Friday, March 12, 2010

I thought I had forgotten everything about secondary school. I thought I was done with it after the O' levels in 2006.

But when I received that text message from AA a few days ago, it felt like my past was rushing up to me, a swash of memories that had taken on that rose-tinted glow you'd associate with days you can only look back on fondly and wish Time didn't have to move on.

My secondary three and four years are distinguishable by the teachers, studying (mountains of homework that said teachers loaded upon us), my classmates, and of course, writing - all of these traipsing on to the ceaseless soundtrack of Time. He was, I daresay, the teacher who was closest to the class, who made the most effort and invested the most of his emotions in us. I remember his pep talks that made us cry, that made even him cry; I remember how he would constantly remind us how little time we have to the Big O (he'd make me SO stressed out!); I remember how he joined us in the hotel rooms at night to party on our Geography Field Trip to Perth, Australia, even though he wasn't exactly supposed to, being our teacher and all; I remember him inviting us to his bachelor pad during Chinese New Year - he was one of the few teachers I know who actually did that.

He didn't seem depressed then. But then I wonder how we can ever tell. Is there a checklist that we can methodically tick in order to find out who isn't as blithely happy as he seems? Now that I think about it, he used to cast his eyes down after a good laugh, as though he were wondering if that fleeting moment of happiness would last. Am I thinking too hard, reading too much into his expressions, digging for a clue that wasn't? Could we have known; could we have done something? Were we too early, or too late? He had done all he could to help us attain the best scores we could get for our exams. Could we have done all we can to make him happier, hopeful enough to live on, if not for us then at least for himself?

I didn't dare to look at him. The idea of a body in a coffin, with too much makeup, is too haunting. How can you stuff someone in a wooden box like that? Wouldn't you want to preserve the best memory of him? Granted, he was cremated ultimately, but I just couldn't make myself look at him, in that neatly-pressed suit and an inch of makeup on his face. To me, he'd always be the Math teacher who tried to imitate a koala bear during the field trip to Perth, and the one who acknowledged the effort I put in to my studies.

His Facebook page has 600 over fans, the last time I checked. I keep thinking about his students, those he'd taught before (like me), those who were about to be taught by him, those who were left without him all of a sudden, walking in to class only to hear the news of him committing suicide because of depression. I keep thinking about how they must feel, to suddenly lose him like that, if they felt guiltier than I do, like they should have known. I don't know much about his family, but I can't even bear to contemplate what they must be feeling, to have grown up with him and then suddenly be robbed of him because of a decision he made one day.

He was, in retrospect, a large part of my upper-secondary years. In that way, he was a large factor in affecting how I turned out.

Maybe the past never leaves you. Maybe it clings to the back of your mind, even if you think you've moved on like your life demands you to. I wish I can remember more of him. You never truly realise how much you've forgotten until you can't remember anymore.

Be at peace, Mr Ng. You will always be loved and missed.

Thursday, March 04, 2010

Beyond the Gray's interview with Suzanne Anderson, writer, was so uplifting and inspiring I had to share it:


Q: What inspires you to keep pushing forward when the going gets tough?

SA: The alternative – giving up – is worse than pushing forward. I am a strong believer that each of us is created with a purpose to fulfill in this life. I believe it is my duty to find a way to fulfill my purpose, using the talents that I have been given, and overcoming the obstacles or shortcomings I have also received. That’s the bottom line, easy answer. The more difficult answer is that pushing forward is something I struggle with every day. Some days, the productive ones, are easy. It’s a lot more difficult when I’ve given my best and my work is rejected or a resume sent out doesn’t get a reply. On those days I remind myself that success is often a game of numbers, wins go to those who keep trying over and over and over again.

Q: If you could give one piece of advice to someone else who is struggling to move beyond the gray and follow a dream, what would it be?

SA: How about more than one?

• Get up every day and take action toward fulfilling your dream. No matter how small or great, do one thing every day that moves you a step closer toward your goal. And then keep track of your progress. Whether it is an Excel spreadsheet that tracks the growing word count on that novel you’re writing, the miles you walked, the sit-ups you did, the cold calls you made, or a journal or blog where you record your progress on cooking your way through Julia Child’s French classic (yep, that’s how that movie got made!), just do it. As time goes by, you’ll be amazed at the progress you’ve made. It will also provide a reality check when you get discouraged by your lack of progress and then realize, by checking your log that it might be due to the fact that you haven’t actually sent out a resume/written/jogged in over a week!

• Share your goals and dreams with others. I have received amazing encouragement and support from my family as well as my online friends, they’ve also become a source of very useful information and even new paths to pursue.

• When the critic in your head lists all the reasons you will fail, tell it to shut up! Or better yet, give it examples of how you’ve succeeded in the past, and what you are doing right now to succeed in the future. (Which is a great reason to keep track of the progress you make in all those little steps you are taking each day, they make great progress reports to debunk the inner critic.) I also keep a growing pile of inspirational and positive thinking books on my nightstand and read a few pages every night before bed because I’ve found that late night tends to be the time when my inner critic comes out to play.

• Keep a gratitude journal. Yes, I know, Oprah thought of this first, but it really works. When I am feeling most discouraged, I’ve found that making a list of just five things in my life that I’m grateful for is not only humbling but a powerful reminder that things are actually better than I think.

• Find a way to give back. We receive so much help and encouragement from others when we’re struggling that it’s easy to forget that we need to offer the same to others. You’ll also be amazed at how much better you’ll feel … and don’t be surprised if it opens new doors. Goodness has an amazing way of multiplying.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

My Writing Journey (unabridged)

I was never one of those precocious, assertive kids who knew what they wanted to be at age five. It took me quite a while to figure out what I really loved, and that was to write.

I love stories, have loved them since my dad brought me to the Central Lending Library every Sunday (back when it was still at Stamford Rd, instead of Bras Basah) ever since I'd learnt to read and my kindergarten teacher told my dad I had the potential to start reading earlier than my peers. (Maybe that was a ploy and she told all the parents that so the kids in her class would be early starters, I don't know. But let's not get cynical here.)

I'm sure there are a lot of people out there who share my love for stories, and who probably love them more than I do (goodness knows I'm a picky reader). But despite how much I love to read, how much I enjoyed English lessons and how it was the class I was most enthusiastic about, being a writer didn't occur to me until I was eleven. I had never considered the possibility of creating stories myself, stories that I would love and would want to share with the world, stories that chronicled the changes in me and the way I regarded the world.



Maybe it was because I never got sufficient encouragement that helped me believe I - like anyone who believes him- or herself capable of it - could weave an entire story out of my limited imagination. But when I was eleven, change came in the form of my English teacher, Mr Martin Chan. Now, I don't mean for this to turn into a thanks-giving post, but hitherto, I've believed that he was the one who, if you wish, ignited the flame of passion in me for creative writing. (Sorry for the horrible cliche!) He introduced me to Shakespeare, through giving us a watered-down version of Macbeth (which remains my favourite play to date), and recommended stories like Lord of the Rings (even playing the cartoon version for us) and Lord of the Flies (which remains my favourite book to date, no lie - Golding is a genius). He made us practice flash-writing, which are exercises where you write a passage where the action or emotion are the most intense. It's a drill for concise and tight writing, and after that we'd share our writing with our peers, and I felt like I learnt so much. English lessons in primary 5 and 6 were so rich.

And that was where I fell for creative writing - head-first and hard. I started with writing journal entries because then, I was under the influence of Princess Diaries, which I had started reading. I would turn up to class with a notebook under my textbook and scribble furiously about everything that was going on around me and within me.


With the Budding Writers story-writing contest that Mr Chan encouraged me and several others to take part in - along with other writing contests - I began to appreciate the craft of writing. How do you look at things the way other people can't? How can you express the way in which you look at things? How do you make that way connect with your readers? The first complete story I wrote was of the detective/mystery genre, because we were all into Nancy Drew then and plot-driven stories were easier to write. I didn't win, of course - my writing was hardly any good - but the experience of working on a story, crafting a plot, thinking of the appropriate words that would convey the meanings concisely, was enough of a prize.

When I went to secondary school, I continued writing, and wrote several trial novels, which I often begged my friends to read and tell me how they felt about it. I remember how Yvonne liked reading my diaries (I never really had much to hide, so keeping a diary wasn't really about secrecy to me) and Stace and the rest would ask me about my progress for the novel I was working on then. All through secondary school, I kept notebooks and filled them up sooner than I expected. In upper secondary, I started watching The OC and attempted to write a third-person POV series about a girl who goes to a hoity-toity school. And then the idea for When the Lilies Turn Orange (then, it was still titled An Old Scent) came about, raw and unpolished and waiting for me to tap into its reserve that was overflowing with potential and possibilities. Because of the O'levels, I only properly began working on it in JC. In the meantime, I wrote short stories, tried my hand at poetry (which will never see the light of day, if I can help it), and read, read, read, taking in ideas and imbibing various writing styles and understanding, step by step, how writing, such an arbitrary art, works.

In JC, I was swamped with schoolwork. I was lucky if I had time to think about my stories, let alone write them. So I only properly immersed myself in Lilies after the A'levels. In the three months after A's, I worked relentlessly on Lilies, so addicted to the writing process was I. I brought my notebook and pen everywhere (that was when I was into walking, and trekked all over Singapore for the fun of it), and wrote, wrote, wrote. I even woke up at 3a.m. to write till dawn broke. My dad was so worried I was losing it.

I consider Lilies to be my first official novel, one that I'm satisfied with enough to want to see it published.

Towards the end of Lilies, the idea for Bedful of Moonlight came half-formed. But despite finishing Lilies, I couldn't tear myself away from Wroughton, the private estate in which the story takes place; I couldn't bear to part with the characters - Raven, Connell, Reilly, Tate, and the motley crew. So I set Moonlight in Wroughton as well, with main characters completely disparate from Raven and Connell. This time, the going was tougher, maybe because all the research on writing I'd done while writing Lilies had left me feeling more cautious, more stifled (in a way), about approaching my work-in-progress (WIP). I was left confused, bewildered even, as to what my characters really wanted and how they were trying to go about getting it, and how they changed in the end as a result of doing so. How could I make them seem real, with genuine flaws that we can all relate to and therefore sympathise with? How can I make their motivations strong enough to fuel the story?

While I was sorely dismayed - depressed even - after completing Lilies, I felt a sense of relief after finishing up Moonlight. All that with a huge dose of satisfaction, of course. But finishing a story leaves you bereft, exhausted, over-the-moon, exhilarated and relieved all at once. I call it the writer's high. That's what I experienced when I first started writing, when my characters surprised even me by saying the things they said, doing the things they did, and thinking the way they did. That's what I experienced when the words flowed from me so quickly I barely had time to tap on my keys to keep up. That's what I experienced when I wrote from 9am to 3pm once (when I was in secondary school, working on High Grounds), and looked up to realise it was 3pm and my stomach was growling.

My third attempt wasn't quite as smooth. If I thought Bedful of Moonlight was a bumpy ride, Mint was a road riddled with potholes and death traps. I had the setting, I had the characters, but I just couldn't dig deep enough into them to find out where the conflict lay and where their motivations clashed. I had committed the mistake many amateur writers make, and that is plunge headlong into a novel without laying out the basic structure of it. Much as you're excited to delve into writing your next novel, you have to do what you need to, even though it's painful. You have to find out what drives your novel, and know very clearly how your character changes - for better or worse - by the end of the story. All these I have learnt from working on Mint. I abandoned it at page 166, halfway through the story. Perhaps someday I will return to it. But for now, I'm thankful for the experience regardless of the time and effort spent (sunk costs, as any economist would declare!) on it. For now, I'm thankful for what it has taught me.

So right now, while working on my current WIP, Red December Skies, and writing short stories on the days where the words just can't flow. It's a much smoother writing process for December, and though I haven't published anything yet, I believe I will one day. One day, I will dare to put my work out there. One day, I will write well enough to get a solid offer, instead of the almost-misses from literary agents.

In the meantime, I will keep writing, keep reading, keep honing my craft by studying how other writers write. After all, as Monica Wood (author of The Pocket Muse) said, Money schmoney. If you write, you're a writer.



I don't know why, but this part of an interview with Deb Caletti (author of several amazing books, including Wild Roses) made me tear up:

Why did you become a writer?
I became a writer because I love books, and I believe in their power. Even more, I love images and sentences and particular words and their beauty and humor and the way they look on the page. I like the word aubergine (even if it means eggplant), but think oevre sounds like a boiled egg. A passage in a book can make you cry, it can make you think differently, it can make you remember something from long ago. To be a writer is to connect and to play and to attempt to see clearly and understand. It astounds me regularly that feeling things deeply and writing them down is basically my job description. It is one of the wackiest and most privileged professions, if you can call it that at all. Writing is not something you do, but who you are. It’s the way I came.

Her new book The Six Rules of Maybe is coming soon. Can't wait for more awesomeness from one of my favourite YA authors.

What Disney cartoons have taught me (plus one random fact of the day)


What Disney cartoons have taught me:

1. The Little Mermaid: Men, when hit on the head, will think that whoever sings to him when he wakes up will be his one true love. And you do not want to upset octopuses, especially those that can turn you into shrivelled up nothings that live at the bottom of the ocean.

2. Cinderella: Mice and pumpkins are your friends. And before you leave on your first date, remember to leave something for the guy so he can comb the entire city looking for you.

3. The Sleeping Beauty: Again, men are foolishly attracted to girls who can sing well. And why the hell would you want to touch a stupid spindle?

4. Beauty and the Beast: A beast looks hot when transformed back into a man, so be nice to him!

5. Snow White: You have to do all the household chores if you want to live with seven short men. Remember to stroke their egos while planning your escape from patriarchal oppression.

6. Aladdin: Beware of boys from market places with pet monkeys. They lie about their identities so you will fall in love with them. (That said, I do like Aladdin.)

* Random fact of the day:
Lifeguards wear sunglasses not only because the sun's too strong, but because they won't get caught sleeping on the job.