why i write

via: songofstyle.blogspot.com

 

Are you ready for the seaside holiday/retreat/escapade/getaway, girls? I’m excited for any kind of holiday. Work hard now, babe. Earn it. Own it.

 

***

“A half-read book is a half-finished love affair.”

— David Mitchell (Cloud Atlas)

David Mitchell… he sounds very familiar. Perhaps I’ve read one of his works (a short story, maybe? a poem?) before.

I think that’s what I do.

I haven’t finished a book for the longest time.

Maybe it is time to finally put my heart and soul to doing so. (:

***

 

I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life.

- “Why I write”, George Orwell

In a response to my friend’s quote from “Why I Write” by Simon Dudek, I will like to share an essay also entitled “Why I Write” penned by one of the greatest novelists in the world.  It gives good contrast to the Dudek’s excerpt I read on my friend’s blog. Nothing superfluous; nothing romantic. However, if you pare down to the essence, all writers have the same reason (almost).

 

 

 

 

Blue

They scrape the blue of the bluest
gently but surely,
a clean glide through too, their shining
blades reflect

the face, the neck and the chest
their face, their neck and their chest

but there has to be you –
you have the silver charms hanging
that see all your dreams collect
you have the wildest…you had,

that all rise between the lady in red sari,
in front of you (her eyes glazed)
and the brandished nails
spiraling upwards towards heavens
behind you;
(that naughty prick of the cheeks)
into a burst of pink and saffron, into a burst
of speed you take in a stride towards

the lady in red sari who reaches out
her fingers grip your shoulders which
you then hold in your palms
they are not red. (they shine like blades)
the drops of mercury leaking and dripping
Shatter your clasp (your fingers repel),

now you bend instead–
and pick up the figments of blue; the slit of blue
let them trickle down into your little cistern
let them rejoice as
the last of the light winks, at last, at last

you see
your face, your neck, your chest
in the bluest of the blue.

nothing separates us.

nothing separates us.                                                                          From poetry

the nothingness has a life of its own. It takes shape.

length,

breadth

and finally height.

it stretches -

and then we forget that

we were once close.

quite close.

I’ve been wanting to write poems, weird as that may sound to any other writer, but this is another case of your desires going in parallel with your brainwaves. When I saw my friend’s poem, “What separates us” on Facebook, in a state of delirious lethargy, I was inspired to write a “sequel” to her poem. I took this photo at a train station in Schonbrunn, Wien, fascinated by the relationship dynamics of the elderly couple.

I have always liked the idea of picture-poetry. Maybe I should do this more often.

Here is the poem written by my friend:
What separates us
is not distance,
but nothingness that hangs
in this dark void-
so empty our
screams cannot be echoed.

Credits to Simmy.

Hello stranger #1 – You shine like gold in the air of summer (spring).

It was on this particular day when I was on the train back to Rotterdam, the sun was shining brightly, with the kind of zest that I have never felt before that I realised how beautiful Holland is.  The little cottages on the lush,vast green fields… oh and a stranger sitting opposite me. I tried my best to resist stealing glances at him. I was just reading “Eat, Pray & Love” and Elizabeth Gilbert was gushing about attractive Italian men.  Such a coincidence. I put down my book and took out my Ipod, pretty much inspired by his decision as well. His flushed cheeks glowed under the assault of the sunlight and his short curly brown-ash hair makes you want to brush your fingers through it.  I started writing in my diary about him; about this handsome stranger. He wouldn’t have guessed.  ”I’m writing about you, stranger.” I smiled at the thought.

He must be a man in love, I decided. A smile was creeping up on the corners of his mouth as he fiddled with his mobile phone, his gaze fixated on the screen. A while ago, he was drumming his fingers on the tiny table we shared until the mobile phone made a beeping sound.  ”You’ll shine like gold in the air of summer…”  Kings of Convenience crooned over my earphones; their impeccable harmony added a touch of magic to the moment. He left his phone back onto the table while  I was still writing on the diary. We both looked out of the window. At that juncture, I felt a strange connection. I could almost feel the palpable tension in the air. Who is going to break the silence?

I wanted to ask him, ” What is beautiful in Dutch?”  in a burst of inspiration. Three of my business cards were scattered on the table. Perhaps, that is a better idea, I thought, the glint of mischief in my eyes may have given me away. I toyed with the idea of intentionally leaving behind one of my cards but my puritanical guilt kept me in check.

We took turns casting looks of curiosity on each other; but the glances were never long enough to create an impression throughout the rest of the journey until the train arrived at Rotterdam.  He shifted a little to make way for me.

“Now this is the time to smile or say thank you!” I never got the chance to do so.  Everything happened so swiftly but I guess that was the way it was. As I climbed up the short flight of stairs to the entrance, I whispered aloud, chuckling a little, “Goodbye, stranger.”

While travelling in Europe, I meet many different people from all over the world. They range from friends to people whom I would exchange experiences and a few words to some whom I would observe from afar, wondering to myself, their stories and backgrounds. I decided to, well, start writing about them. He is the first one. (;

Booklist

I’m going to make a list of books that I want to read. Contemporary literature, classic literature, thrillers, CHICK-LIT, (actually, scratch that. I don’t need to remember that I have to read chick lit. I will just gobble them up in a few hours.), poetry, and works from other writers that I will somehow discover by tapping on the knowledge of friend and people whom I refer to as the EARLY ADOPTERS of AWE-INSPIRING LITERATURE. You know, people who drop quotes nonchalantly (actually, most of the time — meaningfully) on their blogs from poems and novels as if they have lived in the tales themselves. I don’t know enough. I’m going to read voraciously like how I used to when I was a kid. I feel like my growth as a writer has stagnated over the years. It is very, very sad. So, I will read and read and read and read and read…

I kid you not. (for you)

Credits to Sabrina Ward Harrison

I was watching “An Education” halfway and then my laptop hung. I restarted my computer and in the meantime, I picked up “Norwegian Wood” from my shelf and I started looking for the page that I last read.

It dawned upon me then that I have never really been a risk-taker all my life. Friends know me as the go-getter or the girl who will push herself out of comfort zone but I just realised maybe a few minutes ago that that is true only to a certain extent.

Jien and I were talking on Skype about our work experiences; about people who put on accents when they speak to foreigners; about writing; about our friends and their writing styles or lack thereof. Jien said I have a style, but I don’t think I have. I have always waxed lyrical about how I will love to be a writer or write for a living someday, but I have never given it enough serious thought nor have I taken any concrete steps towards fulfilling that “dream” of mine; towards embarking on that trajectory of wordplay.

In my mind, I have shelved it as a side-job kind of thing — something that I will do by the way, if I ever become a rich man’s wife. That warped theory is derived from my belief that o’ love transcends everything. If a man loves me, he will support in whatever I want to do, and if he is rich, he can support me in a much larger, significant way — financially. (;

So, just to tell you, my dear friend, that you’re not quite alone.  I do not doubt that I have some kind of flair or interest in writing but I don’t even dare to think that I have the credentials, ability or substance to write as a living. I make mistakes. I write terribly long sentences at times and occasionally, I will fall into some expression traps. There are so many talented writers out there. Plenty of them who probably have greater drive. I didn’t win an Angus Ross prize; that’s for one and I read other people’s blog entries or stories voraciously, sometimes hoping that I have half their insight or half their talent.

I’d like to think that I can write and that I will one day be able to.

However, the dream is further away than I think it is. The road that can take me there is  fraught with more obstacles than I could really grapple with.

Am I going to look back when I’m thirty years old, which is merely eight years away, and chuckle at my naivety and my wishful thinking during one of the breaks that I fight hard for from the smothering load of work?

Possibly. Or maybe, just maybe, friend, it could also be that a twenty-one year old girl turning twenty-two who knows us through the strangest connections will chance upon our blogs and be attaining some kind of solace by reading about your life with your Friend, your cooking disasters and how you encourage parents to hide their children at home so that they won’t make a mess in public and my life, my idiosyncrasy and my dreams (because even at thirty, you should still have dreams) even if we don’t turn out to be the next Sophie Kinsella (in your context) and Nicole Krauss  (in my context).

You stand a chance — a far better chance.  So hang onto that. You don’t have to decipher the kind of  style you have or scrutinise the techniques or metaphors you are using. Just write. Leave that work to the critics; to the schoolchildren  who read Cecelia Woldoch’s poems for leisure to analyse.

Just write.

I’m waiting. I’m anticipating to read your masterpiece; and to hold that book in my hands (with tears in my eyes for dramatic effect) and to declare it proudly to the world –

“My friend wrote this.”

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de-cluttered

The orange disc of the sun melted into the ominous darkness which crawled up on the stooped backs of the snowy mountains like a wizened man scaling an insurmountable little hill. The last rays of light dispersed across the sky in a web of brazen inferno as if it was entrapping the whole universe beneath it.

“The sun is setting…” Min trailed off tremulously. Lovelia spun her head towards the imperious heavens. It was a sign of doom. Aghast at the swift flight of time, she cried out in futile consternation, “Help! Help! Help!”

Her hoarse screams echoed eerily with the piercing calls of the birds, akin to a wrangle of bargains in the wet market between the housewife and the pork-vendor. Of course now unmistakeably,  it was obvious that this was happening between a distraught girl and countless callous creatures lurking in the depths.

Min fumbled for her swiss army knife and retreated a few steps away from her friend. She droned tearfully, “Lovelia, don’t tell me to hang on anymore… It’s no use. It won’t work… They are going to come after us. They will kill us! The deadline. We’re going to die, aren’t we? I might as well…”

With that, Min laid the sharp blade of the knife against her placid wrist in a kamikaze stand-by position. Her raven-black hair was flying behind her head — looking like an  ebony silk handkerchief flung up as a sign of surrender to the world.  She shut her eyes and…

“No, Min, Min! No!”

– Reproduced on Feb 15

De-cluttering leads to discoveries. I found this short piece of fiction while cleaning up my room. I probably wrote it in my lower secondary. Secondary 1, maybe? I have no idea…

It is entitled “Out of Nowhere”. How apt.

I also found my ultrasound report! goodness. I was once so small and tiny. (;

ultrasound

inspiration board (:

While packing, I selected some interesting cards from my friends and pictures and created an inspiration board speedily. It wasn’t really ideal or perfect, but it gets me happy whenever I cast a glance at it.

I am glad I finally cleaned up my room. Extremely drained now. ah, better go catch a quick nap before I go to school. ):

Deviating from the spirit/culture of smu-ism, I think I better decode those acronyms in my previous post. Dawn and Joel remarked that it is kind of sad that SMU students communicate in acronyms which can only be understood by themselves. In other words, this so-called cultural aspect of ours points to either a close-knit community with a common foundation or  scarily a congregation of uniformity which doesn’t accommodate diversity.

Imagine in NUS…

John goes, “What have you been doing in NUS, Jane?”

Jane replies proudly, “I have been reading The Interrelationships between Philosophy of the Socrates and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer‘s stone.”

John exclaims, “WOW! Sounds interesting! What’s that?!”

(this excerpt above is inspired by Joel’ mini-monologue)

 I urge all SMU (Singapore Management University) students to practise the following: always try to say the words in full. We might think since we can identify with them, they are super cool. The rest of the world outside our “fluffy fairytale land perched right on top of the Enid Byton’s Magic Faraway Tree” might think otherwise and perceive us as chest-thumping,  barbaric beings incapable of superlative vocabulary when we rattle off in our A.B.C, etc.! So, O’ heck the acronyms, hail proper English!

 TWC: Technology and World Change (course module title)

LTB: Leadership and Teambuilding (course module title)

FTB: Freshmen and Teambuilding Camp (compulsory year one camp)

BSM: Business Study Mission

ah, life beyond the fairytale land seems a bit dull and dour at times. It’s high time for me to return where I belong. I am going to climb up the tree, step by step. It is good practice for the future, they say. The climbing. Then, I am going to snuggle in the comfort and warmth of the fairytale land, transform into orange cottony being and revise my FA (Financial Accounting) and MS(Management Science).  There are cottony beings in other colours such as red, and yellow,  green and blue, purple…

Perhaps the truth is, at the end of the rainbow, there is really a pot of gold.

(:

First, it was Marie’s excitement over her role in the upcoming StageIt production. I read the script and instinctively was more drawn to the Mother than the Daughter.  I wish I have gone for the audition. The bonus that arose from this was that I become inspired to write again after last night. I should have at least given it a shot. Well, next, Ben Tan showed me a script written by Yuhui & Michelle whom I am pretty sure are the same Yuhui & Michelle from VJ TSD. They took part in Shed.Ink competition which I intended to participate as well. yes, sadly, intended. I want to art-direct it. I want to write a script, a some-thing. To round up my series of acrimoniousness impeccably, I am utterly envious and bitter that Ben can go to Berlin to represent his film with a grant and here I am, stuck in smu library, doing FA. To think I actually found FA rather fascinating during my  first lesson and was eager to devour the whole book of knowledge and beyond.

I have officially become a nerd. I don’t know what it is REALLY interesting anymore.

sob!