Short Story - Whistles and Stones

The crack in the sky was no bigger than a sliver, a hairline fracture, just enough for the ghost of a breath to slip through. A tear in a world was a dangerous thing, a beacon for the wildest creatures, hawk-eyed beasts and prowling scavengers alike.

At the sight of it, she dove, her wingbeats gathering force. The air stirred in her wake, whistling a strange melody that made those on the ground shiver and shut their windows when they heard it.

But she was impervious to the scream of the wind around her, or the fire in her bones. Her eyes were fixed on the faint circle of light amid the undulating darkness. It was too deep into the forest to be noticed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it. Trees huddled closely into each other, guardians of a secret better off concealed.

Folding her wings, she set herself onto the carpet of moss. It was pleasantly wet and moist, and she sucked in a deep breath, letting the life of the forest fill her lungs. It was a stark difference from the stench of rot and ruin she had breathed in no more than a few minutes ago. Already, hope felt within reach.

She brushed off the remaining vestiges of her glamour and watched as her form materialised into sight. Her skin, uncomfortably tight, was parched from the journey and ravaged by the battle. She stretched her aching wings before remembering what Astov told her about this world and its earthbound occupants. With a resigned sigh, she turned her wings invisible.

The forest was a tangle of gnarled branches and creeping undergrowth, impenetrable as a heart. There was the heartbreaking scent of things blooming and growing, living and dying, that used to fill the air back home.

Astov would have stayed here if he could. She recalled the light that filled his eyes whenever he spoke of other worlds and imagined lives, then pushed the thought of him to the back of her mind before her traitorous heart could take over.

Through the lattice of branches, the light from the market came through as flickering pinpricks, easily overlooked. She cut like a blade of wind through the soggy mire of undergrowth, ducking from the reach of branches.

The stench was the first thing she noticed about the black market – its overpowering miasma of avarice and cunning made her footsteps falter. She supposed it was to be expected of a black market, and forced herself to brave its fumes and observe its workings.

While she had learned about the type of currency used in this world, here she saw not a single dollar flashed. Instead, the goods, displayed under the vendors’ keen gazes, were weighed and measured before being traded. None of them needed introduction – those who sought them knew what they were and those who didn’t had no business knowing.

There were the innocuous-seeming stones and jars of coloured liquid and light. And then there was the macabre: claws, feathers, teeth, skin. And bones, so many of them – ranging from the intricate to the bulky and blatant, ones of the purest white to the duskiest grey – she wondered how she might ever locate the one she was looking for.

There was no time to waste. Every minute she lingered here was another minute carnage was created at home. She blew like red death past the stalls, too intent on what she was seeking to pay attention to the eyes that fell on her, or the conversations that bled away wherever she passed.

When at last she came to a stop, it was because of the gleam she caught sight of from the corner of her eye. She found herself standing before a dimly-lit stall at the periphery of the market. Nearby, a wall of trees stood guard.

A magus’ bones were eternal, preserved by the magic they contained. It was why they cast their own glow even in a badly lit stall like this, why you could hear music – a faint whistle like the song of the wind – emanating from the ivory-white core of the bones. The king had once said that magic was the only thing that could secure everlasting peace and progress, but even his knowledge of magic could not save him from his demise. Now that she – along with the others who were fighting the war at home now – was one of the last few who possessed the knowledge, it was up to them to guard it to their graves.

But their magic alone was hardly enough to bring Astov back. The crown prince’s death remained a mystery – there wasn’t even a body, only the long aching days of hope and dread, hope and dread, that eventually settled into the numbing conviction that their new leader was dead.

They had waited long enough to take action, but now she was just a step away from bringing Astov back. A mage’s bone was not enough; she needed an archmage’s. Bones from a leader of magic would be so much more potent. Yet –

“You will not find what you’re looking for here.”

At first, she wasn’t sure if that statement was directed at her. But the man was staring right at her in a way that made her folded wings twitch under her clothes.

He was one of the vendors, but not from the stall she had set her eyes on. Instead, he sold bits of rocks and stones – none of them precious – displaying them next to a rusty old weighing scale. Under the single light bulb swinging overhead, his eyes were dense and iron-grey, like the bullet Astov once showed her after one of his expeditions to this world. She regarded the man with keener senses now. Someone with a weapon in his eyes was not to be taken lightly.

He went on pleasantly as though she had just inquired about his health. “You want to bring a loved one back, you'll need something more than a pile of old bones.”

At once, she bristled. Mages were the elite practitioners of magic. Those at home died trying to save the people with all they knew. Yet, this man had simply dismissed them as though they were worth nothing.

She filed her voice into something able to draw blood. “These old bones contain more power than you can ever understand.” She wondered why she was standing there arguing with a man she hardly knew; he was only a vendor, after all.

“If magic could save whatever it was you were fighting for, you wouldn’t have come here.”

And it was this sentence that stilled her before she could move on. Because it meant that he knew three things – that she possessed magical abilities, that she was in the midst of a battle, and that she was in desperate need of assistance – all within five minutes of acquaintance.

She relented and turned her attention back to him. The vendors from the adjacent stalls were preoccupied, so she ventured further: “How can you tell?”

His voice was dry. “You conceal those wings rather pitifully. They won’t go unnoticed in the day. Also, your scars – they’re still fresh. You’ll need more than a selkie’s tears to heal them. Four stalls down my left you will find an antidote that can heal you at twice the speed. But he only accepts fangs as payment – the more exotic, the better. As for your lover –”

“He’s not my lover.” She dipped her head low to hide the fire in her cheeks.

“My apologies. I assumed you two were romantically involved given how frequently your thoughts drift to him.”

“I said,” she snapped, meeting his gaze straight on, “he is not my lover.”

He chuckled, as though indulging in a recalcitrant child. “As for him, the magic required to bring him back using an archmage’s bones will be too intricate, the process too arduous. From the looks of it, you can ill-afford losing any more time.”

She frowned. “This is the only way.”

“There is always more than one way if one looks hard enough.” He reached for a smooth rounded rock the colour of dried blood. It sat in his palm like congealed liver as he held it out to her.

Her frown deepened as she stared at it. “A rock.”

“A bloodstone,” he corrected. “A far better and quicker solution to your problem. All you need is – as you can probably guess – blood. Not just any blood, though. The blood of an enemy to restore the life of a loved one.”

The blood of an enemy. Who? She had many. But the one who topped the list had to be her. Whom she knew Astov was in love with. Her, whom Astov had come to see on the sly (he covered his tracks well, but she knew him thoroughly enough to find him here). Her, for whom Astov had likely died.

She was dizzy with rage – now a dagger that she tucked close to her, the grooves on its hilt worn and familiar – but she forced herself to focus on the conversation at hand.

“I suppose you want my magic in return,” she scoffed. She had heard enough about Traders to know that they were a mercenary bunch.

“No,” he said, spinning the stone in lazy circles in his hand. “You will never give that up. Besides, what would I do with all that knowledge?”

“What do you want, then?” She longed to tear the stone out of his hand and be done with him, but there was more to learn about the Trader – a lot more.

“Just your wings, love.” For the first time since they spoke, his lips stretched into a broad crescent grin.

She took an involuntary step back, but steeled her voice. “But how will I get back?”

The Trader raised an unsympathetic brow. “Then I guess you’ll have to choose, won’t you?”

She speared him with a look that he returned with relentless fervour. All the while, her mind buzzed and spun. She could feel herself trembling precariously on the hinge of her choice. One word, and the change was irrevocable. If she gave up her wings, Astov would live again. He would restore peace to her home, and continue his father’s legacy. But then she might never see him again; she would be stuck in his foreign world, away from everything she had ever known.

But she hadn’t come here to return in the same sorry state. If there was a chance to save her people that she did not take, she could never live with herself.

When she lifted her gaze to meet the Trader’s again, there was a renewed shine in her onyx eyes.  Ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulder blades, she said, “How do we go about this trade?”

Her wings twitched in protest, but already she was imagining herself detached from them, forever earthbound.

 

*

 

When at last the Trader came to collect his payment, it was with a blunt, rusted axe in hand. She hadn’t expected to have her wings severed by such a crass instrument – so unceremonious, almost disrespectful – but the stone was already in her possession and a deal was a deal.

The axe whistled, low and hollow, as it arced through the air.

She braced herself for the oncoming agony. In her palm the bloodstone throbbed, a live thing squirming and writhing, desperate to break free.

 

I'm right in the middle of a writing drought right now. Not because I don't have anything to write, but because I don't dare to embark on a new story, and so I don't allow myself to think about the plot. I have an idea, a concept (actually, a few ideas and a few concepts), but nothing concrete yet. Because I know that once I'm taken by an actual plot, a scene, a rush of emotion or a character's voice I'm done. I will fling myself into the flurry of writing a 75,000-word (or more) novel and find myself unable to extricate myself until I'm done. That might take a month or two, in which time I will obsessively clock pages and word count and live, breathe, dream and basically function within the realm of the story, as the characters (yes, plural - writing is a schizophrenic process).

I'm done with UNTIL MORNING, and took the plunge by sending it in for a competition organised by Quirk books. I'd cross my fingers if I didn't believe it would create a counter effect by jinxing my chances. I'm one chapter away from the end for 15 MINUTES, and I still don't have any idea how to end it without making it completely cheesy or frivolous. Yes, the self-doubt monster strikes again. In fact, I'm in the stage where I am convinced it's utter crap that my uncertainty is holding me back from sending the manuscript out for the Asian Scholastic Book Award. Seeing the blurbs of the past winning entries, I don't think I have a chance of securing this. They want stories set in Asia, and while 15 MINUTES is set in Asia I worry they're not as Asian-themed as it should be. Or thought-provoking or profound or meaningful as it should be. What if it's deemed too fluffy, or the characters are too Westernised? The winning entry will receive a publishing contract, but there is only prize. The runners-up will get ... a plaque. So basically, it's all or nothing. I don't want to bank all my hopes on this, put in the time and effort and money in printing (six copies of a 300-odd page manuscript is no joke) and sending it in only to be disappointed.

I know, I know. I shouldn't enter a competition with such high hopes, but who enters a contest without hoping to win?

Ah, well. At least if I try out, I can assuage that part of my brain that goes, "What if...?" Better to have taken the risk than risk not taking the chance, after all.

In the meantime, I should really finish up that last chapter for 15 MINUTES.

 

“Start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there’ll always be better writers than you and there’ll always be smarter writers than you. There will always be people who are much better at doing this or doing that – but you are the only you.”

 

― Neil Gaiman

 

 

 

“If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.”

― Ray Bradbury

“On writing, my advice is the same to all. If you want to be a writer, write. Write and write and write. If you stop, start again. Save everything that you write. If you feel blocked, write through it until you feel your creative juices flowing again. Write. Writing is what makes a writer, nothing more and nothing less. — Ignore critics. Critics are a dime a dozen. Anybody can be a critic. Writers are priceless. —- Go where the pleasure is in your writing. Go where the pain is. Write the book you would like to read. Write the book you have been trying to find but have not found. But write. And remember, there are no rules for our profession. Ignore rules. Ignore what I say here if it doesn’t help you. Do it your own way. — Every writer knows fear and discouragement. Just write. — The world is crying for new writing. It is crying for fresh and original voices and new characters and new stories. If you won’t write the classics of tomorrow, well, we will not have any. Good luck.”

― Anne Rice



And the kicker:

 

“Notice how many of the Olympic athletes effusively thanked their mothers for their success? “She drove me to my practice at four in the morning,” etc. Writing is not figure skating or skiing. Your mother will not make you a writer. My advice to any young person who wants to write is: leave home.”

― Paul Theroux


Courtesy of Aerogramme Writers' Studio

And in the vein of things whimsical

I first read The Little Prince (by Antoine de Saint-Exupery) when I was about eleven, and I didn't really get what the story was about. It seemed a little fragmented, this strange boy stumbling across random people and asking questions. There was a fox, and a lamp-lighter and a pilot and no climax or discernible storyline. As someone who read Nancy Drew mysteries and Roald Dahl, The Little Prince made very little sense.

But then I re-read it again during my junior college days, and fell head over heels in love with it. I don't understand why, but some part of it brought me back to the days when I tried to make sense of the story. I see now how these precious little encounters shaped the little prince and how they reflect the sort of characters in the world we live in. There are some universal truths in the story, but they don't come through as lectures. I just can't describe how magical the story is.

And the Peter Pan obsession continues

 

 

 

Middle-grade author (and ex-literary agent) Nathan Bransford has some encouraging words of advice for writers who doubt the novelty of their stories:


What often stops would-be writers in their tracks is that their first efforts aren't very good. And they know it. The voice sounds like another author's voice, the plot feels like an imitation of a book they've already read, and it doesn't start out feeling particularly original.

As with every writing problem, there is only one remedy: Keep writing. Keep pushing on.

You can write your way to originality, you can write your way to a voice, and you can write your way to a unique plot. It may not start out that way, but if you keep pushing through and keep trying you'll end up in a place you never knew existed.

Don't give up. There are still plenty of worlds to be discovered.


Read the entire post here.

And while we're at it, Nathan sums the writer's journey here.

In publication news, best-selling author of the DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE trilogy, Laini Taylor's final installment has revealed the title (get ready for this): DREAMS OF GODS AND MONSTERS.

How awesome is that title!

But it'll only be out on ... 29 April 2014.

Yup, Chloe Moretz pretty sums it up.

In the meantime, I've got some catching up to do:

 

 

Finally going to read THE RAVEN BOYS, after having it for months on my Kindle!

 

Also, I just finished Sarah Dessen's THE MOON AND MORE:

 

 

 

 

I know a lot of people think her books are pretty formulaic and nothing much really happens in them, that they're just about normal teenagers going about their lives and learning stuff as they go along. But therein lies the beauty of her stories. They're not about supernatural creatures, they are particularly dramatic, the stakes are life or death, but they're about relatable characters we would like to root for, maybe because we find a piece of ourselves in them. Her characters either start out content with their lives, until someone or something comes along to show them how much more they can have and deserve to have; or they are dissatisfied in some way they can't pinpoint, and someone or something comes along to help them face their problems, thus bringing about closure or acceptance or a change for the better.

I read my first Sarah Dessen book, KEEPING THE MOON, when I was fourteen. It was about self-esteem and friendship and the usual stuff that girls my age then were concerned with. It wasn't preachy, and didn't talk down to the reader, but I got so much out of it. By then, I was hooked, and devoured every book of hers she had ever written. Dessen took NINE YEARS to finally become a full-time writer, having taught creative writing at Chapel Hill North Carolina University and bused tables for a living before that. But she's totally a YA star now, with her acclaimed books and huge fanbase. There are some books that change your life, and I think KEEPING THE MOON, and later THE TRUTH ABOUT FOREVER, are one of those that changed mine.





Yes, it's been a while. I'm done wallowing in those rejection letters. Now I'm still awaiting replies from agents while I query more of them.

In the meantime, here are some writing links I found useful:

On introverted writers

Tips for writing a really good "shitty first draft" from Writer Unboxed

12 Famous Writers on Literary Rejection, from Aerogramme Writers' Studio

Lately, I've been drawing inspiration from classic children's stories like Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan. Ever since I saw this picture of Super Junior member Lee Donghae, my mind has latched onto the idea of a modern Peter Pan.

 

And:

 

 

Doesn't he look just like a Peter Pan? That twinkle in his eye and that smile! *fangirl mode on*


And then there's this quote from J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan:

 

 

 

And this, from Alice in Wonderland:

 

 

 

  

Gotta love magical realism - there's just something comforting and promising about them. This is the vein I've been writing in for UNTIL MORNING, the first draft of which I completed a week ago: whimsical, romantic, funny and somehow sad. At least, that's how I hope it turns out.



Next up, I'm finally going to try and finish writing FIFTEEN MINUTES DOWN SUNSET AVENUE, after letting it languish in My Documents folder for too long as I worked on BLOOD PROMISE and UNTIL MORNING. Until then, Peter Pan can wait.

And the responses stream in

I've been querying literary agents for BLOOD PROMISE, and while a lot of the response was promising, none of them quite hit the mark. I'm getting more personal responses (i.e. elaborate emails on why my work is rejected) rather than form rejections these days, but it's hard not to get beaten down by rejection. If anything, the blow is harder because you realise you were THISCLOSE to getting a nod from an agent. You begin to wonder if your story is really not good enough to be published. And as my list of agents to query starts to run out, my hope of ever getting BLOOD PROMISE out in the world is fast diminishing.

Here are some personalised rejection slips from agents who have requested partials and fulls (as in, pages of the manuscript):

 

Dear Joyce,

 

Thank you so much for sharing BLOOD PROMISE with me. I would absolutely love to read the first 100 pages, sent as an attachment in .doc or .txt. format. Also, if you could let me know whether or not other agents are looking at partials of fulls, that would be helpful, as well. I look forward to reading more!

 

 

Warmest,

Jennifer

Jennifer Azantian

Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency

 

 

 

And here's her follow-up after I sent her the pages:

 

 

 

Dear Joyce,

I really enjoyed these pages from BLOOD PROMISE. I feel your writing is very strong, but I didn’t connect with the story in the way that I need to in order to request the remainder. I also think the use of multiple POVs made it difficult to become invested in any of the characters. I’m sorry to not have better news for you, but I’m sure another agent will feel differently. I wish you the best of luck on your writing journey.

 

Warmest,
Jennifer

 

 

Here's an initial response from Ms Sara D'Emic:

 

 

Dear Ms. Chua,

Thank you for your query. You have a great premise and I enjoyed your sample; I'd love to read more. Could you please send first fifty pages, along with a complete plot synopsis (each in a separate word doc)? I look forward to reading.

Sincerely,

Sara D'Emic

 

 

 

But it ultimately didn't grab her. Here's her reply after I sent her the full (after requesting for the partial, she asked for the full):

 

 

Dear Joyce,

Thanks again for sending this over. Unfortunately, I have to pass at this time. You're a strong writer but the narrators of each section had very similar voices. And while the world was unique I felt lost in the mythology at times, and would have liked to be brought more into the world. April and her brother being changelings was one of the most intriguing parts of this and I wanted that to be concentrated on more. These were just my impressions though I hope they're helpful. I wish you the best of luck.

 

Sincerely,

Sara D'Emic

 

And another:



Dear Ms Chua,

Thank you for the opportunity to review BLOOD PROMISE and for your
patience in awaiting a reply.

I enjoyed reading your sample pages and can sense that there's a lot that
works well here: solid world-building, an interesting premise, and a
memorable cast of characters, just to name a few elements I like. I
particularly appreciate how you effectually capture the sights and sounds
of April's environment, drawing me into the rich setting and her plight as
supplies dwindle. I think she really leaps off the page as a fully-fleshed
character; her relationship with her brother is both complex and belivable
-- something readers will be drawn to.

Unfortunately, though there is much to admire, I just don't love it enough
to represent it in today's competitive marketplace. This is just my
opinion, of course, and hopefully another agent will have another
perspective. I wish you the best of luck with BLOOD PROMISE and all your
future literary adventures.

Best wishes,
Kathleen Zakhar
Harold Ober Associates Incorporated



And another:



Dear Ms. Chua:

Thanks for the opportunity to read the sample pages of BLOOD PROMISE.

With regret, I'm afraid I will be passing on this one. While I remain
intrigued by the concept of your novel, and found your opening
chapter compelling, I felt the motivations of some of the characters
didn't always come through clearly on the page (e.g. Sean's decision
not to tell his father about finding the body or being questioned by
the police).

Sorry I couldn't give you a more positive reply. Thanks for thinking
of me, and best of luck in your search for representation.

Regards,
Jennifer Jackson
Donald Maass Literary Agency
http://www.maassagency.com/


Disappointing responses they may be, I'm still extremely thankful these agents took time to offer detailed feedback on my story. Now, on to reworking this damn book because heck I am going to make this work.

Book launch recaps

I'M A PUBLISHED AUTHOR NOW!!! *does happy dance*

This isn't the be-all and end-all of everything, of course, but it's a good start. Yesterday's book launch was a success, and although I was a tangle of nerves on-stage and missed out a good part of the speech I prepared I didn't do a Jennifer Lawrence, tripping up the stairs, and my mind didn't go blank.

My baby

 

 

The other winners of Beyond Words Novel-writing Competition (from left): Danny, Julian and Justine, with our lovely (camera-shy) editor, Geraldine Mesenas (in green)

 

 

 

Big congrats to the other winners, and huge thanks to the Straits Times publishing team and National Arts Council for all the organising and planning and execution. Our babies owe a lot to you. Thanks also to the wonderful people in my life who've supported and encouraged me and offered invaluable and candid (the best kind) feedback. I really hope you'll enjoy LAMBS FOR DINNER! Thanks also to my blog readers - commenters and lurkers alike.

 

 

 





The book will be available on Amazon by June 15, and in major bookstores in Singapore by this weekend. The e-book will be out next year. Go grab a copy, and if you do enjoy it please tell your friends to tell their friends!

RELEASE DAY!

I am BEYOND STOKED. I've dreamed of this for so long and finally I get to publish my very first book. And it's a book I actually like and don't wish to stash away in the darkest corner of my drawer.

LAMBS FOR DINNER is a young adult contemporary romance about a girl whose imaginary childhood friend is reappearing in her life after she meets a mysterious boy with a dark and violent past.

Those in Singapore, do grab a copy from any leading bookstore after today! The e-book will be released sometime next year (watch this space for updates). Hope you'll enjoy Drew and Skye's story!

Best-selling author of THE SCORPIO RACES and the Mercy Falls trilogy Maggie Stiefvater dispenses some invaluable advice on writing query letters and your book.

This is some timely advice as I begin receiving rejection letters from the literary agents I queried for BLOOD PROMISE. A couple of them have requested for partials, but nothing has quite hit the mark yet.

In the meantime, I'm working on the novel I've been wanting to write since the second semester of my sophomore year of uni. UNTIL MORNING started out as a play for my Advanced Playwriting (EN3271) class, and I've toyed around with the idea of having my characters meeting in a dream since then. But I still needed to work out the kinks in the story, which was why I decided to get BLOOD PROMISE out first.

And now I'm on a roll. The first 100 or so pages are always exciting to write, like the words are spilling out too fast for your fingers to keep up. So I'm going to power through until I can't, and then I'll find a way to power through again, just like I did for BLOOD PROMISE.

I know this is a repost of the link, but I can't find any other GIF compilation that sums up the writing process as succinctly and hysterically as this one from ex-literary agent and writer, Nathan Bransford. Also, this chart:

 

So to my fellow writers:

 

 

Short Story - Hands

From writing prompt:

10-minute free write - use the following words: memory, mother, hands, avocado green, and sharp.

Here's my attempt:

My earliest memory of my mother is the scars on the back of her hands. They crisscrossed like braided rivers all the way to her wrists, some raw and pink, some dulled to the colour of plum. They ran in all directions in choppy slashes, sudden and petty, the mire of tender skin tissues like a monstrous art. I never dared to ask about them, and she never spoke about them, just regarded them – even the fresh ones – like they were part of her anatomy.

I remember the balm my father used to apply – or tried to, at least – on those fresh wounds. It was avocado green, runny and smelled like yoghurt left past its expiration date in the fridge. He would chase after her with the putrid tub of balm, his voice laced with exasperation, the way you would coax a child to bed. My mother would end up locking herself in the bathroom for hours, the sounds of her sobs hacking at the door. Eliza and Dad would wait outside, and finally they would send me to talk to her.

I was the only one who could always bring my mother out. Not my father, who applied balm on her wounds and tucked her to bed; not my sister, who took her hand in both of hers and led her to somewhere quieter so she would stop fixating on the possibility of drowning in noise, in the sea of people, in heat, in regret, in memories. Me. Always, she wanted just me.

Me, who did nothing because there was nothing I dared to do, nothing I could do. Me, who hid behind walls when she called for me, because I was afraid of her, even though a part of me wanted to run into her arms. Me, who struggled a little when she eventually pulled me towards her because her nails were too sharp and dug a little too hard into my skin.

Later, she would let me run my fingers over her old scars as she stroked my hair and rocked me back and forth on the bathroom floor. My fingers would shake a little at first, but later those ridges of flesh became a map of sorts, one that led me back to my mother, and my mother back to the world.

So ever since I blogged about my experience interning at Cosmo, I've been getting some comments from blog readers who are also aspiring to join the magazine industry. Here's an insightful post by Cosmo features editor Denise Li about what it's really like behind the scenes. Hope it helps!

on dreams

I'm on the last leg of BLOOD PROMISE. The final chapter. I've leapt over the hurdle that is the climax of act three, and am now reeling in the aftermath, much like what my characters are doing. And maybe it's because I'm just about ten pages to the end that I'm feeling the pressure to make the resolution as gratifying as it should be.

This book has taken quite a while. Since its conception as a short story of the same title, which I wrote last February, I've been struggling to get it right. Writing, rewriting, ripping out pages, ripping out scenes, even shifting the climax from the first act to the third and final act. Making sure each character sounds consistent (I'm writing from three first-person point-of-view. Yes, I'm aware of how ambitious that is), making sure the story trots along at the right pace, making sure no phrase sounds awkward or clumsy or distracts the reader from the story, making sure not to give away too much at the beginning but not play coy either.

There was the saggy middle that I experienced, like many authors seem to as well. The mid-story goblin that strikes around page 150 or so invariably seems to elbow its way between the writer and the story, so that you gradually feel detached from it, and can't seem to get back into the zone. The first and last 100 pages are always exciting to write; it's the middle portion that's terrifying, because that's usually when we usually start to lose momentum. But if we can get past that, the rest comes really easily and we - or at least, I - tend to fly through the final act.

And after completion of the book, all I remember is how fun it had been to write it. And I go back and do it again.

Yes, it had been agonising to write this one, but I love it when the story takes on a life of its own, grows a mind of its own, and takes over the reins. I love being led along by it and discovering a route that I didn't think to let it take me, because that's when the better stuff comes out. Too much planning, for me, kills the story. Since I already know what's going to happen, I'll feel like I'm just going through the motions, writing what needs to be written. Sometimes, letting go a little yields something unexpected.

I wish the same can be said for my real life. Because it's all well and good to talk about letting go and losing yourself and finding a part of you in the process. It all sounds romantic and idyllic and noble, to fight for something you want.

But when reality gets in the way, and there are expectations to fulfil, there's only so much you can do to fight for your dream. I'm just going to say it right here: my ultimate goal is to be a best-selling full-time author. Guess that isn't news to many. But most people think I'm just kidding. They either don't believe that is my real dream, or if they do, that I need to grow up, pull my head out of the clouds and assume some responsibility already. I guess it's true I need to realise that I have to earn my own keep, achieve something, be somebody.

But I don't understand WHY I have to do it the "conventional" way, by doing what everyone expects a graduate to do: get a white-collar job, report to work at 9am everyday, check emails, go for lunch breaks, answer to an equally frazzled boss, knock off at 6pm, and repeat that cycle for five days a week, then on weekends go shopping in a packed mall, squeeze with everyone else in a packed train, and dread the coming Monday and look forward to Friday.

The proverbial rat race, defined as an endless, self-defeating, or pointless pursuit by Wikipedia, is exactly what I don't want to leap into. When I was in secondary school, I worked hard to get the results I wanted for O'levels so I could get into the junior college with (in my opinion) the nicest uniform (yes, I was shallow even then). When I was in junior college, I worked hard to prove to the people who had high hopes for me - teachers, peers, family members - that they hadn't misplaced their belief in me. When I entered university, I started to wonder what I'm doing all this for. What do I really want out of all this. What am I trying to prove to myself and the people around me? That I can? What if I can?

I'm not saying education is a trap. It would be too huge a logical leap to think that. I'm grateful for the education my father has worked hard to provide for me. I enjoyed learning the stuff I did in uni, as I mentioned before. But when I think of my life after uni, all I feel is dread. Dread that I'd have to become a pack rat, join the rat race, keep pounding on that treadmill, striving for that promotion that people expect me to get, that marriage, that 2.5 kids and the white picket fence - instead of working for that dream that I've had since I was 13: to write fiction for a decent living.

Here's a quote from David Foster Wallace, an American Pulitzer Prize-nominated novelist: "... real freedom ... is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing."

May we all be in conscious pursuit of that infinite thing.

I'm in the last leg of BLOOD PROMISE, at page 266, and the pressure is mounting. To deliver a mind-blowing climax, to wrap up this novel that I've been working on since last year, to pound out the complete first draft by the end of this month.

This has to be perfect. But it isn't. It's far from perfect. It's messy and heavy-handed and there are some parts that are evidently not well thought-out. I know it's just the first draft and everyone expects the first draft to pretty much suck, but UGH it's frustrating. Some days, the scenes play out vividly in your head and your fingers struggle to keep up with your thoughts; and some days, NOTHING. Every attempt at the next sentence feels hackneyed and contrived.

I'm four pages (about 1,000 words) behind schedule today, and I don't think I can pound them out by bedtime.

On a more positive note, I had a pretty surreal dream last night. About a girl begging a boy not to kill her. And the boy doesn't, because he loves her despite the fact that they're from warring factions, and extracts all her memories instead, storing them in a tree of moons.

There was a whole other mess of voices and consequences, and it ended up with a girl crying pretty hard. I was watching her cry, until I became the girl crying. I cried so hard in my dream that I woke myself up.

I lay in bed for a while more, struggling to recapture my dream, and came up with a rough plot for SHINY NEW NOVEL.

Gotta love REM sleep. They're the best breeding ground for bizarre random ideas for writing.

Update on books (what else?)

How is it that I only just discovered this amazing website?

It's got blog posts on writing advice from YA authors like Lish McBride (HOLD ME CLOSER, NECROMANCER, which was a really fun supernatural romp) and Laurie Faria Stolarz (BLUE IS FOR NIGHTMARE), advice on setting and POV and creating conflict in your story, and how to differentiate a YA novel from an adult novel. I especially love this one by McBride, in which she writes for young adults. It's true. People often dismiss YA fiction, thinking they're easier to write than adult fiction. Well literary snobs, news flash: a story is a story. Crafting one is difficult, no matter what genre they're in or what demographic they're targeted at. McBride also shares her thoughts on her own writing process, and Stolarz gives some pretty sound advice for writers.

And I just realised I haven't spoken about this book, GRAFFITI MOON by Cath Crowley, yet! I read it a couple of months back, and fell completely in love with it.

Here's the excerpt and blurb from goodreads:


"Let me make it in time. Let me meet Shadow. The guy who paints in the dark. Paints birds trapped on brick walls and people lost in ghost forests. Paints guys with grass growing from their hearts and girls with buzzing lawn mowers."

It’s the end of Year 12. Lucy’s looking for Shadow, the graffiti artist everyone talks about.

His work is all over the city, but he is nowhere.

Ed, the last guy she wants to see at the moment, says he knows where to find him. He takes Lucy on an all-night search to places where Shadow’s thoughts about heartbreak and escape echo around the city walls.

But the one thing Lucy can’t see is the one thing that’s right before her eyes.


The prose is lyrical and funny and poignant, full of heart and wit, while the characters are flawed and bumbling and real and uncertain but hopeful. Gotta love some teen angst in a YA novel. Crowley's characters, Lucy and Ed/Shadow, convey a certain sense of whimsy without coming across as pretentious or annoying. They are funny, witty and like all young adults, they dream. They are fearful and excited about their future, and in that one night after their Year 12 exams they find a piece of the future in each other.

It's the kind of book I wish I had written.

And yet another book I wish I can write: DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE by Laini Taylor.

I've talked (more like gushed and raved) about this book before here, but now that the sequel to DAUGHTER is out, called DAYS OF BLOOD AND STARLIGHT, I decided to reread DAUGHTER because that's the whole problem with writing an amazing series. It takes a long time to perfect the book and get it published and by the time it's released readers would've forgotten what happened in the previous book.

I'd like to say I'll write something as amazing as this one day, but that day seems pretty far away for now, because Taylor's writing is UP THERE. In terms of plot (tightly woven), pacing (riveting), characters (a main character who is not too cloying or or clueless or damsel-in-distress-y, but not too unbelievably tough and brave either) and prose (OH GOSH THE PROSE! I can go nuts just talking about it).

And it looks like I'm not the only one who thinks the world of this book from the National Book Award finalist. Joe Roth, the producer of ALICE IN WONDERLAND from Universal Studios, will be making the DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE movie. I'm always hesitant about movie adaptation of books, because once a book hits the silver screen somehow it feels like it's being shared with the rest of the world and doesn't belong to you alone now. I know it sounds dumb, but I like discovering a wonderful book and living in my version of the world the book's created, without a bunch of fanatics who snatch the book off the shelves after they've watched the movie and gotten into the hype. So I'm keeping my fingers crossed that DAUGHTER and SHIVER (by the multitalented New York Times bestselling author Maggie Stiefvater, whose book is going to be made into a movie though the details are still in the works) will not rob me of the memories associated with discovering and living in the worlds those stories have created.

I've also gotten my hands on THE CURIOSITIES, an anthology of short stories by the Merry Sisters of Fate, a writing critique group that comprises of Maggie Stiefvater, Brenna Yovanoff (THE REPLACEMENT) and Tessa Gratton (BLOOD MAGIC). They used to each write a short story every week on their website, which is now defunct. It's so nice to have a tight circle of friends who love to write as much as you do, who put up with your writing quirks and rip your stories to shreds and cheer you on when you're in a writing funk, whom you can learn from and hone your craft together with.

So if anyone is willing to be in a committed writing relationship, drop a comment here or email me at jcxw2590@yahoo.com.sg. I am not kidding. I want my own Merry Fates circle! After taking those playwriting classes in university, I've come to realise how fun and helpful it is to be part of a group of creative, talented (and angsty - sorry, guys, but we were kinda angsty!) writers. Sadly, though, it's hard to find people who can spare the time to devote to their writing, unless we're all full-time writers. Otherwise, you know, life just gets in the way.

According to dreamdictionary.org, this is what my recurring dream means:


Scared of Flying:
Flying in a dream can either be exhilarating or a nightmare depending the dream. Not being able to control your flight in your dream is rare but it does happen from time to time. Scared of flying has everything to do with lack of control in your life. Dreams of this nature suggest you have trouble controlling the path in your life. No matter what you do there is some interference. You have to ask yourself what is causing me to be afraid to take control of my life, and how to get back on track. Another possibility is with being afraid to fly is that you might be having trouble keeping up with the high goals you set. You may feel that you can crash at anytime.


I'm no Freud or Jung, but that is a completely spot-on analysis of my dream. I've been dreaming of flying for a few nights now, and no it's not as liberating as you think it'd feel. While takeoff was easy, I had a million worries while I was soaring through the sky.

Basically, in the dream it is night, and the city is twinkling below me. It's cold and I worry about not having enough to wear. It's high and I worry about falling - that fear plagues me consistently throughout the dream. It's not quite the witching hour yet so there are people on the streets, and I worry about being seen. My toes are freezing up, and I want to go higher but I don't quite dare to.

Always, there is something holding me back. But the wind rushes past me, and my cheeks are cold. I want to feel freer than I am.

Two good links to share:

1. Laini Taylor, author of the award-winning novel DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE, shares some writing advice.

2. Mandy A, an aspiring author like me, blogs about her love for writing. It brought tears to my eyes, knowing that someone out there feels the same way about writing fiction as me. This writing business - it's a long and winding road, full of bumps and uncertainty. It's a gamble, a leap of faith. Sometimes, you just need to know you're not alone in this.

I borrowed an hour to meet up with my book editor yesterday to discuss my manuscript, LAMBS FOR DINNER. Can I just say that even though I don't seem excited about having my book published, my heart actually does a somersault every time I think about it? I'm just trying not to get my hopes up too much before anything's said and done.

Anyway, so I met up with Geraldine, who is super nice and very dedicated to making local YA a much bigger thing in Singapore than it is now. She brought along her pages of hand-scribbled notes and listed out which parts of the manuscript she loved and had problems with:

1. Drew - she loved him. As do I. I think it's obvious to anyone reading it that the character has a special place in my heart. I didn't have to work very hard on getting his voice right, or making it consistent, because his voice was just IN MY HEAD THE WHOLE TIME I wrote the story. Drew is irreverent, defiant, and there's this quote from Rainer Maria Rilke's LETTERS TO A YOUNG POET that I feel describes him: "Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love." I had loads of fun writing Drew.

2. Skye - my editor didn't quite love as much. And come to think of it, all my female protagonists sound alike. They're insipid, two-dimensional characters who observe rather than act. I don't know if this is a reflection of myself, but I somehow always seem to relegate my main character to a supporting character. Geraldine thinks Skye's history and inner emotions should be played up, or at least revealed, more, so that the readers can empathise with her better and actually WANT to read her story and not wonder why Drew would fall for such a watered-down character. Geraldine and I discussed female protagonists from books like Becca Fitzpatrick's HUSH, HUSH and Cassandra Clare's THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS, and I grew to understand my responsibility as a female writer to present a believable character whom readers would be able to relate to and WANT to relate to.

3. Pool she liked, and wishes I can dig deeper and flesh out the nuances of the character even more.

4. The abduction was confusing to her because of many missing details and explanations. I was afraid I might overload the reader with too much information and have them skip over paragraphs, which was why I did more showing through dialogue and action rather than telling via exposition. But tell too much and you risk boring your readers; show too much and you risk confusing them by leaving too much up to interpretation.

5. The ending kind of got derailed, according to her. She said I started off the story with a strong build up, but then the ending became about something else - a subplot - and the main thread got lost or forgotten or skimmed across too conveniently to the extent of being unrealistic. For example, would a girl whose repressed memories of her abduction when she was six years old still leads to her experiencing panic attacks be able to forgive her abductor so easily when she meets him again after twelve years? Geraldine says there needs to be some form of closure for Skye.

It does seem like my story is too scant on the details now that I read back on it. As writers, we often don't see the faults of our stories because that's how the stories come to us. But to a reader, there are many things that may not add up or are not wholly developed. Which is why it's so nice to have an editor with a fresh pair of professional eyes point out the problems with my story and suggest ways to improve.

I left that lunch meeting with Geraldine wishing more than ever that I could write fiction full-time.

So that's it. I've just told my editor I'm not staying.

My friends think I'm stupid for doing that, since it's my first job and they think I should suck it up and stick it out.

I did agonise about leaving for weeks, wondering if I should really take up my editor's offer to extend my contract for three more months before deciding. It's not a bad job, and the hours are forgiving (10am to 7pm, which gives me time to swim in the morning). My editor isn't an unreasonable boss, either, just occasionally frustrated when I make the same mistakes.

But the environment is, dare I say it, sterile, and the workload heavy and never-ending. I barely have time for water cooler breaks, much less lunch. If I take time out to eat, I'd never be able to finish my work on time and I'd have to stay on longer in the office. I don't want to be one of those people who stay in the office the entire day and go home just to sleep. Even if it's my first job and I need to pay my dues, this is not how I want to live. I'm in my twenties!

My dad told me to ask myself what I really REALLY want. To be happy at a job, or to to do well at a job but come home tired and stressed out every day. He asked me if I head to work with a sense of dread every day, and I realise that the good mood I start out with at the start of the day (I hum, I prance, and I just made myself sound like an idiot) is slowly but surely chipped away at by the end of the day.

Some days, just when I feel like I am in control of my work and can actually do this, I'm tossed a new assignment that I have no idea how to tackle. And with concurrent assignments I feel like I can't keep track of everything that needs to be done or covered; there's always something I forget or miss out, and that's the case for every assignment I've had so far. There's only so many mistakes you can make before you majorly piss someone off, and I know no matter how hard I try I will make more mistakes because I can't multitask THAT well.

Anyway, the bottomline is, I don't know what I want yet in terms of a full-time career (well, I do, but the one I have in mind isn't practical - according to my dad, it's just a HOBBY), but I know what I don't want. I'm not a journalist, never have been - I'm not curious, I don't probe, I'm not meticulous, I couldn't care less about details. I just like to write. I don't know where my love for writing (fiction) will take me, but I know that journalism is not something I want to do for long. It'll only be a matter of time before I leave.

On an unrelated note, it's been raining non-stop since 1am last night, which means it's been raining for 12 hours straight. I've been waiting since 8am to go for a swim, which means I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR FIVE WHOLE HOURS. I am soooo restless it's killing me! I tried pacing, I tried lifting weights, I tried dancing (or in my case, just jiggling about like an idiot), but nothing seems to work. I NEED TO SWIM. This need is gnawing away at my insides; I feel so trapped. Yes, I'm crazy, but this shouldn't come as news to you.

I'm trying to write (at page 234 of FIFTEEN MINUTES now), but I just get so distracted. If only I could swim.