Introversion and the Writer

For as long as I can remember, my mother has always commented on how quiet I was at home, when in the social circle I can be very involve. It is as if, I turn off the moment I reach home.

In fact, I really do turn off once I settle into my security bubble.

For many years, I’ve had this thought that something was wrong with me. That I was living life in hypocrisy. Socially engaging but private in nature. And this conflict within my personality has been a point of stress for me.

This was the case until I discovered and accepted the fact that I am an Introvert and an extreme one at that.

I’m an Introvert, who is expected to be an Extravert in an Extraverted world.

But of late, I have learnt to accept myself for who I am. This is just the way my brain is hardwired to handle the world. And I am not ashamed neither afraid to tell people that I am an Introvert. That my silence at meetings and seemingly aloof nature is expected. It is my natural response to the world.

And my Introversion is what makes me the writer that I am. It is in fact, the strength behind my writing.

A key trait for an Introvert is the ability to “think before we speak” and we do this naturally. And I have this trait in spades. The ability to reflect and ponder and think things true is something an Introvert is born with. It is instinctive for any Introvert to draw back into their own mind when confronted with decisions, arguments and issues. And Introverts think with their fingers. They write their thoughts out, work well with diagrams, charts and images that reflect the ideas they have within their heads.

Doesn’t the above reflect the traits needed to be a Writer?

So if you feel that you are an Introvert, consider trying out writing as a means for you to communicate with the world.

The Road to Suicide

Suicide is never going to be an easy topic to approach and often times it is muddled by religious sentiments casting a shadow over the life-self-taken. It is harder to comprehend when the life-self-taken is young and seemingly still full of years.

The person who chooses to take his/her own life follows a pattern that can be tracked and monitored. Only if people are aware and watchful for the signs.

  1. Frustration at situations around them or situations out of their control,
  2. Depressive mood,
  3. Clear intent of suicide – they actually tell someone; what they want to do,
  4. Reaching out for attention.

Suicidal tendencies can affect anyone at anytime. It is not a disease of the insane; in fact it is an affliction of the sane. A bright mind unable to cope with the harsh reality of life. A bright mind that could have been helped only if those around him/her stop to listen.

p/s There was a suicide in my organization and I took a peek at the person’s last few blog entries. Depression and frustration were evident, the person wanted to be heard.

The Time Stopped Yesterday

“When will you be back?”

It seem right, to ask him that question. She knew the answer, but wanted to hear him say it. Wanted to hear for herself, wanted to hear her own heart break.

“Not…any time soon. This…is goodbye. For good.”

He walked away.

She did not stop him, nor did she hope he look back at her.

She stopped her tears, placing a finger under her nose. A vain attempt at holding it all inside. Her breathing laboured, her stomach tighten and time stopped.

Time stopped yesterday.

Yesterday, when he told her, “I don’t love you anymore.”

Yesterday, when it rained and she forgot her umbrella. Yesterday, when she miss-match her stripped orange cardigan with her light blue skinnies. The cardigan that was a size too big and hug her like a blanket. Yesterday. It was yesterday.

He walked away. As easily as when he walked in. Only this time, it tore her apart; and as she pinched her nose, her tears tumbled down her cheeks.

Yesterday, as easy as he could say, “I love you,” he also said, “I don’t love you anymore.” And as easy as that, her heart broke.

And she cried. On her knees, hard cold pavement and gloomy skies.

It was yesterday. Time stopped yesterday.

Short Story : Isn’t It Strange

Isn’t it strange?
by Maclean Patrick

Isn’t it strange?

I look out through the glass panel, there’s an old man fussing with his umbrella. The man with the funny haircut crosses the street, avoiding the puddle but getting splash on at the curb. A couple duck under a doorway to take refuge, her mascara muddling her face as she turns to seek sympathy from her boyfriend; who seems preoccupied with his leather shoes being wet.

Isn’t it strange?

An old lady on a first floor window pulling in her laundry only to have her flower printed blouse fall down, blanketing the young man preoccupied with his wet leather shoes. The funny haircut man avoids another splash only to jump into the old man with his half opened umbrella. A funny scene that makes the mascara muddled young girl laugh. And I watch all this from inside a café, waiting for my coffee and a piece of apple pie.

“You want ice-cream on the pie?” I am asked.

“No thanks,” I reply.

Isn’t it strange?

The wet splashed on man apologizes to the old man with the half opened umbrella and in turn, both men get splashed on at the curb. The young mascara muddled face lady reaches over to help wet leather shoe boyfriend take the flower printed blouse off his head, only to have him trip forward and fall into a puddle. Now leather shoes are wet along with his tailored suit.

Now that is strange.

I sit here watching it all, drinking my coffee and wondering should I add ice-cream onto my apple pie.

“Do you have chocolate?” I asked.

“Vanilla would taste nicer,” he nods while telling me.

“It won’t taste that strange with chocolate, right?”

“Strange? No, but I’ve never seen anyone eat it with chocolate before.”

I smile, “There’s always a first time.”

“Now, isn’t that strange?”

“What?” I asked.

The waiter stares out through the glass panel.

“That old man with the broken umbrella is the father of that woman with the messed up makeup. And that young man, the one who knocked the old man is the brother of the woman’s boyfriend.”

I look out through the glass panel, “What about the old woman on the first floor?”

“That’s my mother.”

“Now, isn’t that strange.”

I took vanilla with the apple pie and the waiter was right, it did go well with the pie.


Scriptwriting on my mind

When I was in college and university, I was active in the theatre groups and did time on stage myself, but what has always appealed to me was script-writing. This is evident in my everyday writing as I tend to have strong dialogues in my stories.

But I have always been hesitant in making the leap from writing articles and stories to scripts. A leap to some but to me, its like the cow jumping over the moon.

Yet, it has been on my mind lately. So the question I posing here is, how do one make the leap into script-writing in general and also for the Malaysian market?

Post your answers in the comments.

I’ve moved my blog…

No, it’s not because the Malaysian authorities came knocking at my door and asked me to simmer down (though some friends are concern for me *thanks*) but I finally got round to getting my own domain name.

Folks, I’ve successfully moved my blog to my own name. You can find all the goodness over at, so please update your bookmarks and links and I appreciate having you drop into the new place. This site will still be up, allowing access to all my articles but everything else will be at So see you all there!

Article: Sibu voters roar, BN whimpers

They were not against 1Malaysia or the Prime Minister. In fact he was a favorite of Sibuans. It was not the federal government (in general) that they did not favour, the state authority  and specifically its head, Chief Minister Abdul Taib Mahmud. This was a feeling strongly held among voters, both in urban Sibu and rural Sibu.

Full Article: Sibu voters roar, BN whimpers.