Sneak peek!

I'm doing a quick survey: who would read on after this page?

Dreams only make as much sense as your state of mind.

What did it mean, then, for me to keep returning to that same dream for a month and counting?

The one where the annoying woman kept asking me to help them. The question of who they were aside, how was I supposed to do anything? I was the crazy girl people whispered and pointed at in school. I couldn’t even help myself.

Then there was the carnival. It was always night-time in that carnival. It had no name that I knew of, but it was ablaze with lights that never stopped dancing, alive with music that never stopped playing.

In that dream, I saw only the boy. People milled about, but they were only faceless figures. So was the boy, in fact, but his features were only slightly clearer.

I had never even met him before, but every time I saw him in my dream he was perched on the edge of one of the Ferris wheel’s capsules. He stood there for barely two seconds, a sea of carnival lights blinking beneath him, before he threw out his arms and dived off the Ferris wheel.

Always, I was too late. Too late to stop him, too late to even call out for him. Don’t! I wanted to say. But the word would die in my throat as I watched him plummet through the cold night air and finally crashed to the ground.

And then the lights go out totally. The music stops.

That’s when I’d feel the hands reaching out for me. Cold and clammy, tugging, wanting, needing – what, I didn’t know. A glance down and I’d see a mass of bodies lying at my feet, turning blue with each horrible second.

I would still be able to feel those hands on my skin, my ankles, my neck, even when I sit up in bed and discover that I was being straitjacketed by my sheets.

It was always that same dream. It had been that dream for a month. I didn’t know where I came up with a dream like that. A dream that didn’t sleep, that roosted there right in the middle of my head long after I’d woken up.

A dream where it was always midnight in a carnival of monsters.

This, by the way, is the first page of my first ever complete urban fantasy novel, THE DREAMCATCHERS. Thoughts?

Some really good advice from Rosslyn Elliott: Why Your Novel Characters Need Real Flaws



Wouldn’t it be great if all my flaws were minor? But they’re not. And neither are anyone else’s.

As C.S. Lewis writes in The Screwtape Letters, even our greatest strengths are likely to become weaknesses under some circumstances. The same strong will and resourcefulness that helped Scarlett O’Hara survive the Civil War also made her a conniving homewrecker.

But we all know Scarlett O’Hara’s name, even though thousands of historical romance heroines have faded into oblivion. We remember Scarlett because Margaret Mitchell did a brilliant job of creating her heroine to walk the edge of likability. Scarlett’s flaws are all too real, and that means there are parts of Gone with the Wind in which we do not like her.

What is a real character flaw?

It’s a flaw that affects those around your character in a significant way, a weakness with serious consequences, not just angst or temporary hurt feelings.

Here’s the catch. When a leading character does things a reader doesn’t like, there’s a chance the reader will throw away that book. Or write a really negative review.

A writer may be tempted to solve this problem by creating a cosmetic character flaw. It hurts no one but its possessor. A cosmetic flaw is a victimless flaw. Even if it’s contorted so it causes some manufactured, preferably unintentional pain to other characters, the cosmetic flaw doesn’t cause any negative feeling in the reader.

Here’s an example from real life: what’s the clichéd answer for the classic job interview question: “What is your weakness?” To be safe, you’re supposed to say “I’m too hard on myself.” That’s a cosmetic flaw. Because the reality is that if you’re truly a perfectionist about your own work, chances are you may also be too hard on others, not just too hard on yourself. And that is when your cosmetic flaw turns into a real flaw. Real flaws are ugly and they hurt people.

Every cosmetic flaw is a victimless half of the real flaw it replaces. Here are two examples:

Cosmetic character flaw: Insecurity. Its real counterpart: envy and sabotage

Cosmetic character flaw: Fearfulness. Its real counterpart: disloyalty under pressure

We’re free to use cosmetic flaws if we want to write fiction that leaves no mark on its reader. But enduring books contain characters with real flaws, whether those books are hilarious comedies or moving dramas. If our goal is to stir deep emotions or joyful laughter, to show real love, to comfort the lonely, to make readers think or remember…our characters need real flaws. We can’t play it safe with our readers’ sympathy–we have to let them go to the edge.

My question for you:

How has the issue of reader sympathy affected your writing? Do your protagonists have real flaws that could bother a reader?

# # #

Rosslyn Elliott lives with her husband and daughter in the southern United States, where they enjoy working with horses and pampering their dogs. She earned her BA in English and Theater Studies from Yale University, and her Ph.D. from Emory University.

She has won awards for both her fiction and non-fiction, including the 2011 Laurel Award and the 2011 Lime Award for Fairer than Morning, which was also selected as one of Lifeway Fiction’s Ten Favorite Reads for 2011.

Rosslyn’s second novel Sweeter than Birdsong was just released by Thomas Nelson Publishing. Her fiction is represented by Rachelle Gardner of Books and Such Literary Agency.

It always feels anticlimatic after Chinese New Year. Gone are the days of the house being filled with sonorous relatives, the infectious festive buzz and the sound of melon seeds being cracked. Till next year. In the meantime, back to the grind. The refrigerator is still choking on mandarin oranges, and I'm doing my best to relieve it of them.

This semester, as expected, is one of the busiest ones I've experienced since my freshman year, mainly because I'm taking all five level-3 modules. That wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the group projects we're required to do. Group projects are almost always a pain, because of all the schedule-coordination and discussions we have to do. If I had my way, all the work will be done within the first week we're told of our assignments. But it is what it is, I guess.

Still, final semester! Four more months (and one extra term because I need to clear one last module to fulfil all my module credit requirements) and I'll be bidding school life goodbye. On the one hand, I'm excited to start earning a steady income. On the other, I'm dreading the entry into the cruel world. Of two minds? No, just eager for change and afraid of it, like we all are.

Unfortunately, much as I'd like to go on a self-indulgent soliloquy about post-graduation emancipation, I have four papers and three presentations to work on, as well as countless readings to catch up on. Till next time, then.

Top Five Writer’s Tips

by Swati Avasthi (author of YA novel, SPLIT).

5. Celebrate the mess.

I am not naturally neat. So, my life is cluttered with ways to keep my messes organized. Necessarily evils include: my ga-zillion sticky notes, my calendar, calendar reminders, weekly, daily, master, and manuscript to-do lists. Without them I get nothing of quality accomplished.

Unless we’re talking about the first draft of a novel. Then messy is good. Messy is productive – it just doesn’t look like it. First drafts are about playing, discovering and uncovering. Let go. Play in the mud, celebrate the slop, and see what you unearth.

Example: In the first draft of my current WIP, I introduced a 2 year old in the beginning of the book. Three months and around 200 pages later, he was 25. I ended up cutting him out altogether, but he was useful: his appearance taught me that my protagonist needed to be protective of someone (when he was 2), and by the end of the novel, needed a mentor (when he was 25). His appearance was my intuition talking. Respect your intuition. Messy as it is.

4. Learn to love revision.

Pouring out the story on to the page is wonderful. It’s a rush. But revision is even better. Are you groaning? Lots of writers I know hate revising. I love it. Here’s how I learned to love revision:

First, I assumed that every word I wrote would need to be re-written. Probably more than once. Probably more than twice. For Split, 8 was the magic number. Yep, 8 full drafts. 6 of them before I started agent-hunting looking for an agent. (Don’t actually hunt agents. Hungry as you are, they do fight back.)

Second, I learned that revising is pretty much the same thing as writing. You are still uncovering deeper levels of the story. But you are also discovering what the story is not about. Pull out all the distractions. Complicate all the moments where you are only doing one thing at a time.

Third, know when you are done revising: when you have a house of cards and removing one line, causes a cave in; when your critique group agrees; but most of all, when there are no more surprises left in the book for you, no nuance left to uncover.

3. Think, think, think.

Admit it. Your imagination is like a dog with a bone, gnawing at it to get at the rich marrow inside. Give your imagination a problem and then go for a walk, knit part of a scarf, or sleep on it. You’re likely to have the marrow out if your imagination keeps at it.

Or, go even farther and use method acting (preferably when no one is around) to explore your POV character. I once went grocery shopping as Jace. My kids were beyond thrilled when I came home with tons of junk food, and they learned what Little Debbie was.

2. Cultivate your Ideal Reader.

Your Ideal Reader is insightful, passionately opinionated and smart, especially about books. Your Ideal Reader will speaks in truths, both hard ones and kind ones. Your Ideal Reader gives you foot rubs and calls you a genius. Well, maybe not the last one. Find that person. If you’re lucky, it’s someone you already know. (For me, it is my husband) If you’re not, take writing classes and listen to hear whose opinion you respect. Share pages with a trusted friend. Or hire a book doctor, one who you are sure you can trust.

Then, listen. Your ideal reader is your ideal reader for a reason: you respect his opinion.

Then speak. If you don’t agree with his suggestions, talk about why. Don’t argue him out of his point. Rather, try to uncover what about the line or the moment is bothering your Ideal Reader. Once you understand, find an edit that accomplishes your goal and your Ideal Reader’s.

I can’t overstate the importance of an Ideal Reader. I can only say that Split could never have been written without mine.

1. Writing is no place for timidity. Write bravely. Write boldly. Write every day you can.

One of my favourite authors Maggie Stiefvater (author of the Mercy Falls trilogy and her latest book, The Scorpio Races) has shared a very insightful and detailed explanation of her thought process as she crafts a scene. It's one of the most helpful, useful blog posts I've read, so I really must share it.

From Rough to Final: A Dissection of Revision

It also made me realise how much of your original writing you get to keep, and how much you have to edit. Plus, it made me understand how much work I have cut out for me to reach her standard. Many thanks again to Maggie for sharing!

Short Story - Abdication

I wrote this one because my tutee wanted me to write a story for him. And I thought it fit the word Abdication (remember, it was one of the words with which we had to write a one-page scene for our introductory playwriting class). I love writing for children.


Abdication - Fiction by Joyce Chua

The snake reared its gleaming black head. Its eyes flashed, never once leaving me. A hiss, almost gloating, slipped out of it. Its body was arched, lithe, ready to attack. Could it smell my fear?

Deep breaths, Alex, I thought to myself. You’re the next Amazing Animal-Tamer. What’s a mere snake to you?

The truth was, though, that I had never been able to tame any animal, much less tame it amazingly. The circus had assigned me this position because the last animal-tamer had his right leg chomped off by a tiger he had been trying to tame. Naturally, once I’d heard that, my new job had not inspired any confidence in me. But I needed this job. And, as it turned out, there wasn’t much that a mute, half-deaf man of my age and qualifications could do.

So there I was, trapped in a giant steel cage with a giant snake ready to kill me. This test was meant to be my initiation ceremony. I could see Homer, said ex animal-tamer with chomped-off leg, watching from the sidelines. You would think my employers would be kind enough to start from the basics – let me try training a goldfish or a dog or something. You know, elementary level.

But apparently, circus performers don’t have time for elementary level tricks. No, we had to leap straight to the advanced level.

Back to business. No time for regrets or complaints now. There would be time for that after I had gotten out of this jail cell.

If I got out of this jail cell. Alive.

Beano, the sword-juggler, rattled the cage. “Get closer, man! How’re you going to quail the beast if you’re afraid to get your hands dirty?”

He reached through the bars and shoved me forward. I stumbled forth, catching myself a couple of meters before the hissing creature.

The snake interpreted my advance as an attack, and launched one of its own. I barely had time to dodge before it pitched itself at me. Its fangs clamped down on one of the bars, where my neck would have been had I been slower by a fraction of a second.

Cheers erupted from the spectator stand, where almost the entire circus crew, including the ringmaster, Mr. Caramel, was seated next to Homer. I was pretty sure they weren’t cheering for me, though.

And true enough, Dobson the fire-eater roared, “Did you see that? What a magnificent beast she is!”

“Beautiful attack, Comet!” Homer cried. Rising to his feet, Mr. Caramel clapped his hands. His gold watch gleamed as brightly as his shoes.

Comet. That thing had a name. And it sure lived up to it, given the speed at which it moved. How was plain old Alex supposed to tame a gigantic snake named Comet?

“Alex!” Mr. Caramel barked. “Stop daydreaming! Do your job, or you’re going to be locked in there all day! I mean it.”

I had no idea how to tame a snake, but damned if I was going to be stuck in a cage with it for a day. I spread my stance and raised my hands before me, ready to grab at the snake should it launch a second attack. Perspiration pooled at the nape of my neck. I hoped no one noticed my shaking hands.

When it came, I spared no time to consider what I was doing. I saw my hands reach out to grab at it, then my fingers wrap around its dry scaly body, just below its head.

It lashed its body at me, but I hopped out of range in the nick of time. I waited for it to strike again, then slammed my foot down on its writhing body. It thrashed like an out-of-control hose and hissed so loudly I could hear it with my faulty ear.

With a free hand, I scrambled around my pocket for my trusty old Swiss Army knife.

‘Snick!’

Right before the snake tossed me off its body – right before I could lose my balance – I swung the blade across the snake’s neck, just below where my other hand was clamped around it.

Blood. It flowed, poured, streamed from the gash I had made. In a few moments, its body slackened, then became completely limp.

I stared as it lay before me like a thick rubber hose, its eyes glazing over as seconds ticked by. The crew erupted in cheers again – for me, this time.

“Well done, Alex!” Homer said, thumping me on the back when he approached me.

“Well done, indeed!” Mr. Caramel bellowed. “Next, we’ll try Bessie, our Sumatran tiger. She’s a tough cookie, but I think you’re ready for her. Just don’t kill her this time, will you? Sumatran tigers are much rarer than cobras.”

Short Story - Eyes Full of Stars

The water would be icy tonight, after the day’s rain.

As the water lapped at his toes – crept up his ankles, calves, knees, chest – and stung his skin, he almost laughed at his own stupidity. It felt foolish enough to believe what the medium said, and even more foolish to act on her words. But hope and desperation were two sides of the same coin, and there was nothing else left to lose.

It was deep, too deep, but not deep enough. The lady had said it was absolutely crucial that he stood at the deepest inch of the lake.

And what the hell, he thought. Since I’m already here.

Another thunderstorm seemed possible. The sky still took on a bruised shade, though it revealed a faint hint of the moon.

Keep her name in your heart, the medium had instructed. If the bond you share with her is strong enough, she will come.

Of course, it was the sort of thing a medium would say. That way, you couldn’t blame her if this didn’t work.

But he held her name close to his heart anyway, felt the cadence fall in tandem with his heartbeat, until it became nothing less than breathing, a habit, then a need.

Under the faint moonlight the stone glittered, unnaturally bright, in his palm. Onyx, a love stone for the reunion of couples. The medium had definitely done her homework, at the very least.

He felt a tug at his feet that grew stronger by the second. Ripples started dancing across the surface. Water rushed towards him, churning, roiling, almost knocking him off his feet. He folded his fingers over the stone and squeezed it tight. Its edges dug into his palm. He could lose his footing, but not the stone. Anything but the stone. It was his only chance.

He did not let go when a particularly strong current swept him off his feet. He did not let go when he gulped down a mouthful of bitter lake water. Not even when he dipped under the surface. Not even when he felt the fire in his lungs, heard the awful cold ringing in his ears despite the underwater turbulence, glimpsed the last of the moonlight as night took over completely.

The next time he saw the sky, it was clear – moonless, cloudless, but strewn with stars, glittering like tearful eyes. There was no ringing in his ears, and the cold had dissipated. He was no longer in the middle of the lake; he was dry.

And there she stood, in the middle of the field before him, like she had never left.  She was more beautiful than he remembered, her thick long hair cascading down her shoulders. And her eyes, wide and dark, made up of a million stars, shining like the black onyx still in his palm. He dropped it at last and took a step closer to her. She extended a hand, waiting for him to slip his into hers.

He stared at their intertwined fingers in wonder. To think it had really worked.

Tomorrow, he thought, stroking her hair. Tomorrow he would pay that medium a visit again.

Beauty and the Beast - Raffles Alumni CO

I cried listening to this. Especially when the 高胡 (something like the first violin) started playing. There's something about string instruments hitting the high notes that brings out the tears. Makes me miss playing in an orchestra. It's been ages since I touched my 二胡 (something like second violin), and I just miss the feeling of working with everyone in the orchestra to create music. The end makes me especially emotional. You just feel this sense of achievement and the power of teamwork. Doesn't beat completing a novel, of course. More like a short story. And Raffles Alumni Chinese Orchestra is really impressive.

Given that a number of things (not too significant, so don't hold your breath, if you are) have happened since the last time I blogged, I think I'll make a list of updates this time.

I. Bidding period begins.

Can you feel the anticipation, the territorial vigilance with which everyone is camping out before their computers, lying in wait for the next bidder so that they can one-up him and throw in a higher bid? I know seniors get priority (well, not exactly priority - just that they have more points accumulated from past semesters and can afford to bid higher), but with so few options this coming semesters, competition for English modules is tough! And because of some administrative failures last semester, I absolutely have to take five English modules next semester so I can graduate on time. So I HAVE - did I mention HAVE? - to secure all five. The only five, in fact, because I've taken the rest before. You'd wonder why they offer so few English modules for this coming semester. I could ask the same.

So if everything goes according to plan, I'd be taking:

1. EL3204, Discourse Structure
2. EL3206, Psycholinguistics
3. EL3252, Language Planning and Policy
4. EL3880E, Second Language Learning,
5. EL3257, Investigating Language in the Media

I know. Hardly inspiring or scintillating. But, you know, school is school. No more fun modules, like Playwriting or language modules. Speaking of which, I got the A I wanted for Playwriting, and did better than I expected for my other modules. It's different when you feel passionately about the things you study, indeed.

II. One more semester and I'm done with school. Can you believe it? Not to sound completely corny, but it feels just like yesterday that I attended my first 10am lecture at LT11. I was rereading Megan McCafferty's Charmed Thirds, the third of the Jessica Darling series, where Jess attends Columbia University. And I just felt like it was such an apt book to be reading, because I could totally relate to what she was going through. The uncertainty, in the new environment and in herself, the diversity, and the stuff she was learning, the what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life-after-I-graduate brand of anxiety. My three years of tertiary education is coming to an end, and I feel more than ever the pressure to make a decision, pick a path already, plan plan plan your life, don't waste time or you'll fall behind.

I admit, a lot of the pressure comes from myself. My dad's not putting any pressure on me to earn my first million by the time I'm 25 or whatever, but I do want to achieve something quick so that I can show my dad that I will get by in life and that he doesn't have to worry so much.

But 2012 seems bleak, at least on the job market front. And that's not something I can control. So in the words of my dad, let go of what you can't control.

III. So Christmas has come and gone. Next up: New Year's. Excited? Not really. Thankful, though? Definitely. We've all lived through another year, at the very least, and that's always something to be thankful for.

IV. I'm currently reading The Grift by Debra Ginsberg. This is the third time I'm attempting to read it. I don't know why I didn't manage to get through it the previous couple of times, because it's actually a pretty well-written story. Not so much about plot, but about character, and it's high time I learnt how to write a character-driven novel without sucking instead of falling back on plot every time my story stalls.

And remember when I said my goal was to finish writing Fifteen Minutes Down Sunset Avenue by the end of this holiday? Yeah, that's not going to happen. Unless I manage to write, like, ten pages a day every day until 9 January 2012, the first day of school (after which I won't have time to write at all). At the rate I'm going (about three pages a day), that seems highly unlikely. Still, it's making progress. And I've finally come up with an idea on how I'm going to raise the stakes and resolve the story. All that's left is to write it. Which is always easier said than done.

V. The National Arts Council is organising a competition to select five young adult manuscripts to publish. And I was considering sending in Fifteen Minutes, but that doesn't seem possible now. With all the editing to do, it'll take me months before I deem the final manuscript ready. Besides, I'm still too attached to Lambs for Dinner to pass it up for this competition. But one of the criteria is that the story should not incite violence. And Lambs is really a little dark. Maybe not gory, but it might incite violence, how should I know? So I either risk submitting something that may or may not go against their criteria, or submit something that's not ready yet. I don't know about you, but the latter seems much worse to me. So Lambs it is. I believe more in it than Fifteen Minutes anyway. At least for the moment.

And a final word from Lev Grossman:

"Don't let the world convince you that you can't write. That may ultimately be true, who knows, but it's way too early to tell."

Beware these writing maladies!

And more great advice from Nathan Bransford's blog:

Do You Suffer From One of These Writing Maladies?

[commercial voice] There are pernicious writerly germs out there infecting pages all around the world. Left uncured they can be fatal. Talk to your book doctor or literary health provider if you notice any of these symptoms:

Yoda Effect: Difficult to read, sentences are, when reversing sentences an author is. Cart before horse, I'm putting, and confused, readers will be.

Overstuffed Sentences: An overstuffed sentence happens when a writer tries to pack too many things into one sentence in convoluted fashion, making it difficult for the intent of the sentence to come through and to follow it becomes an exercise in re-reading the sentence while making the sentence clearer in our brains so we can understand the overstuffed sentence, which is the point of reading.

Imprecision: When writers just miss the target ground with their word using they on occasion elicit a type of sentence experiential feeling that creates a backtracking necessity.

Chatty Cathy: So, like, I don't know if you've noticed but OMG teenagers use so much freaking slang!!! And multiple exclamation points!!! In a novel not a blog post!!! And so I'm all putting tons of freaking repetitious verbal tics into totes every sentence and it's majorly exhausting the reader because WAIT I NEED TO USE ALL CAPS.

Repetition: Sometimes when authors get lyrical, lyrical in a mystical, wondrous sense, they use repetition, repetition that used sparingly can be effective, effective in a way that makes us pause and focus, focus on the thing they're repeating, but when used too many times, so many times again and again, it can drive us insane, insane in a way that will land the reader in the loony bin, the loony bin for aggrieved readers.

Shorter Hemingway: Clipped sentences. Muscular. Am dropping articles. The death. It spreads. No sentence more than six words. Dear god the monotony. The monotony like death.

Non Sequiturs: Sometimes when authors are in a paragraph one thing won't flow to the next. They'll describe one thing, wow can you believe that thing that happened three days ago?, and keep describing the first thing.

Description Overload: Upon this page there is a period. It is not just any period, it is a period following a sentence. It follows this sentence in a way befitting a period of its kind, possessing a roundness that is pleasing to the eye and hearty to the soul. This period has the bearing of a regal tennis ball combined with the utility of a used spoon. It is an unpretentious period, just like any other, the result of hundreds of years of typesetting innovations that allows it to be used, almost forgotten, like oxygen to the sentence only darker, more visible. And it is after this period, which will neither reappear nor matter in any sense whatsoever to the rest of the novel, that our story begins.

Stilted dialogue:
Character #1: "I am saying precisely what I mean!"
Character #2: "Wait. What is that you are trying to tell me?"
Character #1: "Are you frickin' listening to me? I am telling you precisely what I am feeling in this given moment. And I'm showing you I'm really angry by using pointed rhetorical questions and petulant exhortations. God."
Character #2: "Sheesh! Well, I'm responding with leading questions that allow you to tell me exactly what you mean while adding little of value to the conversation on my own. Am I not?"
Character #1:"You are totally doing that. You totally frickin' are. Ugh! I'm so mad right now!"

The Old Spice Guy Effect (excessive rug-pulling). The character was standing on a rug. He falls through his floor to his death! The rug was actually a trap door. But wait, the character was already dead. He merely faked falling through the trap door. But wait, the trap door was actually a portal into another world. The character was actually alive, he just thought he was dead. Now he's really dead. Or is he? I'm in a chair.

Have you spotted any other writerly viruses out there in the wild?
The fall season of writing viruses is here. Watch out for these dangerous diseases!

Part 2

Catching the Rye:
Well you probably first want to have read this book by J.D. Salinger with an immediately catchy voice that kind of spoke to a generation or some nonsense, and after you do that you may be corrupted with that voice in your head for some time if you want to know the truth of the matter. If you really want to think about it it’s already been done and anyway the guy who wrote it didn’t end up wanting to talk to anyone anymore and holed up in a house somewhere so that can’t have been good and you probably want to try and go and write your own voice so you’re not a phony.


Adverb Central:
“What do you mean I can’t use adverbs with dialogue tags?” Lucia asked questioningly.
“Just don’t do it,” Nathan replied testily.
“But why not?” Lucia asked quizzically.
“It’s kind of a rule,” Nathan said resignedly.
“I kind of like them,” Lucia said poutingly.
“If you keep using adverbs,” Nathan said patiently, “Pretty soon your reader will only notice the adverbs and not the dialogue because the adverbs are doing all the work for the reader.”
“Oh,” Lucia said understandingly.
“Yeah,” Nathan nodded knowingly.


Gee Whiz That’s a Lot of Exposition:
“But what is it?” Captain Spaceman asked.
“I’m glad you asked,” his crack scientist said. “It’s a ‘What’s It.’ It is a device that requires me to explain to you precisely how the technology in this world works so the writer can get some exposition out of the way.”
“But why wouldn’t I already know how the technology works?” Captain Spaceman asked. “I am the captain, aren’t I?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” the scientist said. “You will impatiently prod me along while I tell the reader exactly what they need to know even though there is no good reason for us to be having this conversation. You might even say ‘Yes yes, go on.’”
“Yes yes, go on,” Captain Spaceman said.
“And I’ll be sure to include some foreshadowing. I mean, sir, just think of what would happen if the ‘What’s It’ fell into the wrong hands... You might even be moved to weigh in on the gravity of the situation.”
Captain Spaceman scratched his chin. “My gods, that would be catastrophic.”


Olympic Head Jumping:
Jackie saw the problem approach from a mile away. She turned to Richard, who was wondering about the weather that day and thought nothing of Susan, who was sitting quietly and wasn’t expecting the problem at all. Jackie wondered at that moment how everything had gone wrong, while Richard’s eyes widened as he saw another person approaching, Derrick, who gave a wave as he approached, happy to see his friends. Susan began to notice something was amiss and gave a start, which Richard noticed and looked in Derrick’s direction while Jackie had already been onto the problem from the start, ignoring the quizzical expression on Derrick’s face as he tried to understand. No one had any idea what was really happening.


Fantasy Overload:
“We are hearty warriors! Let us share a hearty chuckle! Ha ha ha!” Pentrarch said.
There was a glint in Lentwendon’s eye as he took a swill from a mighty cistern of ale. He bellowed a deep laugh and clapped his friend on the back.
“I say,” Pentrarch said, “What is it about fantasy novels that lends itself to such stilted, manly camaraderie? Do we not have normal interactions?”
“We do not,” Lentwendon said, his voice suddenly grave. “We do not. We prefer to express our friendship with great noise and clapping of shoulders and brood quietly but stoically when matters turn serious. It is the same with our women.”
“Oh yes,” Pentrarch said “Our women are quietly supportive that we must do battle in far off lands, and they always have weary, knowing eyes. In truth they are the strong ones.”
Lentwendon nodded as he stared quietly at his cistern. “And ale, always ale.”

Really helpful advice from Janis Hubschman's blog:

1. When the story stalls, ask: what is the character thinking now? Is she thinking anything? If not, why not? Characters need to learn something about themselves, about their values and assumptions.
2. Characters reveal themselves under stress. Raise the stakes. Drive the character into a tight spot. What are the psychological crutches the character relies on under pressure?
3. Readers like to learn about something when they read. The details of an unusual job or hobby, the day-to-day activities of a particular place at a particular time in history, for example, draw the reader in.
4. Trust the reader. Remember Hemingway's iceberg theory: "you could omit anything if you knew you omitted it and the omitted part would strengthen the story and make people feel something more than they understood."
5. Take apart successful published stories (or the stories of writers you admire) to see how they work.
6. Give the character something to do in the scene. It brings the character and the scene to life. A character soaking in the bathtub, thinking about her rotten marriage is boring. A character performing brain surgery, thinking about her rotten marriage is a different proposition.
7. To gain insight into a character, consider her history: Think about what happened before the story, what tortuous path led the character to this particular moment?
8. Allow the character to misinterpret another character's words or actions. In life, we often misread a situation, jump to conclusions. Interesting things can happen when characters make presumptions or project their own hang-ups onto others.
9. Let the characters connect with others. Alienated characters, the whiney and self-absorbed protagonists that blame everyone else for their predicament have lots of precedent in literature, but can hold readers at a remove.
10. Build tension by slowing down a scene. Let the scene unfold moment by moment. Linger on the details. Build silences into the dialogue.

the long and winding road

With my impending graduation next July, I've started considering my career options. I know, my first sentence is already a yawn. But that's the truth of the matter, and I have to come up with a plan fast before I end up roaming the streets with a cardboard sign saying, "Will sing for food." And I'm not even a good singer.

My dad saw how worried I was that entire day (but he was, in fact, the one who got me thinking about what I'm going to do after graduation) and sat me down for a talk before I went to bed. He told me to stop worrying about the things I can't control and that it's near impossible to be unemployed in Singapore.

But with a degree in English, I can't exactly qualify for a profession, if you know what I mean. I mean, it's all fine studying English in university, but it's an entirely different issue looking for a job that requires an English major. Is it true that English majors are doomed to end up as teachers? Not that teaching is a dead end. That's not what I mean. It's just ... I'm not the teaching sort. I have zero patience for kids, and I'd only see it as a means to earn income, the way I view my tutoring job now. The people around me who are well on their way to becoming teachers, you can totally see the passion in their eyes when they talk about the kids and their job. I don't get it. But should all else fail, maybe teaching is the only way to go.

Here in Singapore, if we sign on to become teachers, we get tuition paid for by the government but we'd have to be bonded for three years to the Ministry of Education. So if I decided to get bonded (after doing a year of post-grad in the National Institute of Education), I'd have to spend three years in the teaching business.

Gerlynn squawked at me to think through it carefully and discuss it over with my dad before embarking on - and I quote - "hare-brained notions" like spending three miserable years doing something I'm not keen on. How is it that some people such as her can be so logical and calm about everything? I'm a mess when it comes to making decisions for myself. Gerlynn always says, "Make your own decisions! You're 21!" Even my dad said that the other day - he told me I had to rely less on him to make decisions and be an adult now. I could blame it on my horoscope (Libras easy-going at best, and indecisive at worst), but that would be dumb.

I cried during that talk with my dad. He told me to put less pressure on myself, especially on something I can't control (although I don't really get what it is I can't control about getting myself employed). Before tucking me into bed he told me to communicate with him more (I was pretty reticent the whole day, worrying) so that he won't worry about me so much and he'd know I'm okay. I cried even more after that because what kind of daughter makes her father worry like that?

I know, I know. I was in a strange mood that day. And the weather did nothing to alleviate it. After the scorching morning, the rain gods were having a blast. The party lasted all the way until evening.

But post-graduation jitters aside, I have more pressing issues, like finding a part-time job to tide me through December. I don't mind scooping ice-cream or desk work as long as I can find time to swim every day and don't have to travel all the way to Alaska to work. Just putting this out there.

From Kidlit:

A Writer’s Worst Enemy

November 30, 2009

Impatience is a writer’s worst enemy. To all those who are rushing rushing rushing to get your manuscript out the gate and into my hot little hands, think of it this way real quick: you’ve spent… what? A year of your life on this manuscript? Why not give it the best chance possible and spend as much hard work revising as it — honestly — needs?

There is a finite number of agents and editors. Once you query your project around to every agent who represents your genre or age group (or every smaller publisher that still accepts unsolicited submissions) and once they reject you, you can’t do anything else with that project other than a) self-publish it (a whole other bucket of fish, to be discussed later) or b) revise the hell out of it and submit again to people who might be open to seeing a drastically different version (your pool this time around will be much smaller). So… just take the time, revise the hell out of it from the get-go, and skip that whole nasty getting-rejected-first bit! In other words: be patient.

Sad truth alert! Not every manuscript you write will go somewhere, publication-wise. Far from it. Every manuscript you write is supremely useful, though. I think every time you sit down at the keys, you should be striving to improve. Everything you write this week should be better and more exciting to you than what you wrote last week. You hear people talking about starter cars and houses, maybe even starter spouses. Well, I think that almost every currently published writer has written at least one starter (or drawer) novel. MG and YA superstar Lauren Myracle wrote something like five books, she said once, before getting her first published. Some have many more than that. So will all the novels you write be published? Even eventually? Probably not. In fact, I think it should be a good and healthy thing to look at some of your starter novels and be horrified by the quality of the writing. That means you’ve come a long way since.

Everyone knows the story of the person who never once sat down at a computer before, wrote a first draft manuscript inspired by a dream they had, sold it for a million dollars and got six thousand movies made of their story, etc. etc. etc. You know why everyone knows the story of “the exception to the rule”? Because it’s news. It’s so rare that everyone talks about it and raises it to mythical status. The other 99.999999% of us mere mortals have to write plenty of dreary starter novels (and don’t forget about the Million Bad Words) before we can figure out how to draft a living character, create a compelling plot, achieve tension and humor and literary magic. That sort of stuff takes practice. And practice takes… patience.

For a lot of writers, or anyone working in the creative arts, our ego often compels us to think we’re “special.” What teen girl hasn’t heard stories of some chick at the mall getting discovered by a modeling scout and then immediately dressed up really cute and gone to the mall in hopes of scoring her one-in-a-million chance at stardom? It’s worse for writers, because they don’t actually have to get dressed and leave the house to indulge in such fantasies. Who among you hasn’t started in on a hot idea and thought, “This is a brilliant, undiscovered masterpiece that everyone will love the second they read it”? Who hasn’t let themselves boast, “Let all the other writers slog around in the trenches because I’m special“?

Well, talent is a huge piece of the puzzle, naturally. But hard work, I’ll argue, is a bigger piece.
Because naturally talented people — especially the people who know they’re naturally talented — often get an entitled attitude and wait for the success to come to them. It’s the people who think “I might not be special enough yet but, damn it, I will be successful” who usually end up towering over their smug counterparts. Because the ordinary writers have to work for it and they know it. They have to put in the hours to see improvement, to witness the talent start to shine. They learn to work hard and never give up. And those are the people who make it, while some of the naturally talented people sit around on their couches, waiting for that model scout to come knocking.

In the writing game — and I’ll say it is one, on many levels — the qualities of patience, hard-work, humility and the eagerness to learn will get you much farther than striving to be the exception to the rule. The former you can control, the latter you can’t. Wouldn’t you rather be in control of your success and your career?

Write, write and write more

I shouldn't be blogging right now. I have a Chinese short story and an English group paper to write, a French test to study for, and a French essay to write.

Yes, it's that time of the semester again. This mad rush, the culmination of earlier procrastinations, is taking ahold of us again.

I'd like to say that I'm not a procrastinator. I've completed all my individual work. The Chinese short story and English paper are group projects, which, as we all know, are a bitch to get down, given how difficult it is to coordinate all our schedules and get down to writing the damn thing.

So lots of writing to be done. Though I can't find a downside to that, because it's writing!

Just today, I wrote my first ever short story in Chinese. It was an in-class assignment and we'll be graded according to the piece we write. We had to write a short science fiction however we want. In other words, CREATIVE WRITING! I was hesitant at first because let's face it, I'm a lot more comfortable writing in English than in Chinese.

Writing short creative fiction in Chinese is different from writing those Chinese essays in secondary or primary school. Back then, we were forced to write to a lame topic or title and use the phrases and words the examiners or teachers would give us credit for. This, though, is free and easy. Write whatever you want, however you want, as long as it is credible sci-fi (it's a Chinese for Technology module, after all). I wrote a piece titled BLACK HOLE, where I used Einstein's theory of relativity as a metaphor in my main character's life and to serve as a backdrop against which his transformation is held. It doesn't matter if I don't get an A for this, because I actually had fun writing it (though I also had Google Translate to thank). I'm pretty proud of myself for coming up with a piece I actually like in two hours. In Chinese. Have I mentioned it's a first?

Okay, I'll stop bragging now. I'm trying not to go near my English group paper, which, if you think about it, is kind of impossible since I'm in charge of writing the introduction. Oh yeah, I'm a fine kick-starter. Go team, and all that.

What is the last place you recognise?

"Good books, like our true selves, aren’t instantly created or perfectly crafted. They are messy and frustrating and flawed, which are exactly the same things that make them real." ~ Sarah Dessen

Trust Sarah to tell it in the truest way possible. I've gushed over her latest book WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE before, marvelling at how she always manages to keep her characters original and real, even for ten books and counting. But what I didn't know was that she had had to rip out the last 200 pages of her first draft for WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE and re-write from there. Her solution to writer's block is to go back to the last place where the writing was going well. Kind of like when you get lost on the highway and you go back to the last place you recognise. Because often, it's at that point where you took a wrong turn - added or introduced the wrong character, removed the wrong character, made them do or say the 'wrong' thing - that things start to go downhill. So retracing your steps from the last place things were going right, and take it from there again, is how Sarah circumnavigates the messy journey of a first draft.

That got me thinking. Where is the last place in my life I felt like I had taken the wrong turn? And I found that I couldn't think of one. Probably because my life is only just beginning, so to speak. But I realised I'm actually glad about how things have turned out.

Sure, you can say that's because you don't know what you're missing out on. You think this is the best because you haven't experienced better. I know that. It would be completely ignorant and naive of me to think that what I have now is the best I can possibly have, because, really, how do you define 'best' anyway?

I could just as easily feel that having a mother would be better. Or having a wider social network. Or travelling more. Those can maybe make my life better than what I have now, but only because I don't know what my life would be like with them. What I do know is that I have my dad, my mind and body. And these are all I really need. These are what have taken me this far.

But "something to love, something to do, and something to look forward to", as the quote goes, is what's need for a happy, fulfilled life. What's lacking these days is the last ingredient. Now, I'm not about to go into another bitching session about how I don't know what I can do with my life and how I'll probably be miserable in a job that doesn't involve the type of writing I love. Today is just not the day for self-pity and self-indulgence. Today, I need to work on the final pages of my play, study for a quiz this Thursday, prepare for a presentation this Friday and get started on a group paper.

It's strange. Just yesterday and the day before, I was feeling really down. Must have been low on serotonin, or something. But at least now I know, if I ever feel like my pages are getting messy and frustrating and lacking, I just need to go back to the last place I recognise, the last place everything was going well, and take it from there again.

Supernatural Season 5 kicks butt!

I know I am way late with this review, seeing as how SUPERNATURAL is already in its seventh (seventh!) season and I've only just finished watching Season 5. I like to think I'm pacing myself so I don't finish watching everything so soon. Because that's how amazing SUPERNATURAL is.

I thought I'd take a break from the show for a while, after I was done writing THE DREAMCATCHERS. Because fantasy was all I read and watched while writing it. So once I was done, I was craving stories that were more grounded in reality. Which was why I turned to Asian dramas and Sarah Dessen (yes, I'm rereading WHAT HAPPENED TO GOODBYE, one of the favourites so far). But a few days ago, I decided to return to it, and just watching half of one episode reminded me why I love that show so damn much. I must have said this before, but I'll say it again. Those writers - especially Eric Kripke - are complete geniuses. I think the best stories are those you wish you'd written yourself. And SUPERNATURAL is definitely one that I wish I was creative and original and smart (and neurotic) enough to write myself. Just the storyline itself is enough to blow your mind. And don't even get me started on the characters. I believe they're what make the story.

I think SUPERNATURAL is more character-driven than plot-driven, despite its reliance on, well, supernatural phenomenon. The relationship between the two brothers, Sam and Dean, is what most viewers (and die-hard fans) are really invested in. So even though it's a fantastical narrative, the story is grounded in our most basic instinct: love. My playwriting instructor said that all fantasy stories, no matter how fantastical, have a universal theme (or two) that readers or viewers can all relate to. In the case of SUPERNATURAL, it's family. Sam and Dean are all they've got, ever since their parents were killed by demons.

I heard a lot of the fans were disgruntled by how Season 5 ended. But I didn't feel a smidgen of disappointment. Because for me, SUPERNATURAL was never about the demons and the Apocalypse; it was about the brothers. And Swan Song (the season finale) delivered that beautifully. It tied up enough loose ends and left enough for viewers to want to hold on tight for Season 6. The ending, especially, left me in tears, because (and for those of you who haven't watched it yet, this is a spoiler - although I must be the only one who's watching at this rate) Sam basically sacrificed himself to cage Lucifer and now Dean is left all alone without his little brother. He made a promise to Sam that he wouldn't try to bring him back and that he'd go back to Lisa and start afresh with her and embark on a new, normal life. It's absolutely heartbreaking.

I've watched a fair number of American dramas. But while the rest are all about oh, my best friend slept with my guy, my guy cheated on me and then proceeded to sleep with everyone else in the show, I'm in love with a bad boy (I'm looking at you, GOSSIP GIRL), I have a deep dark secret and I'm in love with you and you're stupid enough to want to be with me, my mom is sleeping with my friend's dad, I'm so bored I'm going to seduce that young hot gardener, yadda yadda yadda, SUPERNATURAL has an actual storyline that isn't filled just to satisfy the ratings. A lot of the shows should've ended with Season 1, but because the ratings were good, they proceeded with Season 2, 3, 4, 5.... Until the show becomes done to death and meaningless. I doubt the writers for SUPERNATURAL will let the show go down that road. It's been 5 seasons, and they're still delivering while being completely true to the show.

So while I'm aware that the writers (and cast - every one of them brings their characters to life and I can't imagine anyone else playing them) of the show won't be able to see this, here's a big thank you from a fan. Thank you for creating such a magnificent, inspiring, original, witty, poignant, first-class show. Even though the show has to end some day, I know you won't let your fans down; every episode will be relevant, amazing and true to the original essence of the story.

I shall stop gushing now. On to Season 6!

monday update

So I'm holed up in the school library ... not studying, as I probably should be. I'm at a very secluded area of the library where people here mostly just sleep in the comfy seats provided along the wall. I'm blog-surfing, which is, you know, also considered as a form of research, since discourse is everywhere and as a linguistics major, I should be competent enough to consider the intent of discourse and the discrepancies between the idealised and actual projected image. And so on.

Except that I'm really not.

I'm trying to think of a way to come up with my usual 8 pages of dialogue for my play, due Wednesday, when we have our reading during class. That, and sourcing for new dramas to watch. Because humans are story-telling/story-loving creatures, right? We feel the need to chronicle our lives through vicariously living through the characters on-screen and on the page. Stories help us make sense of the chaotic in our stretch of time in this world, and it helps that they have a proper (hopefully happy) ending, something that's impossible to define in real life.

So, whatever it takes to keep reality at arm's length, because man, its bite is painful.

Just yesterday, my dad was telling me I should start considering my options. As in, career options. After graduation. I was in the midst of cranking out some dialogue for my play, when he popped in for a chat. The Classifieds section of the day's papers was strewn on the floor (you can tell how high on my priority list that is at the moment), and he asked me what I was considering doing after graduation. He said the worst was when it's time for me to become gainfully employed and I still don't know what I want to (and can) do and then I embark on this mad rush to apply for jobs and settle for any old crap position, in which I'd be miserable and contemplating to find another job. That's sound advice, I know, but it just put me in a lousy mood afterwards, so much so that I didn't even feel like writing anymore. It felt like reality had punched me in the gut. Because, sure, I'm enjoying what I'm doing now, writing plays for class, and writing essays and catching up on readings, but what happens after? It's all good to focus on the present, because you don't know what's going to happen next and all that. But what if the future is (not so) slowly but surely looming and the problem is precisely that you don't know what's going to happen? The uncertainty is enough to gore you to the ground, deflated and weary enough to not want to lift up your head.

Any job that requires narrative writing, I'm your girl. Anything that requires creative writing, sign me up. On the spot. Because those are the things I'd do even if I wasn't paid to do them. But the list seems to end there. Teaching? No, thank you. White-collared jobs? I've expressed my disillusionment with them before. Entrepreneur? I'm too illogical, irrational and impractical for it. Not to mention naive and uninterested.

This is turning out to be another post where I lament about my lack of career options (well, okay, not quite a lack of, because really it's just me being picky and unmotivated). So I'm going to stop here and move on to happier things.

My 21st celebration was a blast, and this is a little overdue (since my birthday's on 25 Sept), but a big thank you to all of you who came and made that day special! I wasn't too keen on making a big fuss over a birthday, but my dad said it was a milestone in my life and that I had to celebrate it well because you only get to be 21 once. Which sounds depressing, but I shan't dwell on the downside. 21 feels entirely too old - 18, I feel, is the best age, even though we had to contend with the crazy A'levels.

(On a sidenote, it seems my dad is always trying to make me get a life. Apart from organising my party, he also encourages me to go out more or join more clubs and societies or pick up a sport or class to meet more people. I don't know what to make of it. Sometimes, it's really nice to have company - the bigger the company, the better - but sometimes, you just really want to be alone.)

Speaking of my play, I realised I haven't quite told you much about it (although whom I'm addressing is unclear - maybe it's better to treat my blog as a person, so I won't feel like I'm talking to some imaginary audience). It's about this girl Becky who is so obsessed with a pop star that she spends her days camping out on his fansites and Twitter profile. She hears a host of three people in her head: Prince II, an impression of the pop star who is supposed to love Becky unconditionally; Aunty Kim, her neighbour who passed away two years ago and had been a mother figure in her life ever since her mother left her; and Mr Hawk, her creative writing teacher who saw the potential in her writing. When her mother reappears in her life, the voices in Becky's head grow increasingly louder, so much so that they start crowding up her mind and interfering with her daily life. She talks to them in public, often in agitation, and her atypical behaviour is noticed by her childhood friend and neighbour (also Aunty Kim's son), Lucas, who has always been protective of her and now tries to help her exorcise the voices in her head one by one. To do so, they have to revisit the day Aunty Kim died, and understand Becky's infatuation with Prince.

Some parts sound a bit autobiographical, if you know me, but sadly there is no Lucas in my life. (I can hear Gerlynn sniggering right now.) Still, fiction's the best form of escape.

Till the next post!

Something to keep you going ... because we all need it from time to time

From Lisa Shroeder's blog:

Monday Motivation - the first draft is YOUR story


"Writing is rewriting... If you fall in love with the vision you want of your work and not your words, the rewriting will become easier." - Nora DeLoach

I love that quote. The first draft is about getting the story down that you want to tell. The words might not be the right ones. The scenes might not be the right ones. The characters may be flat and dull. But it's okay. Write because you have a story to tell and fall in love with that story. Later, you will revise to take care of all those things.

Just get the story down - and let yourself fall in love with it.

I've been writing 1,000 words a day on my WIP. Sometimes I go back and tinker with earlier chapters, and I know some writers don't let themselves do that because they'll do that forever. But for ME, that tinkering often helps me get back into the story - back into the world that can be hard to reenter at times.

That's the thing about first drafts. We have to figure out what works for each of us. I've learned what works for me. I now know I can do 1,000 words a day pretty easily in an hour or two, if I open the document, read some of the previous day's work, tinker if necessary, and start writing.

I also know that the reentry is easiest if I leave off in the middle of a scene, in a place where I can pick right up and keep going. Sometimes I leave myself notes to remind myself what I want to happen. But I now know it's so much easier to get writing when I've left off in the middle of something rather than the beginning of a new chapter. Blank pages are HARD, so I try to avoid them as much as possible when writing a first draft.

Figure out what works for you. Write to get the story down. Remember, it's YOUR story in the first draft. Don't worry about anyone else. Write for yourself. Fall in love with it.

There's plenty of time later to do the work to make other people fall in love with it.

"We'll move to our house after you graduate next year, okay?"

"Okay." We had been discussing this for a while now.

"But I'm afraid you might get lonely."

"Lonely?" I echoed, like the word was too unfamiliar to me, when in fact I had become really acquainted to it.

He nodded.

"Lonely?" I said again, trying to inject more incredulity in my voice.

Again, he nodded.

"Nah, I won't get lonely."

"It's just," my dad said, "when we move out of grandma's house, you'll be at home alone most of the time. I'm afraid you might turn into a hermit, or something weird like that."

Clearly, he doesn't know he transformation's nearly complete.

"Nah, that won't happen. By the time we move to our house, I'd be working. I'd have colleagues. I'd have a social life."

Reassurances are promises without the finger-locking.

In the time since I last posted, I've been swept up in schoolwork. Nothing too heavy, really. Just a language here, a playwriting class there. It's all been really enjoyable, and I've been busy collecting ideas and developing them, conjugating French verbs, Google-translating my Chinese essay (maybe I shouldn't let that one out)....

This semester is shaping out well, except for that one glitch that forced me to take only four modules, instead of the usual five. EL2202 closed one of the four tutorial classes due to a smaller intake of students. And it just happened that the slot they closed was the only one I could actually attend and that didn't clash with my other classes. Since the system couldn't register me for its tutorial class, I won't be registered as a student. And by the time they informed me of that, the period for module-bidding was over, and so I'm stuck with only four modules. Which means I'd have to take Special Term. Again. Not that it's a terrible thing, just that I'd have to take five modules next semester to satisfy my Major requirements (and you know the timetable's going to be a bitch to negotiate) and I'd have to find one module to take during Special Term to fulfil my last Unrestricted Elective requirement (hopefully, they'll offer Japanese or Korean language modules then, otherwise I'd have to take some boring-as-hell science or business module - I can't even contemplate that horrific notion).

Yes, CORS is a bitch. Why universities don't extend the bidding period, or construct an entirely foolproof online module-bidding system, I don't understand. I'm not the only one who's experienced that problem. My friend from French class was forced to drop a module for her Major too. Doesn't that sound ridiculous.

Anyway. Guess I'm stuck with four modules this semester. And only one of it has a final exam; the rest rely on continuous assessment. For playwriting, our final and only play takes up 80% and class participation 20%. Which is why I have to make this play good. At least I know where I'm going for now.

Okay, let's rewind and start from the beginning of this semester. The first playwriting class saw Huzir asking us what we had done since EN2271, Introduction to Playwriting, and what was going on in our lives now so that we could channel all that into our play. And I realised it seemed I didn't have much of a life outside of watching dramas, writing my novel and swimming. But the thing is, I'm not unhappy. In fact, I'm pretty happy where I am now. Is this me being complacent, so ensconced in ignorance that I feel no compulsion to stick my head out or - pardon the cliche - step out of my comfort zone?

Routine, I realise, is comforting. And it can also be a crutch. It's what we fall back on when we are afraid to live, afraid to get hurt. But for a writer, it is stifling. It makes our lives stagnant. But I'm just too used to it - being alone, being spontaneous, being emotionally independent - that I don't see the need to rely on activities to meet new people. Maybe that's the problem with being an only child. They're too used to playing by themselves, going everywhere by themselves that they don't think they need other people. They hold people at arm's length and it takes a long while before they decide to invest in a relationship. And if you don't commit to a club or extra-curricular activity, university doesn't make it any easier. After every semester, you hardly see the people you had gotten to know last semester. So the people you sit next to in class are more like temporary allies rather than real friends. We'll come together to work on a paper or project, and after that, thanks for your contribution, see you around. And that's all you do, see them around, say hi and move on. University can be a lonely place despite the number of people and activities in it.

I know I sound like a downer. But that's probably just me. University isn't half bad, really. You get to meet different people every semester, learn different things, think about things you never gave a second thought, and be taught by really intelligent and passionate lecturers. Everything there feels so alive I'm excited to be a part of it nonetheless.

I'd go on, but I think readers (the handful of them) might vomit at any further sanguinity. Right now, I'm simultaneously watching 'The Snow Queen', writing my play, writing my Chinese essay (30% of final grade) and listening to 'Secret Garden' OST.

Speaking of dramas, 'Secret Garden' is one of the best I've ever watched. And while I was initially disinclined towards Hyun Bin, the male lead, his performance in the show has made me fall for him. I've been replaying the song he sang in the show, 'That Man', and the instrumental OST for 'Secret Garden' for one and a half weeks and counting. Which is why I've been looking for his older dramas like 'The Snow Queen' and 'The World that They Live In' to watch.

Maybe I'll stop before I start gushing.

To make a really awkward change of topic, I'm turning twenty-one in exactly two weeks' time. The thought is more depressing than exciting. I'm about to bid my youth goodbye. No more acts of defiance (not that I've ever been a rebellious kid), or whimsical behaviour that can be excused or tolerated, and no more freedom from responsibilities. In a year's time, I'll be graduating, and I'm not even completely sure what my next step will be. I know I want to work in the publishing industry. I want to help aspiring authors publish books, or contribute to Singapore's literary arts scene in whatever way I can. But that's all just in theory. How to go about doing that practically, I haven't got much of a clue other than interning at a private book-publishing company (I've been researching on some possible companies). Typical arts student, you might, say. All talk, no action. All ideas, no logic. Still, I'll take comfort in the fact that I have a heading now, at the very least. Which is more than I can say for myself at the same time last year. Maybe some of us will never know whether what we want or what we're doing is right or will pay off.

This has been as upbeat as I can be. Till next time.

A post by Nathan Bransford (Wednesday, August 3, 2011):

On Distractions

Occasionally you'll see advice out there that writers have to keep to a schedule, have to write X words a day, have to write every single day because that's what it means to be a writer. That's what writers do. You're always supposed to power through, always keep moving, always push push push.

I'm sure this works for some writers. I am not one of them.

Not only do I simply not have time to write every day, I wouldn't even if I could. I can't write every day. I can barely write two days in a row.

Writing is tiring, it's hard, and it's easy to get burned out. After full a day of writing I feel physically and emotionally drained. It takes immense concentration. Coming up with new ideas is hard work. And blocking out all distractions takes \willpower.

But it's not just that. I need time to be distracted.

Distractions, the good kind, can come in many forms. They can be a friend who calls spontaneously one afternoon, a walk through the park that beautiful weather demands, a trip to a museum, or just a day doing absolutely nothing.

Sometimes you need to recharge. Sometimes you need to be inspired. Sometimes you need to just let yourself experience life.

I feel like as a writer it's so important to listen to yourself. Don't listen to the lazy you, the one who never wants to get anything done. But do listen to the Writer inside you (capital 'W'), who writes because life is so interesting and amazing.

You can't write if you don't live. You can't write good books if you're a writing machine who doesn't take time to live life fully outside of your work.

Some of the best inspiration comes precisely while you're distracted, while you're actively not thinking about writing and just noticing life.

Let yourself be distracted. It can be your most productive time.

On (not-so) Secret Novel, amazing novels, and novel experiences

It's taken me long enough to blog again.

School starts in a week. And while I'm looking forward to LAF1201 (Beginner French) and EN3271 (Advanced Playwriting), I'm keeping my fingers crossed (if I believe in crossing fingers) that this semester isn't going to sap me of all I am.

Still, I have a week more to go. And I intend to spend it the way I want. That, of course, involves writing.

I'm working on my new novel!!!! (Can you tell how excited I am? If I could add on more exclamation marks without looking like a prepubescent girl at a Bieber concert, I would.)

For the past couple of weeks, I was toying with the idea of working on Novel A and Novel B. I decided on Novel A, but after just twelve pages decided I wasn't convinced with my characters enough to go any further. And while agonising over Novel A, scenes for Novel B just kept forming in my head, and it was Novel B that I kept thinking about before I went to bed.

So last Saturday, I thought, what the heck, horrible timing be damned (it is one week before school - and all relevant madness - begins, after all), and got started on Novel B. And since then, I've written four chapters. I'm excited because it reminds me of the time I wrote LAMBS FOR DINNER, the thought process, the way the story flows out of my fingertips, the way I had to rush to keep up with the ideas in my head, the things the characters are saying in my head. I haven't felt this exhilarated while writing since LAMBS.

No, wait. I have. When I was finishing up THE DREAMCATCHERS.

Speaking of which, I've completed that! In the middle of July, in the middle of MNO1001 lect (Management and Organisation, which I'm taking to fulfil my Breadth requirement). After a whole year of second-guessing and self-doubt and almost giving up, I've finally pulled through. Sometimes, it's not that you can't write; it's that you won't. I kept telling myself I couldn't think of anything to propel the story forward, and I couldn't think of how to resolve the story. But once I got down to it, everything managed to tie itself up pretty nicely (if I do say so myself).

But now, I'm stashing THE DREAMCATCHERS away in the drawer for a month before returning to edit it (so that I will be an objective editor and my perception will not be too skewed). And on to work on secret new novel!

Oh, okay. The title's FIFTEEN MINUTES DOWN SUNSET AVENUE. I'm still not too sure about it, though. I wish I could think of some strong title, like SHIVER (by the unbelievably talented and funny Maggie Stiefvater), which captures the essence and the mood of the story.

And speaking of the WOLVES OF MERCY FALLS trilogy, I just rushed down to Kino after my swim last Thursday to buy the final installment, FOREVER! SHIVER remains one of the best-written stories I've ever read. And I am completely stoked to read FOREVER. Just the first page - just the prologue - looks so good. I'm going to relish every word and read it as slowly as possible.

Blog-surfing today led me to this post by Natalie Whipple, YA author: Happy writers: finding confidence in yourself. Which gives us a much-needed boost of assurance as we create the story we want to read, and the world we wish to live in. And What I Really Want to Say to New Writers helps put things in perspective.

On a final note, here's what I meant by 'novel experiences':

Modules I'm taking next semester:

1. LAF1201 (I just looked at the notes posted on IVLE - everything's in French. Wonderful. Just...wonderful.)
2. LAC3203 - Chinese for Science and Technology. I had fun last sem with LAC3204, laoshi was nice and really put effort in helping each of us improve in our Chinese, and the coursework was relevant and useful.
3. EL2201 - Sound System of English. Big yay for phonetics and phonology! I had fun learning that under Mie Sensei in my freshman year, sem 1.
4. EN3271. More second-guessing and self-doubt (it is writing, after all). But with critique partners and constructive criticism and lots of fun (it's one of the classes I laughed the most and hardest in ever since entering NUS).
5. EL3256 - Language in the Workplace.

Bring on senior year sem 1!