Do me a favor and listen to the song while you read this. It doesn't matter if you don't understand the words. That's the beauty of it.
I haven't watched anime for the longest time, and I don't know why. It's not that I've outgrown it; I still read One Piece manga even though I can lo longer be bothered with watching the anime series. I used to love anime. The story lines are usually more mature and have more depth than Western cartoons. Heck, they even have more depth than a lot of live-action TV series out there.
I read on Twitter that someone recommended watching Kimi no Na wa | Your Name for its brilliant use of lighting and cinematography. So I looked for the anime on a whim -- well, I was procrastinating and watching a movie was one of the best excuses to not write -- and I managed to watch it tonight. Right before writing this.
We all know if I immediately write a review on something, I have strong feelings about it.
Wow was I blown away. Yes, the movie is visually stunning. But. Much more than that, it is beautiful in its entirety. Kimi no Na wa is one of those quiet movies. You know, those without an antagonist or monsters or quests. What I'm saying is that it's not for everyone. Adventure lovers can find it boring. So read no further.
Kimi no Na wa by Makoto Shinkai revolves around the comet Tiamat whose blazing path becomes visible as it makes its 1200-year orbit around the sun. Seventeen-year-old Mitsuha Miyamizu, raised in the ancient ways of Shinto but hating her life in her sleepy town, experiences these vivid dreams where she becomes a seventeen-year-old boy in Tokyo named Taki Tachibana. Taki experiences the same dream, where he wakes up in Mitsuha's body. Eventually both of them realize that during these "dreams", they switch bodies. I don't want to say more for fear of spoiling this beautiful, beautiful movie.
Watching Kimi no Na wa reminds me that I live for quiet stories. Stories without antagonists or monsters or quests. Not so much in-depth introspection typical of a literary work (even I find those boring), but stories where the main characters don't have to triumph over an antagonist. Stories without bad guys.
Yeah, yeah. These stories are boring, you say.
For me, there is strength in the quiet. These stories envelop me like a subtly colored quilt blanket and keep me warm, comforting me, staying with me long after the stories are over. There's a staying power in these stories. And there is so much beauty.
The first novel I finished writing is a quiet one. Well, more than one literary agent said so, so I guess it's true. Too quiet, even. The current one I'm writing, despite the adventures, is also quiet. Maybe once it's done, it'll get rejected over a hundred times, too.
I may write in multiple genres, but I love writing quiet stories the most. It is where I find my strength, where I discover and explore beauty.
Maybe one day I'll get to share these quiet novels with the world. For now, I'm thankful that I've found myself again.
OK folks, let's make this a quick one. I'm cramming for my final exam (May 4-5, 14-16), so there.
I'm not going to tell you I've always wanted to write since I was a little boy. Well, I did do pages upon pages of squiggly lines in those brown paperback notebooks, and then moved on to creating comic strips and adventure games in said books--different books la. Aiyoh. But I'm not one of those folks who tell others that they've ALWAYS wanted to be a writer.
Heck. If all goes well, I'll be a neurosurgeon soon(ish), insyaAllah, and I STILL don't know what I want to be when I grow up.
If I have only one thing I'm passionate about, it's reading. Fiction. If only the passion extends to reading academia, I would have been a star student.
Anyway.
When did I start writing? I wrote and published my first story in Secondary Four, in my school magazine, Garudamas. Our supervising teacher, Puan Prabhalini Brahma, encouraged me to write one. My English teacher, Datin Matilda Toyad, did the pushing as well. Since I only read Fantasy at that time, I wrote a story about a pack of mystical silver wolves and how the mother sacrificed her life to save her cubs. And because I watched Felicity, Jack and Jill and Dawson's Creek, I published a tragic love story in Secondary Five.
Oye.
Then life happened. Medical school happened. Housemanship/internship happened. I stopped writing because I no longer had the time, the energy, the motivation. I stopped sketching. I stopped painting. I started compiling excuses. But I never stopped reading. Fiction. Aiyoh.
One fine day, a stranger by by the name of Azita Baizura friended me on Friendster. Yup, you heard me right. Friendster. She was intrigued by my profile description. And then she urged me to write for a local competition.
Other than a semester of Creative Writing in university, I did not receive any formal training in writing. I bought books and taught myself the rules. My stories didn't win the competition, but it triggered the dormant love for writing that I thought I had lost. I joined an online writing community, and there I met a most precious gem, a boon from the Muses: Breanna Teintze. She has been pushing me to write and to publish. She screens ALL my stories before I send them off.
I started publishing in 2009. Back then I published FTL--for the love. For the exposure. And then I started getting paid for my stories. Some even appear in hardcover and paperback prints.
I hungered for more.
To date, I have published 26 stories. I think I only have a few collecting dust in my cyberstorage. The ones I wrote before 2009 don't count. Okay? Okay. Some of them have received paragraphs upon paragraphs of awesome reviews (Tor.com, Strange Horizons, Goodreads), while some...not so positive. The only problem is, most of my stories are accessible internationally, but not locally. I want my stories to be read by Malaysians, in Malaysia. Most of the stories I publish are about Malaysia. Not the colonial one, but contemporary Malaysia. Futuristic Malaysia.
I approached several local publishers to see if they were willing to reprint my stories in an anthology. No one bit, at first. Then, one fine day, as I was waiting for my flight back to KL from KB, Amir Muhammad WhatsApped me a link to a small press publisher, Simptomatik Press. Their manifesto is to publish Medical Science Fiction. So I emailed them a query, with links to three of my stories.
And Kushairi Zuraidi replied. He wanted to read more. He wanted to publish my stories.
And now FAITH AND THE MACHINE is available for sale. It even has a proper ISBN. The release comes at the best of times. It comes at the worst of times. I won't be available to promote my book or to meet readers. I won't be able to meet you. Even now I'm feeling guilty for writing this instead of doing last-minute cramming for my BIGGEST EXAM EVER on Monday.
Sorry folks. My education comes first.
So there. I won't be doing promotional stints until after I (hopefully) graduate. I'll be doing some retweeting or something like that, but that's it. This is it. I do appreciate it if you could take the time to check out the book at booth 4171 at the Kuala Lumpur International Book Fair 2015 (#KLIBF2015/#PBAKL2015), buy the book, and tell me what you think. I do appreciate it if you somehow signal boost this post.
I know I won't be making much from this anthology. It's not about the money. Well, it'll be a bonus, but seriously, for me it's not just about the money. It's about reaching out to local readers and writers. It's about showing them that it is more than possible to write and publish local stories in English. There is a huge market out there, waiting for us. It's about creating awareness on Medicine, and neurosurgery in particular.
More than anything, the stories are part of my on-going journey to reconnect with my Faith.
Even if you don't buy the book, I want you to know that I love you all. And I thank you.
And I also want you to know that this is a dream-come-true for me. To have a book with my name on the spine. To have MY book with an awesome cover.
MY book. Wow. It's only now starting to sink in.
I am humbled.
And since you're at it, please pray for me and my friends (Jon Kooi, Raffiz, Adrian, Jason, Yew Chin and Jachinta) as we sit for our final exam.
I should be sleeping right now, but here I am, writing this.
I am back in Kelantan for that final stretch of my journey as a Master’s degree candidate. But this is not about this particular facet of my life. Not yet, at least. I started a thread in a local writers’ group on Facebook, more or less to gauge how local writers approach their characters.
But I’m not even talking about that.
What has been bugging my mind since last night is a surprising reaction from one of the members who immediately blocked me on Facebook AND Twitter after a comment I made. When investigated, my friend and I discovered that said member was both pissed off and disappointed that I’m publishing a story about a prostitute, how in a typical male fashion, I am demeaning women. I am perpetuating misogyny.
One person’s opinion shouldn’t matter, especially when that opinion was formed based on a sliver of a whole. Other people’s opinion doesn’t make me or even break me. However, I keep thinking about said person’s reaction, and how things managed to blow out of proportion, and I am deeply saddened by it.
So let me tell my side of the story.
When Fixi Novo let out a call for submission for a Malaysian cyberpunk anthology, I was intrigued. I like cyberpunk well enough, but to be honest, I’m kinda miffed that when people say Malaysian English Science Fiction writers, I somehow fly under their radars. Probably because I tend to step on other people’s feet with my opinions and loud thoughts.
So. I wanted to write a story for that anthology, but life happened, and I had to concentrate on finishing and submitting my dissertation. Glad that’s out of the way (for the moment). Phew! At the same time, I stole time to do research on cyberpunk, and I was also waiting for a character to take shape in my head and tell me their story.
Also, like any other Fantasy/Science Fiction writer, I have an alternate multiverse of my own. It’s a world of Songstresses, spanning from near-future Science Fiction to space faring futuristic Science Fiction, to populated worlds that have forgotten Earth’s technological advancement so much that the stories become Secondary World Fantasy. I already have at least four half-formed stories in my head, bidding their time to be told.
Among them was a persistent image of a young lady singing in a dimly lit club, and her voice influenced the emotions of those who listened. I’ve had this image stuck in my mind for years, now. And one fine December night, that young lady came to life. She started singing her story to me, and she became fully formed.
Did I set out with a fixed plot in my head, using a girl who’s a prostitute?
I never write that way. I’m not a plotter; I’m a pantser. I am so character driven that even though I start a story knowing how it’ll end, sometimes when writing, the main character takes me places I didn’t think of, and I’ll adjust the flow of the story to fit the character.
You have no idea how loud my head can get.
For the longest time, my head has been devoid of these voices. Hearing my own voice can get lonely, especially when I’m a well-adjusted introvert. And now, since I started writing this particular story, the floodgate has been opened, and I can hear all those chatters again. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
Back to the story. It’s set in 2032 Kuala Lumpur, where giant corporations have the government by the balls, and zealots are overpowered and are dictating everyone’s life, and racial segregation can no longer be ignored or held back. Sounds familiar? The situation is like 2015 Kuala Lumpur, only intensified exponentially. The narrator is a 22-year-old Malay girl who cannot remember her past, and is held captive to produce emotion drugs. Our generation has screwed up royally when we became addicted to handheld devices, and condemned our brains and the brains of our children to stop producing neurotransmitters to modulate emotions.
In a way, this story is told in a new way for me, with its non-linear narration. The main character, Arya, slowly remembers her past. The question again is did I intend for her to be a prostitute? Absolutely not. Did I intend to paint women in an unsavory manner? Arya kicks ass. She’s noble. She’s a good person in a bad situation.
Despite writing about sex, writing this story didn’t feel like a compromise to my integrity as a person, as a writer like writing “Kiss from a Rose” did to me. I am proud of the finished product.
When I finished writing the story, I had over half a month to meet the deadline. I needed to validate my worth as a writer. I don’t think I’ll ever overcome that insecurity. So I submitted the story to Clarkesworld. It’s a pro-paying market with high visibility, and best of all, the response rate is usually between 2-5 days. As expected, I received a form rejection after 2 days.
Then I tried Interzone, the premiere Science Fiction venue in the United Kingdom. I still had a lot of time to spare, so I submitted the story.
It was a post-rain Saturday evening, on December 20. I was driving, with my friend Adlina at the passenger seat. My phone informed me of a new mail in the inbox. It was a red light at Jalan Sultan Ismail, so I opened the email and this is what I received:
Dear Fadzlishah Johanabas,
Thank you for sending us "Songbird". We love it and would like to publish it in Interzone. We'll be in touch shortly with more details.
Best wishes,
Andy Interzone TTA Press
I assumed it was another form rejection slip. Then I read it again.
And again.
And again.
INTERZONE HAS ACCEPTED MY STORY, YO!
What happened in the car was a lot of excitement and drama, which I will not elaborate. Suffice it to say that the story, Songbird, will come out in March, in Interzone #257. Also, cover art!
Since I was—and still am—miffed that Malaysians seem not to notice that I’m a Malaysian English Science Fiction writer, I needed to write a new story for Novo. I asked Breanna, and she said, “Why not write the story of Arya’s twin?”
EUREKA!
When I started writing Andri’s story, I did not set out for him to be a convicted gay Malay guy who’s a practicing Muslim. But he is. And if what my beta readers (Breanna, Rumaizah & Tita) said is true, the story is even stronger than Songbird.
So the question that’s been bugging me is what did I do wrong? Can I not write about women? Are my characters limited to men only, and if I were to write about women, it’s always in a positive light? If that’s the case, then I’ll be pandering to my potential audience, and not staying true to the people in my head who have given my their life stories.
Now that I’ve written this rant, I’m more at peace. Because, despite how badly one (or more) person now thinks of me, my integrity as a writer is still intact.
I am still telling stories that only I can tell, in a way that only I can tell them.
They didn't know his age. They didn't know his story. They only knew he looked like a teenager.
He didn't know his age. He didn't know his own story. He only knew he didn't feel like a teenager.
He
was as Asian as any other Chinaman roaming the streets of KL, but he
was also different. His skin was white with a brush of pink at all the
right places. His face was much too beautiful to be a boy's, but when
they stripped him naked, there was no denying he was a man.
They
found him wandering the dank alleys of Chow Kit. They scrubbed the grime
off his skin and threw away his tattered, blood-stained clothes. They
gave him angel wings and shoved him into dimly-lit rooms that reeked of
sin and sex.
The men were much older. And most of them had cocks
buried in layers of fat. Gwailos, hajis (Arabs, Egyptians, he couldn't
tell the difference), and the occasional Mamak with serious money. They
were rough, they were gentle, they wanted to be on top, they wanted him
to be on top. The people who found him gave him blue pills that kept him
up for hours. Sometimes it still stood up when he was flat on his back,
asleep.
Every night when he was done, he returned to his room with broken wings.
Every night before he started, they gave him new wings.
He couldn't remember his past no matter how he tried.
He couldn't forget his present no matter how he tried.
He was sixteen. That much he knew.
He was an angel with broken wings.
--@--
No. That wasn't an excerpt of the story I have in the anthology, but an entry I submitted for the KL Noir flash fiction competition. That didn't get selected. Bummer.
Anyway.
The flash fic above, it's one of my grittier, dirtier pieces, and I don't do gritty and dirty. Did I hope to win? Sure. I don't win anything much, and I need a break. More than winning, however, I was immensely grateful that I was able to write some fiction, even if the piece was less than 300 words. I've hit a dry spell, these last few months. Ultimately, this feels like a story worth exploring and expanding.
The story that I have in KL Noir: Red is titled "Kiss from a Rose". It originally existed as a flash fiction of about 800 words, tentatively accepted for publication at Esquire Malaysia. Until they decided it was too risque. You should see the illustration meant to accompany the story.
Amir Muhammad wanted me to write something dirty, which would suit the magazine's readership. As I said, I don't do gritty and dirty, and in writing the story, I explored uncharted territory. The exploration left me feeling tainted. When they decided not to publish it, I was partly relieved, to be honest. I was prepared to shelf it, let it hide in the depths of my storage, collecting cyber-dust.
Until Amir Muhammad SMSed me, inquiring whether I'd sold the story elsewhere. When I said I had not, he asked whether I could expand the story for an anthology he was planning to publish. I guess he must have loved "Kiss from a Rose", and did not want for it to be left forgotten. He wanted the story within one week, but he caught me at a wrong time. Calls were bad, and work was hectic. I only managed to actually sit down and write the story slightly past the deadline (sorry, Amir).
The original story made me feel dirty because the protagonist was a jerk. I knew that. So I took what was inherently wrong and made it right, even though the final product is far from "right". I studied the protagonist deeper, let him ramble in my head. My characters tend to do that, and I encourage them. Then I discovered what was wrong with him.
He's a sociopath. Not simply neurotic, like most of my characters, like me, but actually psychotic, without a shread of insight. The story unravelled from there, and within one night the current incarnation of the story was written. It was a good thing that America was half a world away, because I got to bug Breanna to beta read the story at 4 in the morning (my time) without feeling guilty. And without having to wait long. Breanna agreed that the she hated the protagonist in the first version, but in the second version, he became compelling. I emailed the edited version and promptly fell asleep, tired but satisfied.
Fast forward a few months. Amir gave me the edited version. I hated it. All the bits that brought out the protagonist's voice were cut off. No. Butchered. All the bits that made him...well...him. Gone. I kept on typing "Suggest to keep the original", my fingers jabbing at the keyboard with increasing ferocity.
Alhamdulillah, Amir Muhammad proves he's the kind of editor who respects his writers. The proof he sent me had the protagonist's voice intact. He was again a sociopath, and not just another jerk.
I don't know if you'll love the story, or even tolerate it, but I can safely say that I am proud of "Kiss from a Rose". However, I won't be surprised if my Facebook and email will be spammed by two groups: one imploring that I repent and to be a respectful and dutiful little Muslim, and the other gnawing my head off for not being a respectful and dutiful little Muslim.
Oh well.
I can't wait to read all the stories in the anthology. The lineup is amazing. I am honored to be in the presence of wonderful writers such as Dina Zaman, Kow Shih-Li, Lee Eeleen, Dayang Noor, Megat Ishak and others.
The book launch will be later today at Kinokuniya KLCC.
DRAT I CANNOT ATTEND AS I AM AT KOTA BHARU BEING A DUTIFUL MASTER STUDENT!
Ehem. The book launch, reading session by the writers, as well as autographing and photographing will take place between 20:00 and 21:15 (which can extend further if you offer to buy them dinner. Maybe). I won't be there, but you should.
I don't know if you'll love my story or hate it. I don't know if you'll find it blah.
If we categorize ourselves by social status, then I would say that I was born into a middle-class (or working class) family. Mama worked her ass off to make sure we had everything we needed, but some of the things we wanted (who am I kidding? MOST of the things I wanted) were luxuries we could not afford.
Now that Kasha, Ayis and I pool our income, we've bumped our family to middle-upper. I may splurge like I don't plan to live beyond 40 (that's the plan, actually), but I don't kid myself. I don't belong in the upper class stratum.
One of the things Mama made sure my siblings and I learned is culture. How to carry ourselves in public. How to eat in sequence during buffet: salad & soup, then cold dishes, then main dishes, and finally dessert. How to appreciate and properly use the dry and wet toilet sections. How to say "excuse me". How to open doors for others and give up our seats to someone else without hesitation. The proper manners and bearings she taught us, they're not considered Malaysian culture. Our people, though undoubtedly congenial and somewhat demure, are less refined.
One thing we never dreamed of was art-culture. My siblings and I are naturally talented in the arts, and I guess my parents are too, in their own way. However, we were never prepared to be at home among artsy people and how to behave in an artsy manner.
Imagine my fear when I first did my public reading at Seksan. Luckily I had my whole family with me to be my strength, my safety net. But all those lovely artsy people I had interacted with online, they honestly intimidated me. I didn't feel like I belonged.
Then again, I've never belonged anywhere, have I?
Fast forward to this year. When I found out about the call for submission for "Readings from Readings 2", I threatened my muse to inspire me with an amazing story. I've been running dry, especially since the accident. Now, I'll be honest and admit that I'm a snob when it comes to story submissions. I know that my stories are good and publishable, so I no longer submit to non-paying markets. Getting books instead of monetary payment is not considered payment. Not to Duotrope, at any rate. My submission process is this: professional-paying markets (>USD 0.05 per word) first, then to semi-professional-paying markets (USD 0.01-0.49 per word), and lastly to token-paying markets (<USD 0.01 per word). I sometimes donate the payment back, but I like knowing my stories are good enough for paying markets.
"Readings from Readings 2", however, did not give monetary payment, but 3 copies of the book instead. I ended up buying one at Kinokuniya as I was too excited to read all the pieces to wait for my free copies, but hey. To me, the submission was truly a "for-the-love" process. The two people in the Malaysian-English scene who have been passionately encouraging my efforts are Sharon Bakar and Amir Muhammad. So of course I will always submit my best stories to them regardless the payment.
"Picking Up the Pieces", the second story in the book, started off as one of my Tender Moments. One thing I've learned from this is that expanding a story that has already existed is not a good idea. In the second draft, Sharon and Breanna helped me remove the whole Tender Moments piece and come up with something much stronger.
Why am I confident it's a good story? The piece is meant to be the title story of my (intended) anthology.
Anyway. Culture.
On December 4 we had a KL launch event for the book at Dopple Kafe, Central Market. It was a brilliant experience, but all the artsy people still scared me witless. Last Friday, however, was the one experience I will not trade for anything else: I read an excerpt at Kinokuniya KLCC.
I've haunted Kinokuniya since KLCC opened. It's the best bookshop in Malaysia, bar none. The collection is ginormous, and you're welcomed to sit and read the books and magazines they have to offer. I've always been a reader, but I secretly harbored a dream of joining the ranks of authors on the shelves.
Yeah, now I have two stories at the Malaysian Literature section ("Black and Whites and Other New Short Stories from Malaysia" and "Readings from Readings 2"), but my actual dream is having a book of my own. Baby steps.
When last Friday evening Sharon introduced me as one of the contributing writers, and I saw the recognition in some of the staff members, the euphoria was almost transcendent.
We set up shop in front of the elevator between the "Chick Lit" and the "Fantasy" aisles. At first the audience comprised of other writers and friends, but our presence attracted book-browsers and fellow bibliophiles. Needless to say, I was a nervous wreck. All those strangers stopping by to listen. I cannot begin to describe the deluge of feelings I had at that time.
Well, I can. It was awesomesauce. It was airwolf.
And I felt cultured.
The one thing I had not seen coming was the guy who came up to me after my reading stint, shook my hand, introduced himself, and said, "I love your story. It's amazing. The images it brings in my head...it's amazing."
I was humbled. I am humbled. No monetary payment in the world can ever top that.
Well, maybe it can, especially if said payment can help me buy an apartment in cash. But since at the moment it can't, let's not talk about it.
Cynthia Reed reads "Crimson Starlet", a beautiful story about how family can build you up and break you down. She's also a classy lady with plenty of knowledge and writing experience to share. I love how she acts out some parts when she reads.
(Uncle) Dato' Shanmughalingam reads "Rani Taxis Away". He's the most expressive and engaging reader I've come across (both live and online). I hope to one day be able to publicly read as beautifully as he does.
Lee Eeleen reads "Artificial Rock Aquarium". I love her swagger, her easy confidence, both when she reads and when she interacts face-to-face. Oh yeah. I love her accent, too.
Saras Manickam (author of "Will You Let Him Drink the Wind?"--and turns out to be one of my colleague's aunt) reads Thato Ntshabele's "Asphyxia". Her own story is a beautiful little piece about a man who can never be more than a toddler and how it affects everyone around him. A definite must-read.
Megat Ishak reads "I Can Only See You at Night". He specializes in Horror, but the piece, despite having a ghost, is really a hauntingly beautiful love story (forgive the pun).
Ted Mahsun reads "Pak Sudin's Bicycle". We were kinda excited to have finally met each other during the book launch after years of online interaction. He's more of a geek than I am (I say it in the best of ways, Ted), but you can tell he's at home among artsy people. He's one cool guy I want to chill with & trade gaming stories.
Eileen Lian reads "Staying Alive". The ending is not my cup of tea, but I love how she reads with confidence and character immersion.
Chee Siew Hoong reads "Red Dates". She's one soft-spoken, humble lady, and I love how she gets into character, using "Aunty" voices for the dialogs. This story makes you think, in a good way. I don't fancy stories that end with a question, but if you want to know how to do it right, this piece is a good example.
And this is me, reading "Picking Up the Pieces". You can definitely tell how nervous I was. Hah!
So. I got to hang out with some of the writers, and finally met another published author, Rumaizah Abu Bakar. Her anthology, "The Female Cell", is sold at Kinokuniya. All of them (myself included) are working on a novel or two. And I do hope that our Malaysian-English scene will flourish, will prosper, and that our books are not only contained within the "Malaysian Literature" segment, but among other books of the same genre.
My life as a doctor is vastly different from the one I live as a writer. Alhamdulillah, Allah has blessed me with both lives, and that my family and I can experience culture, be part of the wonderful artsy community.
If you want to meet up with some of the authors, there will be another reading session at Borders The Curve on January 5. Not sure about the time, though. They are all wonderful people. I'm a snob. Then again, I'm a well-adjusted introvert, but an introvert nonetheless. So forgive my apparent inapproachability.
Please support Malaysian-English. "Readings from Readings (1 and 2)" are sold at Kinokuniya, MPH, and Popular has ordered several hundred copies.
I think
about you while I work. It’s funny how you keep appearing on my mind, no matter
how fixated my attention is on something else. Right now, as I cauterize a
bleeding vessel, the smell of charred meat reminds me of how you scrunched up
your nose when the waiter brought us steaks hard as bricks. I smiled then as
you gave the maitre d’ a tongue lashing, and I smile now behind my
hypoallergenic mask.
“What are
you smiling at?” Kak Tijah, the scrub nurse, asks.
“How can you
tell?”
“Your eyes.
They’re smiling, too.”
I cauterize
another vessel and irrigate the brain tissue. “What else would I be smiling
about?”
“Your wife?
While operating?” Her mask lifts a fraction. She’s smiling, too.
“My wife. While
operating.”
They love to
tease me, the nurses. But you know that. When I’m with you, I like talking
about my workplace family. Just as I like talking about you when I hang out
with them in the pantry. But I don’t mind the teasing. I don’t mind the jokes
at my expense. After all, they make me smile, and they make me think of you.
And I love thinking about you.
* * *
Thus begins my story, "Picking Up the Pieces", on page 18 of the paperback Readings from Readings 2, edited by Sharon Bakar & Bernice Chauly. This is my first locally published story in print, which is almost funny, because I have been published internationally first before doing it locally. I can give you a reason why this is so, but this will make me a diva.
Seriously.
However, it is safe to say that I wasn't aware of other calls for submissions for anthologies before this, and because Sharon Bakar and Amir Muhammad have been extremely encouraging locally, I jump at any opportunity to be published under their wings. Let's leave it at that, shall we?
Anyway, my writings are varied, from general fiction to contemporary young adult to fantasy and science fiction, to award-winning horror (to my surprise). My general fiction, however, tends to lean toward medical drama, because why wouldn't I tap into the myriad of possible stories my day job has to offer?
Like all stories I write, "Picking Up the Pieces" has a beginning, a middle, and an ending. My protagonists usually have character arcs. What can I say--though not formally trained, my style is more traditional; every story has to have a beginning, a middle, and an end, and the main character must have a complete arc. This one, however, is special. The main character's arc is not apparent in the story, but it shows how a doctor is affected when a loved one falls ill, how that confidence slips away, how everything familiar becomes alien.
I'm going ahead of myself, aren't I?
I'll let the story speak for itself. I do hope you'll support me and other local writers by buying this book. It's already on sale at Kinokuniya KLCC, but if I'm not mistaken, MPH and Times will carry the book as well.
OK. The book has been launched during the George Town Literary Festival last month, but the KL launch will be tomorrow between 20:30 and 23:30. Here are the details:
Venue Doppel Kafe Lot 2.04, Mezzanine Floor, Central
Market Annexe, Jalan Hang Kasturi, 50050 Kuala Lumpur.
Dress Code I have no idea. Anything presentable and comfortable, I guess.
Admission FREE! The book will be sold at RM25 (retail price: RM29.90)
I shall read a short excerpt, if Sharon lets me. So. See you guys there!
Next: A whole book, with my name on the cover and the spine. Watch this space!
Well, my supposedly the Novel (notice the italics and the capitalization) contains songs. Original ones, because, you know, my main character is a singer-songwriter. Taking into account that my main characters are an extension of my near-schizophrenic personas, this means I have to be a songwriter, if not a singer.
Let's put it this way: I don't know the first rules of poetry and songwriting. My vocabulary with the guitar is severely limited, so while I can entertain the delusion that my prose is good, I cannot honestly say that singing and songwriting are simply vanity projects.
Anyway, usually, when I pick up the guitar to play a song, I try chording and strumming variations, and lyrics will start appearing. Not all the time, but only occasionally.
I hope to have enough songs for the novel, maybe not a whole album's worth, but an EP. This is the second completed song for the novel (the first being "Too Late").
You don't have to press play. I'm not even a half-decent guitarist/singer.
step by step you head into the sunlight away from the darkness you walk away from me
breath by breath you find your way there destination unknown far away from home
should you fall apart into a million pieces I’ll make you whole again I’ll mend you broken wings
but should you fly away where the wind will carry I’ll wait here by the sidelines I’ll be your home
mile by aching mile the distance come between us will you ever look back or will history be forgotten
should you fall apart into a million pieces I’ll make you whole again I’ll mend you broken wings
but should you fly away where the wind will carry I’ll wait here by the sidelines I’ll be your home
I started this story in 2004. Back then, I wrote snippets as blog entries on my Friendster account. These two characters, Adrian and Rina, appeared in my head out of nowhere, unpacked, and have claimed a room each ever since. No, they don't co-habit.
From those snippets a story bloomed. Sometimes I concocted scenes, sometimes I dreamed about them. Adrian and Rina want their story to be told, and they chose me to tell it. Of all people. Unfortunately (for them), I succeeded in writing 6000 words or so, and 1 1/2 songs before I decided to shelf them. Not yet, I told myself. I'm not ready to do them justice. Not even when my brother, who disagrees with me on everything, and doesn't generally read my works, suddenly told me to finish the story.
It's now 2012. I have over 20 published short stories, 3 unfinished novels (including Adrian and Rina), and a whole bunch of 1-paragraphs. Most published novelists will say that their first published novel isn't their first novel; they have at least 2 or 3 novels that will remain unpublishable. I don't know if I will tell the same story. I have to finish a novel first before I can say anything.
I don't think I am ready to tell the story of my two beloved characters. I don't know if I'll ever be ready. Right now there's someone younger who demands my attention, whose story needs to be told. I don't know if I'll ever finish his story, either.
But I damn well will try.
For now, here's the opening chapter of Adrian and Rina. I hope they'll be patient and understanding enough to stay until I type "END".
The LRT station at Ampang Park was packed like the whole population of Kuala Lumpur had decided to board the train from this station. I adjusted the strap of my guitar case to shift its weight on my shoulder and looked at my watch. It was six in the evening. On a Wednesday. Damn commuters. I thought about hanging around until the rush-hour crowd had subsided, but then I remembered that I only had ten ringgit left in my wallet. And my bank account was nothing to shout about either. I let out a small sigh and queued up to buy my ticket.
I had come to Ampang Park to look for an audio editing software, and also to avoid having to make the longer and more annoying trip to Low Yatt Plaza to look for the CD. But it had been over a year since I last came here, and I found out the hard way most of the shops that sold software had shut down, and the few that still opened for business did not have what I was looking for. Which meant I would have to go to Low Yatt after all. Bummer.
I tugged at the guitar strap, my annoyance building, and walked down the staircase to the underground platform, which practically was a large rectangular room with dark glass panels as side walls. And it was so full of people I’d be surprise if there was any room left to breathe. Most of them looked like office-goers, with their shirts and slacks. Some even wore suits, though I couldn’t figure out why, with this humidity. The women in general wore either baju kurung, kebaya, or blouse-and-skirt. I could even spot several school uniforms, even though it was too late in the evening for morning session students, and too early for afternoon session to be out.
I found an empty spot at a pillar facing the track toward Gombak, which was the last stop and the station after my destination. I unslung my guitar case and leaned back against the pillar. Reaching for my back pocket, I took out my iPod and put on the white earphones. Evanescence’s Call Me When You’re Sober filled my ears when I hit play. The din of chatter around me and automated announcements drowned out as I cranked up the volume. It was bad enough to be surrounded with all these people without having to bear the noise of humanity. A mousey-looking lady standing beside me glanced up at my direction – at my earphone blasting like stereo speakers to be exact – but I ignored her completely.
The train came at the middle of the song, but when the doors slid opened, I could see it was already full. But it didn’t stop the people standing behind the yellow line from jostling through and squeezing into the train. They didn’t even wait for people to come out first. Typical. Put monkeys in suits and they would act the same manner, if not slightly better. I stayed where I was, intending to catch the next train. But, judging from the large crowd still waiting on the platform, I wasn’t expecting it would be any less packed.
Three songs and two trains later, the traffic still didn’t look like it was lightening up. I decided to board the next one no matter how full it could be. In a city filled with monkeys, I wasn’t above being one too. I was standing in front of the sliding doors when the train arrived, slightly to the side to allow potential exiting traffic. It wasn’t that I was being considerate; I didn’t like people bumping into me or my guitar. A short, balding man moved away from the spot at the edge of the door, just beside the seat partition, and I quickly took over his place before anyone else had the chance to do so. Sighing in relief for finding a place without having to push and jostle into the train, I placed the guitar upright between my legs and leaned back against the glass paneled wall. The stench of crammed and damp humanity assaulted my nose the moment the doors closed, and I was thankful I was almost a head taller than most people here. It gave me room to breathe.
The gentle swaying motion of the carriage as the LRT sped away from the heart of Kuala Lumpur was made more obvious by my leaning against the wall. The motion, as well as the uncomfortable mixture of a riot of perfumes and stench of damp clothing was making me slightly nauseous. I tried focusing on the opposite window when the train got above ground, but raindrops collecting on the outside surface only served to distort the view, which was not helping at all. I closed my eyes and concentrated on listening to my iPod to prevent myself from gagging.
Edwin McCain’s I’ll Be started to play, and even though I love the song, I was in no mood to listen to anything mellow at that moment. I took out my iPod from my back pocket, which was a feat considering how little space I had to move, and shuffled through several songs. That’s when I heard a baby crying loudly from the other end of my carriage.
What kind of person would bring an infant into such a packed train?
The Killers’ All the Things that I’ve Done effectively drowned out the annoying wail and the rest of the world. I closed my eyes again to make the isolation complete.
I have talked about this in my earlier post. While Westerners find the exotic descriptions of Eastern realms alluring, exciting even, they may find Eastern fiction written in perfect English a little disconcerting. After all, only folks whose mother tongue is English are supposed to use its proper form in a proper manner. I've had publishers who were surprised at how polished my submissions were, with minimal editing required. Maybe it's because they get lots of poorly-edited manuscripts and it has nothing to do with my being a Malaysian, but I'll never know, will I?
You'll be surprised how terrible American children's grammar is. Watch "Waiting for Superman", a documentary on how public education in America is failing. I've embedded the trailer here, but seriously. Watch the documentary. It's an eye-opener.
But I'm not here to talk about reading and education systems. Maybe in another post. MAYBE. If Westerners might find an Easterner's story in perfect English disconcerting, Easterners definitely find an Easterner's story in perfect English pretentious. Weih. This is not Malaysian if you don't use Manglish, la. So what is the Easterner writer to do? He either writes Eastern stories in proper English (dialogs and all) and risks not getting the support of the local community, or he can write using local English--in my case Manglish--that limits his readership to local readers because Westerners can't understand what's written. Examples:
1. Mana ada. If you try one more time, sure can one.
2. Macha, borrow me five ringgit can ah? I forgot to bring my wallet.
3. Dei, you sure ah? If you sure, I bantai only la.
Any English-speaking Malaysian/Singaporean would find the three samples natural. Maybe Westerners can decipher what I wrote, maybe not (I'm looking at you, Breanna). One or two sentences can be endearing, but a whole story or a novel using this form of English? No sane Western publisher would want to risk buying the manuscript.
But English stories set in Malaysia but using proper English in both narration and dialog? I've had people complaining that I'm just writing Western stories dressed in Malaysian settings.
Where do I find the solution, then?
In comes Anggun, a beautifully talented Indonesian singer based in France. Listen to her two songs below:
"Rose in the Wind"
"Snow on the Sahara"
Listen to these songs with your eyes closed. Feel the music inside you. Let your body move with the music. I'm not surprised if your body parts that move the most are your fingers, wrists and neck. All three play a major role in traditional Indonesian dances. Anggun sang both songs in perfect English, with clear diction and grammatically correct lyrics. But the songs are inherently Indonesian; there's no mistaking it.
I used to avoid using local settings in my stories because they felt unnatural. English stories should have English (or Western) settings. I also didn't want to write in Manglish because I'm a language pseudo-purist (see article 29 in my previous post). One day some years ago I had an epiphany, an a-ha moment (queue Abba's song, "Knowing Me, Knowing You". I love how they say a-ha). The universal translator. Of course. I read a lot of Fantasy novels, and the characters don't use English. They have their own languages: Common, Elven, Orc, Kelewan, Saurial, Drow and so on. Do we read them in such languages? No. The authors have applied the universal translator, and we read the stories in English. Sure, the only orc who uses perfect English is Shrek, and sure, Tolkien devised complete Dwarven and Elven languages, but the old man was a linguist, whaddaya expect?
So I applied my own universal translator, and my stories are actually Malaysian, using Malay (or Cantonese or Tamil, depending on the characters), but readers see the words in English. Malaysian readers don't appreciate this and insist that I'm just dressing my Western stories in Malaysian settings, but I don't really write for others. I write for myself, and publishing is just a means of sharing my works--hey, if I can get paid for my stories, why not? I've garnered a few fans along the way (I'm still surprised at this), but I also have a few haters. You can't please everyone, eh?
Unfortunately, what I face as a writer is indifference. I will never use the "it's because I'm Asian/person of color" card. Almost all the stories I submitted are bought. I believe in my ability as a writer, and I also believe that good stories are good stories regardless the color of the writer or the characters. Seriously. When I pick up a book by an author I don't know, I check out the cover, read the teaser, and flip the pages to breathe in the musk of the book. If the scent feels right, I buy the book. Sure, I don't always get the feeling right, and I've bought books I didn't finish because they're so terrible, but I only look up the author if I love the story and want to find more stories from said author. I'm sure a lot of people do the same. They don't go to bookstores to look specifically for books from female/gay/POC authors, unless they're on an assignment. This is why I find people whining and complaining about how POC authors are sidelined annoying.
Back to my valid complaint. Homegrown talents venturing into areas local people are not used to are usually ignored. This is a good thing, because sometimes they get ridiculed. But, Malaysians being Malaysians, homegrown talents who seek comfort between the teats of other countries and make a name there are suddenly recognized and celebrated by Malaysians everywhere. Cases in point: Tash Aw, Michelle Yeoh, Zee Avi, to name a few.
I have published 20 short stories at respectable venues, covering a wide array of genres, including Mainstream, Horror, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Romantic Contemporary and Young Adult. I've been at this since 2009, but when Malaysians write articles about Malaysian-English writers, I'm invisible to them. A writer who has published one or two short stories in the span of 5 years gets more media coverage. Only two people who carry weight in the Malaysian-English publishing world have acknowledged my existence: Sharon Bakar and Amir Muhammad.
But how can I complain if my own sister doesn't read my stories?
Although I don't really care about my own people's indifference toward my contributions in Malaysian-English literature, I think it'd be cool if Malaysian readers who are looking for Malaysian-English stories get to read mine. It'd be cool if my stories are dissected, discussed and reviewed. If a class in a Singaporean high school can discuss about one of my stories, why not a class in Malaysia?
I don't expect to make a living out of writing, and I have a love-hate relationship with my day job, so I don't have that desperate urge to publish stories and novels. I write to express myself, to put in words the emotions that roil inside me. I write to find the calm that eludes me most of the time. I write to make sense of my complicated life. I write for me. I'm self-centered this way.
I also like challenges. I wonder how it feels to win literary awards. I wonder if the invisibility shroud will slip away and the Malaysian-English publishing world will finally see me then.
I have an elephant memory. I remember and appreciate the people who have been supporting me when I'm still a nobody in the publishing world. I also remember those who don't. I'm vindictive this way.
Okay. Now, something new to reflect on. Check out Anggun's new song:
"In Your Mind"
It's an okay song. You may want to sway your hips, but gone is the urge to move your fingers in awkward motions. Gone is the urge to flick your wrists, to move your neck. This song has no shred of Indonesia in it. It's generic, something you can get from Beyonce and Shakira. It's not exotic. It's not uniquely Anggun.
Here's the dilemma: should Anggun limit herself to an Indonesian-English niche that has gone international, or should she venture out but lose her inherently Indonesian identity?
To me, it doesn't matter which path she chooses, as long as she remains true to herself, as long as she remembers she is Anggun (which is Malay/Indonesian for alluring). Some people will love her, some will hate her, while a lot more remain indifferent.
I personally prefer haters over indifferent people. Haters at least read my works. Haters at least spread the word so that curious people will read my works to find out what's so wrong about it.
I won't bitch about the international community, because they've done nothing but support my efforts. Publishers buy my stories, random people approach me on Facebook to comment on what they like about my stories, and folks who are even more random have listed me on databases such as Library Thing and Goodreads. It's the local folks who are mostly indifferent.
Not you. You've read this far, haven't you? You have shown your support. I thank you for it.
I don't want to be one of those people who have to make a name internationally to be recognized locally. I want to be able to write 'based in Kuala Lumpur' in my author's bio, but I can't do it alone. I can't do it without support from local people.
To make money, you have to have money first (don't get technical on me). To gain recognition, you have to be recognized first.
Last night, Selangor Young Talent Awards (SEYTA) took place at the MBSA auditorium, Wisma MBSA. This was the second year the ceremony was organized, celebrating the Arts, but catered for artists aged 35 and below. Four main categories were covered: creative writing, music, visual art and performing art.
Late last month, one of the organizers, Ammar Gazali, emailed me saying that he was nominating me for the award. I read the email three times before I jumped in my seat. So I sent all 19 of my published stories, compiled in a pretty PDF form, with a cover Kasha designed--she gave me four covers to choose from. How cool is that?
For the record, my 20th story, "Gestures of Faith" (previously "Remember Atlantis") has been contracted for publication, and from what Amir Muhammad said last night, I may hear good news from Esquire Malaysia. Here's to hoping.
So I went on with my life, sporadically writing my novel with a burst of 3000 words at a go, followed by a week of silence, until last Sunday Amir FB-messaged me to free my Saturday. My story "A Long Sigh Goodnight", which CCC Press had bought for Black and White and other new short stories from Malaysia, was chosen as one of the five finalists for the creative writing: English novels/short stories category.
Wild, isn't it? I originally wrote the story for MPH-Alliance Short Story Competition 2009. It didn't even make the long list. I rearranged a few scenes--the story was complete, and I didn't want to edit much--and when I read the call for submission from CCC Press on Sharon Bakar's blog, sending the story there felt right. It's one of the seven stories selected for the anthology, due out sometime this year.
I didn't get my hopes up. Having a best friend who more often than not ended up disappointing me, I learned the hard way not to hope for good things; that way I don't get disappointed. I arranged for a flight home--I needed to see my dermatologist anyway--and reserved SEVEN tickets for the ceremony. Kasha, Ayis and Arwen had arranged for a Pekan trip for the long weekend, so Mama, Faiz and Ili came, plus Tita, her husband and her friend. Yep, I had my posse along, like I always do.
I'd be lying if I say I was a nervous wreck throughout drive to the auditorium. When we arrived, I felt like peeing, defecating and barfing at the same time.
I'd never been to an award ceremony--school award ceremonies don't count. It was uber cool. It was airwolf. Awesomesauce. There was even a harpist, yo! When my category came, with my name on the screens, and hearing it announced, my heart thumped against my chest, threatening to fall at the slightest move, my mouth and throat dried up, and I clutched the armrests of my seat until my fingers hurt.
I didn't win.
Lee Eeleen did, with her story Amplitude, which was published in Selangor Times. You can read her story here. I took the link from Amir Muhammad's blog. The story deserves the win, hands down.
I'm totally fine not winning the category because the rush of anticipation, the jumble of excitement and anxiety, I won't trade it for anything. I got to experience it. I'm thankful for it.
But, more than that, I attended the ceremony with a clear intention. In our FB exchanges, Amir Muhammad mentioned he wanted to see me if possible. A publisher wanting to talk to me. How cool is that? So, after the ceremony, we met up, and he pitched me an idea for a novel for him to publish (and more). I told him I'm working on a novel, and I have to finish it--partly because I've never written any novel-length work before, and partly because the story needs to be told. Amir asked where I plan to send the novel, and I said I'll think about it when the time comes. But definitely I'm going traditional with it. He said not to rush on the novel idea, and he'll be waiting for it, because he loved my writing.
Awesomesauce, right?
I'm still reeling from the excitement, the possibilities that lie before me. Two-and-a-half years ago, Tita nudged (as in forced) me to pick up writing again. I had stopped writing stories since 2004. I didn't start writing immediately; I knew I needed to learn how to write. I knew that in my arrogance back in the earlier days, I thought I wrote well. I still cringe when I read my earlier works. I bought books after books about writing. I devoured them all, and I would have literally done it if it were possible. When I felt I was ready, I wrote "A Long Sigh Goodnight", then I wrote "The Last Anniversary". Both didn't make the long-list, but I didn't stop writing.
When Tita told me about Writing.com, I joined it. I wrote flash fictions (stories under 1000 words) for their daily flash competition. I think 75-80% of my entries won. I wrote more. I joined Let's Publish!, a group within Writing.com that concentrated on publishing short stories and poems. We reviewed and edited one another's works, and I learned to edit better, to write better.
I posted some of my flash fictions on my old blog, and one of the readers suggested sending "Mother" to Quarterly Literary Review Singapore (QLRS). The accepted the story for their October 2009 volume. When the good folks of Let's Publish! challenged ourselves to write something out of our normal style, "Vision" was born. Scared the crap out of me writing it, but I sold it to "Expanded Horizons". USD30, my first payment for writing. I had asked Dash to mail me the check.
And I started getting payment for all my subsequent stories. I also won second place for SFReader Short Story Contest 2010 for "Blood Debt", and I sold "Act of Faith" to COSMOS Australia, my first professional market (USD 0.05 and above per word). I received a whopping AUD300 for the 4000-word story.
And now, a finalist for an award, and an offer for novel publication (and more).
I have tasted the sweet drug of award nomination, and I want more. I've only been actively publishing my works for two years now, and I hope there will be more years to come. I know my stories are publishable. I'm getting paid for them. I think it's time to aim higher. I want to write great stories, award-winning stories, stories that resonate, that linger, that matter.
I hope that you'll come along for the ride. After all, I'll always need my posse with me.
