle. It is filled with life lived to the extent of its fullness. I have seen things, felt things, said things, thought things; none of you may have known. I have lived life and found it beautiful even when my experiences were ugly. Life is fair. To each his own and to each his lot.”





Neil Gaiman – The Graveyard Book (Personal Review)

23 02 2009

I picked up Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book in December 2008 and the story has stuck with me since then. I first came across Neil Gaiman from his earlier work “Stardust” and am now in the process of collecting his other books. I’m currently reading a collection of his short stories in a book entitled Fragile Things.

Anyway, back to The Graveyard Book. What’s beautiful about this story for me is the premise. It talks about acceptance. Accepting one whom you would not normally accept in normal circumstances. In this case a baby being accepted by the folks (ghosts) in a graveyard and being raise by them. The baby grows up and is taught the ways of the grave and in the lessons taught we see takes on real life in the mortal world. Issues like finding yourself, friendship and growing up.

It’s by far an interesting read and at times funny. There were instances, I sat back laughing at the imagery Neil Gaiman uses. What it does is, to give us this idea that a graveyard can be a thriving nation on its own, with its own set of rules and government. And within this nation are adventures that our human (Bod) encounters and ultimately leads to the discovery of his real identity.

Now, I understand Neil Gaiman’s style of writing may not appeal to some, this was evident when a friend of mine “tried” to read Fragile Things; but give it a shot.





Random Thoughts can lead to great stories..

13 02 2009

I’m obsessed with my hand-phone. It is an integral part of my life and one of the most useful things it does for me, is to keep my thoughts. I get random ideas as I go about my business in the day and my hand-phone captures these thoughts. Some thoughts make it into my writings while others sit idle, bidding their time. But importantly, this frees my mind to constantly churn out ideas, thoughts or just pure nonsense.

Give it a try, turn your hand-phone into the scribe that captures your thoughts. You never know, that captured idea could be the next great story you will tell.