of brain pulp and distractions

"Writer’s block is a condition that affects amateurs and people who aren't serious about writing. So is the opposite, namely inspiration, which amateurs are also very fond of. Putting it another way: a professional writer is someone who writes just as well when they’re not inspired as when they are.” 
~ Philip Pullman, from Aerogramme Writers' Studio

In short: to be a professional writer, get over yourself and just write. Good or bad, let the words out and you can edit the crap out of them later.

"Making up a story—for me, an entertaining escape filled with humanity and romance—is at the core of everything. And it’s hard—so hard. Reading it over and over, researching, making changes, asking for advice, thinking till your brain hurts... Because it’s absolutely true: this is the place where I feel most powerful, most indomitable, and most satisfied when it works. This is the peace—when you know in your gut that this is fun, that you like doing it, that even if no one ever paid you, you’d probably do it anyway. And I also like that it’s hard! If it wasn't very hard, what would I be accomplishing? If it wasn't hard, anyone could do it." 
~ Robyn Carr, from Publishers Weekly 

Nice to know I'm not the only one agonising over this whole writing thing. Writers are strange - we put ourselves through this over and over again, even though we know how completely frustrating it can get putting a novel together, how much of ourselves we pour into the story, and putting ourselves at stake whenever we send out a novel, hoping and wishing and praying for it to be picked up by someone else who will believe in it. I'm not getting paid for this, and I'm trying so hard to get people to read my debut novel, and I'm still receiving rejection slips from literary agents. Yet, I am still doing this. Of my own volition. Because I get restless - my brain gets restless - when I'm not creating. 

My head has been feeling empty for the past few days, maybe even weeks. Because I still have no idea what I'm trying to write, or the story I'm trying to tell. I keep telling myself to keep it simple, stupid, but my mind just draws a blank after that and I feel like I'm squashing my brain to a pulp in order to get some juice out of it.

(I just Googled images of "squashed pulp", and the search engine vomited images that should not be viewed after breakfast. Or anytime, for that matter.)

Plus, the rejection slips are still coming in for BLOOD PROMISE. I feel like flinging something across the room and going, "Forget it, I should just give up on this story!"

But I can't. Because deep down, I still believe in it. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's mind-blowingly good, since I know what kind of mind-blowingly good books are out there (DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE, hello?). But I don't think it sucks enough to warrant all these rejection slips. I believe it CAN go somewhere. CAN'T IT?!?!

*takes deep breath* 

Okay. It's all good.

At least I'm starting to receive feedback for 15 MINUTES (the title is surprisingly well-received), and editing the manuscript should keep my mind off the less-than-enthusiastic reception to BLOOD PROMISE. Again, thanks to my critique partners for answering all my questions with such candour and and for picking up on details even I didn't spot. Love you girls!

To end this on a positive note:

I'll find my way to the end of this new novel. Somehow. In the meantime, I shall go work on more short stories and play connect-the-dots, if you know what I mean.

Shiny New Novel, here I come!

There's a lot of random stuff floating in my mind every morning when I swim. 50 laps, or 1 hour, is a long time to give free reign to your mind and let it wander.

Sometimes, my mind drifts to cute boys:

*Ahem.*

Sometimes, a song plays endlessly in my head:

Often, I try to steer it towards plotting my book.

And now that I've finally finished the first draft of 15 MINUTES (10 September, 10 pm, if you need the details), new book plotting is in order!

About 15 MINUTES: I started it at the beginning of August of 2011, when the new semester was just starting. As usual, the first half of the book was a breeze - I had fun with the characters. But as the story dragged on, it got to the point where I had no idea where it was going and was just fumbling along with no end in sight. The characters were fun to write, but the stakes weren't high enough, the scenes didn't have enough tension and conflict, and the story just seemed to be chasing its tail. In short: *tears at hair, cowers in despair and think, hmm, maybe I'll come back to this later*

I eventually did, after finishing BLOOD PROMISE and UNTIL MORNING. Yes, two novels later, I was ready for the mess that was 15 MINUTES again. Procrastination becomes thy name, Joyce.

So I pushed through the slush and tried to make it work again. Hopefully, I have. But I can't be sure, since I only just finished it two days ago and can't be trusted to be objective about it. I can't shake the nagging feeling that there's still something wrong about the manuscript, though. Like the ending is too abrupt or the characters' problems are too easily resolved, the stakes still aren't high enough and the characters don't have to sacrifice much to get to the denouement, the characters' arcs aren't fully fleshed out and they don't have much room to grow, etc etc etc.

Why yes, writers are a neurotic, insecure bunch. How did you know?

Still, I've sent the manuscripts to my trusted, honest, and infinitely patient critics (you girls are absolute angels), and I don't want to think about it for at least a week. In the meantime, SHINY NEW IDEA HERE I COME!

I've had this idea brewing in my head for ages, ever since I read the ever-awesome Laini Taylor's book, DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE. If I haven't made myself clear before in this post and this, that book is insanely terrific. And DAYS OF BLOOD AND STARLIGHT, the sequel to DAUGHTER, did not disappoint at all. It was filled with intricate yet mind-blowing twists and turns of the plot, Laini-style prose that is pretty darn close to poetry, and so much epic-ness I had to pause sporadically to catch my breath or marvel at Laini's genius or sigh wistfully, wishing I could write like her.

This is pretty much me as I read the book(s):




Anyway, so my point is, after reading Laini's story, I am so incredibly tempted to write an epic fantasy story. You know how some stories make you go, "How could I never have thought of that?" DAUGHTER is such a book. Teeth-dealer, a hole in the sky, a resurrectionist, animal hybrids, war between beasts and angels. Sure, how could I have not thought of that?

 I've never been too hot on angel stories, partly because of its religious undertones (I steer clear of books that talk about religion), but mostly because they're all about forbidden love between an angel and a human. And of course the angel is inhumanly beautiful and interested in a random teenage girl.

But the romance in DAUGHTER is completely justifiable and not like other angel stories in the market. *cough* HUSH, HUSH *cough* FALLEN

 And while I'm not about to attempt writing a story with angels in it in the foreseeable future, I'm really taken with the idea of a character being raised by beasts. Beasts who are not really beasts, but who have families and homes and are just fighting back against their oppressors.

But really, it was the dream that sealed it for me. Not too long ago, I had this dream about this guy who erased a girl's memory for her safety and was accused of treason. It might have been the result of my brain being all hyped up on DAUGHTER, but in the dream I was the girl. I was one bewildered and struggling to recall who the guy was. And a dream as surreal as this is hard to deny.

I'm dying to write this story - I've already decided I'll write it in third-person POV, something I've never done before because I think I'm awful at it - but I'm terrified it'll turn out like some DAUGHTER rip-off. But I'll try to work out the kinks of the story. World-building is a daunting task, one that's way bigger than the size of my head, so it's like trying to hold on to a fistful of water. There is always something that leaks out, something I miss, and everything's a shapeless mess, as evidenced by the short stories I've been writing lately (see them here and here). There's a story here somewhere - if only I can string it all together into something coherent.

Short Story - Light as a Feather, Heavy as Silver

 

 

She saw the bloodied coat of feathers before anything else.

In the dark, she couldn't be certain if what she had seen was the result of a mind running on snatches of shut-eye for the past week. Surely it was just an injured bird, even if the bird appeared to be human-sized.

But then his eyes flickered into view, a flash of silver, like liquid mercury. She didn't know how she knew the intruder was male – maybe it was the set of his jaw, the regal slope of his nose or the planes under his cheekbones – but she froze at the sight, tracking the shallow beats of her heart as she waited.

Now, he was perched atop the tree directly outside her window, head dipped and motionless, like a frightful bird of prey roosting. Though half-obscured by the canopy of leaves, the shards of moonlight that danced off the facets of his wings revealed how ravaged they were. In the scant light, she noticed the feathers that stuck out, frayed and bloodstained, and one of his wings bent at an awkward angle.

He looked like something from her dream – literally. It had been ages since she had that dream, but she could remember it as vividly as though she were living in it. In the dream, a winged boy no older than eighteen extended his hand to her, hovering a few feet in mid-air. His eyes shone like polished metal, a smile curling at the edges of his lips as he waited for her to take his hand. How certain he was that she would, and oh how she longed to.

She could see the vague resemblance between the boy in her dreams and the one right before her eyes. Just as she debated whether to open the windows to get a closer look, the boy lifted his gaze. It cut to her and she let out an involuntary gasp. There was no mistaking those eyes: like those of the boy in her dream, they were alert, defiant and brimming with life – along with something else she couldn’t quite pinpoint – despite the state of his body. He looked almost inhuman.

Of course he’s not human, she thought. He has wings.

Later, she would wonder why she decided to open the window and let him in, why she trusted that he meant her no harm, that the savagery in his eyes was not intended for her. Later, she would struggle to recall the trepidation as she held out her hand, because all she would remember was the inexplicable exhilaration that stirred in her.

She decided then that this had to be a dream, an extended version of the one she had as a child, because in no circumstance now would she let a complete – inhuman – stranger into the house.

He seemed duly surprised that she could see him, even more so that she would reach out for him. Still, he spared only a sliver of hesitation before tumbling through the windows and crashing into her arms as though he had found home.

The swiftness of his movement caught her off guard. She only had time to take a step back before she found herself pinned under him. For a while, neither of them moved. She could feel his heartbeat, clopping heavily like erratic hoof-beats, and her own hummingbird one, buzzing and light and ready to take flight.

With a soft moan, he slid off her and struggled to sit up.

Up close, she saw that one of his wings was definitely broken. His face was slick and ashen, stark against his shock of dark hair. He seemed so incongruously human, crumpled beneath the weight of his battered wings.

“Let me see,” she said. Her first words to him sounded much braver than she felt.

His brows pulled towards each other as he appraised her, but he was either too weak to protest or trusted her to know what she was doing. He flinched when she touched him with a slightly shaking hand and inspected the damage and she said, rather lamely, “It’s okay,” even though she struggled to make sense of everything that was happening.

There was something disconcerting about his gaze, as though it held a confession, and she kept her attention doggedly on mending his ruined wings, preparing the First Aid kit, a towel and a bowl of warm water as surreptitiously as she could without waking her family.

She worked in silence, all the while contending with the feeling that there was something she ought to say, something she meant to say. Questions sat in her stomach like swallowed air bubbles, but her mind was in too violent a tumult to string the words together. There was something in the silence that she didn’t want to upset, anyway.

He watched her run her fingers over the ridges of his wings, cleaning up his fresh wounds, and winced when her hand skated across the broken bone. She muttered an apology, then resumed working with that narrow, almost stubborn, intensity, as though pushing a memory, a nagging thought, out of her mind. Could it be? Could she possibly remember?

On her his attention felt like a scythe, and she babbled, “Some of these wounds are deep. I can clean them up, but the broken bone I can’t mend.”

“I will heal,” he replied. His voice was stronger than she expected, the baritone of someone who was used to making assurances.

“You might not be able to … fly for a while.”

“Wings only mean as much as the places you go.”

“Not if there are better places for you to be.”

His eyes sparked with surprise, as though she had stolen his line. “Would you like to be someplace else?”

She could hear the offer in his voice, see his outstretched hand inviting her to take to the skies, and like in that dream she ached to slip her hand into his and tear free from the watchful eye of her father, if only for a while.

Flight terrified her. The sense of giving yourself up to the wind, of losing control. Water was her element; it grounded her in a way air never could. But after what happened to her mother, her father had forbidden her to go near the water. Now, it felt like all the water in the world – seas and lakes and rivers and lagoons, puddles and raindrops and thawed ice – sat in her gut, growing heavier as days passed. She only just realised that it was the need to move, to escape, to live.

Still, that was not enough to make her turn to flying.

“I – I’m happy where I am,” she lied.

He let out a low chuckle – a sound that seemed irreconcilable with his wide serious eyes – as though he saw right through her feebly constructed lie and expected nothing less of her answer. This was followed by a coughing fit so violent she feared for him and worried that they would be heard.

“Maybe you should rest,” she suggested, helping him into the beanbag chair by the bookshelf.

He sank into it gratefully, but didn’t close his eyes until he said, “It was nice meeting you.” He might have said her name – in a whisper like an afterthought – but that wasn’t possible since she had never offered that information.

She didn’t know how long it took for either of them to finally settle into sleep, but the sight of his tranquil resting face made her racing heart peter to a sedated rhythm that lulled her back to sleep.

When the first shaft of sunlight edged its way into her room, she jolted awake to find herself back in her bed. There was no sign of the boy, or traces of the tools she used to nurse his wounds. In the daylight, everything seemed innocuously ordinary, almost taunting in its normalcy.

It had to have been a dream, she thought, although she couldn’t recall the last time a dream felt this surreal. But already, she was beginning to regret falling back to sleep, or keeping her questions to herself.

The window was tightly shut, though she recalled how wide open she had flung it last night, how he had crashed through it and fallen upon her.

She tried to beat down the flush creeping up her neck. Could she really have dreamed it all up?

She was just about to head over to the window when she saw it – the only proof he left behind: a single feather, pure and white as a freshly fallen snowflake, resting on the bedside table.

Fighting the mid-story goblin

For today, THIS.

Anyone who's ever attempted to write a novel knows about the mid-story goblin. Okay, maybe not necessarily a goblin. Maybe just any sneaky creature that creeps in after the first exhilarating 100 pages or so and makes you realise how incredibly lame and unfeasible and terrible your novel actually is or is going to be. Or any creature that causes your initial enthusiasm to wane, or you to get distracted by a Shiny New Idea. And before you know it, you're plunging into another new novel and relegating the previous one to the dustiest corner of your drawer, figuratively speaking. And then the lack of planning for your new novel will eventually result in your flagging interest again. And the cycle goes on and you wouldn't have written anything at all.

I'd be lying if I said I've always managed to resist the lure of the Shiny New Idea. Especially for a Libra like me, who easily hops onto a new project, the next story always seems more fun to dive into.

But after abandoning MINT, which I wrote in between BED FULL OF MOONLIGHT and RED DECEMBER SKIES, I decided I couldn't let myself do it again. It was a cop-out. I chucked the incomplete manuscript, which stood at about 150 pages, and promised myself I'd come back to it one day.

And I did. It took me a couple of years to revisit it, but I eventually put it through a major overhaul, changed the characters, approached it from a new standpoint, and the result was UNTIL MORNING, which I can tell you is vastly different from MINT. Probably about 20 percent of it remained; the rest got a makeover.

What Cassandra Clare said is completely true: "It’s easy in the beginning. The book idea is fresh and new and the characters seem appealing and the story is one you want to tell. Then you dig in and round about chapter four or five you start realizing that nothing is happening, or that what your characters are doing doesn’t make any sense, or that you’re telling the whole story from the wrong point of view.

"At that point the characters and story stop feeling fresh and new and shiny. They have become problematic. They are no longer the lovely new sweater hanging in the closet that you can’t wait to wear, but are instead the wrinkly old sweater that has soup on it that you should probably take to the dry cleaner. And you want nothing more than to take the whole project and bin it and start a new project that seems like fun, because now you are not having any."

But then that is where the challenge comes in. And really, where's the fun in writing when there's no challenge? As you reach the saggy middle, as it is often called, where the action flags and your characters start to behave a little robotically, like two-dimensional characters moving about on the page at your whim, that's when it's up to you as the writer to keep up not only the interest of the reader you have in mind as you write, but also your own. It's up to you to power through the sticky, gooey, limpid writing to reach the other side of that puddle.

And really, once you force yourself to get past that, the rest becomes easier. Not a breeze, mind you, but at least breezier than the 100 pages or so in the middle. I had to rip out a bunch of pages from BLOOD PROMISE and ultimately push a scene to the end and make it the climax before things clicked into place and I could finally stop thinking that it sucked.

So how do you make yourself stick with your novel to the very end?

Like what Cassandra Clare said: "Determination. Some things take hard work and determination to complete; novels are one of those things."

Because really, it's YOUR novel. It's the story you believed in enough to want to write it. Don't you want to see it to the end?

And I think this is what I love most about writing novels. The immense payoff at the end. Not in monetary terms (heck, no), but the intangible satisfaction of reaching the end, of having created and completed a project after months of slaving away, persisting and subsisting on hope and passion (and adrenaline and agony and copious amounts of green tea). There's nothing quite like it, this sense of achievement. I've embarked on projects and written articles for newspapers and magazines, but nothing really beats putting together that final sentence of a novel or seeing your book in print and having people text you to ask about what happened to a particular character in the end.

I know a lot of people, particularly my dad, think writing is a hobby and that I should focus on achieving something career-wise. But I've never felt so fulfilled as I had - and still do - after writing a book. Seeing my first byline, while gratifying, didn't come close. Nor did finishing a paper for school or getting an A for a module. I'd like to think that I might possibly find a job that fulfills me as much as creative writing does, but as of now I've yet to find it. For now and the foreseeable future, fiction writing will always be my first love and being a bestselling author will always be my ultimate goal in life, career-wise.

And for those of you who think writing a book is easy, you won't understand the hard work that goes into finishing one unless you go through it yourself. It takes A LOT of discipline and a very firm belief in your story (or masochistic inclinations, depending on how you see it) to complete a book.

"... just because something is hard doesn't mean it isn't fun," says Cassie Clare. "There’s fun to be had even in the slogging bits. Because inspiration, when it does come, doesn't come from outside of you. It comes from the work that you do, from the process itself. So the truth is, you don’t need to be inspired to write. But you do need to write to be inspired."

 

There's never been a question of NOT writing for me. It's just not something you can decide to stop doing. I write to make sense of the world, to find a place in it, to be heard, to find something in common with my readers. And I'm always going to do this because - not to be corny or over-dramatic - to stop writing feels like it's to stop living.

So since I'm going to do this, I will see each project through to the very end. All or nothing, as they say.

At least, all this is what I tell myself. Until the next Shiny New Idea comes along.

(Wow, that was a long post. Sorry if it got a little heartfelt. If you managed to read all the way to this line, here's a huge pat on the back for you.)

Where I fall for a fictional character - again

So I caught The Mortal Instruments over the weekend. And can I just take a moment here to fangirl over it?

I've intended to read the books for the longest time, and planned to finish reading TMI: City of Bones at least before the movie comes out. But I only managed to read about 40 percent of it before I hit the theatres. Right now, though, I'm completely immersed in the book.

So, The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones. It was ahhhh-mazing. I loved the characters, I loved the dialogue, I loved the cast, the storyline. For those who think it's another Twilight, please:

(And I just covered Boromir's face with text - sorry, Boromir!)

Yes, TMI is a paranormal series with romance and supernatural creatures, but that's pretty much where the similarity with Twilight ends. Everything else, it does much better.

TMI, in a nutshell, is about this girl Clary Fray who discovers she is a Shadow-hunter (part-angel, part-human whose purpose on earth is to kill demons) after her mother disappears one day. She meets Jace Wayland, who helps her unearth her locked memories and from there, learn about her lineage and find her mother.

Demon-hunting, nephilim, one hot broken guy, what's not to love?

Plus, the cast is perfect.

Lily Collins as Clary Fray:

Jamie Campbell Bower as Jace Wayland/Lightwood/Morgenstern/Herondale (it's a long story - read the books):

 

Jonathan Rhys-Meyer as Valentine Morgenstern:

Godfrey Gao as Magnus Bane (Asian pride!):

Kevin Zeger as Alec:

Robert Sheehan as Simon (I can't believe he's Irish - he did such a convincing American accent! Plus, he really looks like Justin Long):

Lily Collins as Clary Fray is likeable enough, especially after I watched her in interviews. She seems a lot more eloquent and confident than the lead actress of another film franchise *cough* KStew *cough cough*

And Jamie. Campbell. Bower. That guy is funny, insouciant, witty and a pretty darn good actor. The perfect Jace. He mentioned in an interview that he wanted to make Jace a more broody and dark character as opposed to the charming ladies' man in the books, because Jace is essentially a character who has learnt over the years under his father's tutelage that to love something is to break it, and to be loved is to be broken. So he's the indifferent tough-guy who's a softie at heart - don't you just love male characters like this? I wasn't that into Jace when I read the book (at least, not until where I'd read before watching the movie), but after watching Jamie Campbell Bower's interpretation of the character I'm just hopping around going, "Jace, Jace, Jace!" with hearts for eyes.

And did you know that Alex Pettyfer was originally cast as Jace? All I can say is, thank goodness he turned down the role. I mean, I can see why they would turn to Alex Pettyfer, because he does look like a Jace. But I don't think he would've thought to play Jace the way Jamie had. Pettyfer would probably just turn on the charm and arrogance but not lend enough emotional depth to the character.

Jamie just does it better. Case in point:

Anyway, I now ship this (fictional, even though they dated in real life) couple so bad:

And speaking of ships, here's a conversation between Jamie and Cassandra Clare (the writer of The Mortal Instruments series), which the latter posted on her Tumblr:

See why I love him already?

Short Story - The Dancing Shoes

One week from now, someone might find her body. She would lie caught in the undergrowth, a discarded doll once a cherished companion. Her dress would be mud-stained and shredded, much like her arms and legs, a result of the brambles that snagged on her skin as she spun through the woods. She would be cold to the touch, her muscles pulled taut with over-exertion. And if anyone managed to remove her shoes, they would blanch at the sight of her chaffed feet. No one would understand how she could have danced to death.

Six days from now, she might finally tumble to the ground, her legs limp from the ceaseless motion. The chilly night air would gnaw at her, but she would feel nothing but the fire in her body, hear nothing but the blood rushing in her ears, and see the world through the fog of tears in her eyes.

Five days from now, she might stop hearing the music, the melody that spun in her head ever since she laid eyes on the shoes. Instead, she would hear in its place a discordant symphony, scraping and clashing and jarring. She would come to hate the sound of her shoes tap-tap-tapping against the ground, the sound of her voice raspy and broken from her cries for help.

Four days from now, she might think of chopping off her feet. Anything to make herself stop dancing.

Three days from now, someone – possibly her sister – might realise she was missing. Emily would peer into her room and frown at its emptiness, trying to recall the last time she saw her. Possibly she wouldn’t remember; possibly she would tell their mother. But they could comb the city and still not be able to find her. By then the sky would be different where she was, with stars strewn liberally across it, unhindered by the shadowy skeletons of skyscrapers.

Two days from now, she would wonder why she had stolen those shoes, despite the Not for Sale sign attached to it. She would glance down and recognise them for what they were: cursed and sinister, with a mind of their own. She would call out for help, but no one would hear her. All they would see was a pair of gleaming scarlet shoes skipping down the street. Some would run after it, but it would duck out of sight, out of grasp, before they could lunge for it. Her legs would continue on in their merry skip-hop for miles and miles to come.

Tomorrow, she might stop dancing. But that was unlikely.

"The best part of actually writing is that sudden magical moment

when there's something coming out of your pen

that wasn't even there a second ago.

Everything you've been writing up until that point

suddenly magically comes together

and you ... you're flying."

- Neil Gaiman

Another rejection slip

Hi Joyce,

My apologies for the long delay! Thank you so much for the chance to review BLOOD PROMISE. While we loved the concept and your interesting take on fairies in a rapidly growing genre, ultimately I didn't connect with the manuscript as much as I wanted to. April's voice and your writing were really beautiful, and I found her parts of the story compelling, but I felt somewhat disconnected from Sean and Ian. However, another agency may feel differently, and you're definitely a talented writer; I wish you the best of luck in your search for representation!

Regards,
Isabel


And here's basically me after reading the email:

Whyyyyyy?! Why don't you love it? Why don't you believe in it? Why don't you want to represent me?! Whyyyyyy?!

Excuse me while I crawl into a hole and wallow for the rest of the day. Don't mind me, I'll be (almost) fine by tomorrow.

This post by writer Erica Orloff brought tears to my eyes.

If you've been following this blog since a few years back, you'd know of the struggle I have with my weight, my body and food.

I'm not fat, by any measure. My weight currently hovers at 47kg, and I'm 1.65m tall. The heaviest I ever got was 52kg. The lowest: 39kg. That was during my junior college years, when I was 17, and I was fixated with getting everything right and perfect. My grades, my weight. The more people believed in me, the more I pushed myself to be the person they expect me to be. I mean, if people trust in your abilities, the worst thing you can do is let them down, right?

I don't know if it's a Libra thing, but I hate disappointing people, making them upset or regret being in my company. I'm a people pleaser, and sometimes I just want to say fuck it, but I can't. Much as I try not to care about what people think of me, I care too much. Which is why I find it easier to be alone. Free from expectations and demands from others.

I know it's a terribly wrong mindset to have, and I should get over my fear of meeting and knowing people and putting myself out there by going out and, you know, meeting and knowing people. But introversion isn't necessarily a bad thing; neither is me-time. I do like meeting new people - it's what comes after that is tiring. You can't be all "hello, goodbye" acquaintances anymore, you have to put in the effort to know the person. And it feels harder to open up to people as we get older.

It feels harder to let go.

Erica advised, "Have a cupcake without punishing yourself. LET GO of the guilt you have about food."

Let go. Such simple, freeing words. But how infinitely more difficult it is to put into action.

People think I have immense self-control and discipline for swimming regularly and eating healthy, even though I love pizzas and chips and scones. But the truth is, I'm afraid to let go and give in. It all starts with one potato chip, or one missed swim, and after that you'll be making more excuses more frequently for slacking. 

But maybe sometimes we try so hard to be the best versions of ourselves we don't realise we are in fact being the worst because we're living life so rigidly and safely.

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