So Much For Assumptions

This week I learnt that assumptions can make a mockery of reality.

A few weeks back I decided to withdraw from the NaNoWriMo challenge. I would be completing a book project barely a week before the insanity kicked off and told myself (and anyone else who would listen) that I would be feeling mentally tired, emotionally drained, at risk of carpal tunnel syndrome, etc.

Then I finished the book and felt only one thing - lost.

Sure, it was delicious to bury myself in my long-neglected mountain of reading, poke my nose in various blogs and turn on the telly without feeling the pinches of guilty. But at the same time, I missed creating. Missed building up, tearing down, nudging forward, pulling back and checking the word count to see if I was entitled to reading another chapter of whatever book I was reading yet. But most of all, I missed the sheer pleasure of seeing my 'humble village' take one step closer to becoming a 'mighty kingdom'.


Then there's Farah, my protagonist who has been living inside my head for the past two months. She's well and fully-formed and doesn't see why she has to wait just because I need to catch my breath. After all, she points out, I already know her whole story. To convince me further, she gave me a sneak perview into a few of her favourite scenes and generously presented me interesting dialogues and even full paragraphs. With so much of her story swirling in my mind, taking a raincheck became increasingly difficult.

Yesterday I decided there is a fine line between reasons and excuses, and it was time to stop excusing myself. So I went for the first NaNo-meeting in MPH.

Today I'll be meeting Farah on paper for the first time.

Spammer Onslaught!

Am I the only one who keeps getting spammed or does anyone else's blog suffer the same desecration? More importantly, what can I do to stop this menace???? Deleting their where-to-go-to-buy-what comments just gives readers the impression that I'm erasing genuine comments I don't like. :(

The Power of Characters

Last night I watched One Tree Hill (a high school drama series on StarWorld) with my usual fervour - leaning forward and yelling encouragements, falling back and shouting in disgust, cheering in approval and gaping in disbelief. At the end of the show, Best Friend watched me catching my breath and remarked, "It's not real you know. Don't have to get so excited." To which I replied, "I know, but it's so hard not to get caught up in their lives!"

And with that, I once again realised the power of fully-fleshed characters. It's no great secret that it's the characters that make a story, which is why creating good ones is one of the most difficult parts of writing fiction. Well, to me at least! Throughout my Storywriters In Progress course at 95% The Writer's Academy, I struggled to make my protagonist Adam sound real. On pitching night Sharon, who was on the panel of critiques, told me point-blank, "I'm sorry, but I just don't feel for Adam. And the rest of your characters all sound alike."

I didn't get that at first. How could you not feel for Adam? He's an over-ambitious journalist who's struggling with his inner demon. Isn't that enough to warrant sympathy and support? Then I actually started writing the story and realised, so what? Everyone has an inner demon they're struggling with. What makes Adam and his so special? And the rest of my characters did sounded like clones. I thought about my favourite novels and movies, and realised the reason they are favourites is because I felt for at least one of the characters. I rooted for them, held my breath, shed a few tears, laughed aloud...slipped on their shoes and travelled with them on the pages or screen.

Now I'm teaching myself how to build more convincing and interesting characters through unapologetic observation and eavesdropping. Whenever I'm out these days, I pick someone to study and watch how they talk, move and express themselves. Invasion of privacy aside, it can be very educational. But if you're a stickler for ethics, then just observe youself. You may be surprised at what you notice.

And how will you know when you're on the right track? When you find yourself arguing with an inner or outer critic about your character saying, "but he would never do that." instead of "but I don't want him to do that". Or when a reader says, "that was so unexpected/out of character."

One Tree Hill's storyline may not be caviar for the mind but the characters are.

The End of The Road...Almost!

THE END

Those were the two most beautiful words I've typed in the past four months. The Book is finally done. Well, not done done because there's still the editing and rewriting to tackle, but until my publisher gets back to me, it's done! And what a wonderful, liberating feeling it is!

Now I can catch up on the rest of my life.

The Waiting Game

I had arrived at church a few minutes earlier yesterday. Heading to the newsstand, I hoped the latest issue of Catholic Digest had arrived so I could kill the extra minutes with some light reading. As I settled into my seat and opened the small magazine, it suddenly occurred me that I was using literature to distract my mind. The way a parent would use a toy to distract a child. The notion was so disquieting that I put the magazine down and tried to recall the reasons behind all my recent impulsive purchases.

National Geographic – while waiting for my nasi goreng daging bungkus
Newsweek – while waiting for a friend to arrive
Glamour – while waiting for a movie to start
Female – while waiting for a friend to pick me up outside a shopping centre
3 Catholic Digest – while waiting for Mass to begin
The dailies – while waiting to get my driving license, for yoga class to start, for a meeting to begin, etc

It was official. My book dependency had spun out of control.

As a result, only the first three pages of those magazines have my DNA on them and are now perching atop my groaning coffee table in a neat pile. Then there are the many books I erratically dip into while waiting for someone or something somewhere. This is why I find myself reading up to five different books at one time and getting all the plots confused.

But what's more alarming is my reliance on books to occupy the slightest hint of solitude. I’ve tried to figure out why I do that. Is it because I’m reluctant to be alone with my thoughts? Is it because I’m so busy I have to snatch whatever reading time I have (the fact that I’m writing this entry puts this theory to rest!)? Or is it because I don’t appreciate my own company?

Whatever it is, I have to gradually wean myself off this unsavoury habit. Not only does it indicate my discomfort with aloneness, but it also prevents me from properly relishing the written word.

Salsa Seduction!

A friend’s friend flew in from Bangkok last night. We had never met but had heard a lot about each other, so hooking up that night was a given. The launch of this new friendship took place in Havana Club, Federal Hotel.

I had no idea what to expect as I walked into the club. All I knew was that it was a salsa joint and I was hoping there wouldn’t be too many pot-bellied men adjusting their toupees, chomping on cigars and pouncing at every opportunity to gyrate with sweet-young-things wearing skirts the size of bandages. As usual, my fears only existed in my head.

The salsa club vibrated with an energy that was almost as intoxicating as the dancing itself! Men and women were spinning, gliding and sashaying to music that gently coaxed you to let your inhibitions go and dance with your heart in your feet. I have never see men move so elegantly, their gracefulness only serving to enhance their masculinity. And the women were wonderfully sensual with a touch of arrogance in their steps. But all moved with stunning fluidity. Here, curves and contours can be flaunted without being frowned upon, skin can touch skin without being misinterpreted and no one is a stranger even if you’ve never met. The radiating faces were contagious and I soon found myself smiling like an idiot.

After a particularly vigorous number, my new friend mopped her flushed face and exclaimed, “This is so good! And it’s more addictive than drugs!”

Noticing my unabashed pleasure, another new friend held out his hands and it was my turn to understand the magic of salsa. No doubt, I only learnt four steps but it may have unlocked a door I never tried.

I’m glad I stuck my toe in something new last night. And I had so much fun that I’m doing it again tonight!

East Vs West

I have been involved in the editing and creative layout for a coffee table book. The author is a socialite, who studied and worked in London (you will understand the relevance of this seemingly impertinent statement later).

As the book approached its final stage, she called me and shrieked hysterically that the text still contained grammatical errors. I went to see her and she pointed them out. The errors were not full-fledged mistakes. It was one of those things where the inclusion of a particular word depends on individual preferance and not the rules of English. When I told her this, she barked, "But it's WRONG! I sent the text to an Englishman in London and he included that word! Maybe you don't know London's English since you studied in Australia."

I didn't know whether to feel insulted or incredulous. She didn't realise the implications of what she had said or done. An editor friend remarked, "I would have thrown the manuscript in her face and told her to let her precious Englishman do the job!"

Yesterday she told the colour separators, "I don't think you know what you're doing. Maybe you're are not used to handling Western-style books." This morning she told me, "I don't think your designer is experienced enough to be handling a coffee table book. This font can only be used for local books not Western-style books."

Needless to say, this left me wondering how many aspiring authors feel this way about our publishing industry. We have talked a lot about the quality of writing. Perhaps it's time to talk about the quality of presentation. Is our quality of editing, layout and cover design good enough for the quality we demand of our writing?

How do we measure up against our Western counterparts? If we fall short, then in which aspect and how do we pull up our socks? Better yet, name me one locally published book that you think is of 'international quality'. And how many of you agree that when it comes to publishing, West is still best?

Enlightenment

Two weeks ago I was running with wet feet on a marble floor and came crashing down on my left side. For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to have the wind knocked out of you. An x-ray showed no fractures but very bad bruising. I was ordered to stay away from my yoga mat for a fortnight.

My initial dismay soon gave way to crankiness. I missed the energising backbends, the calming forwardbends, the challenging balancing poses and the tension-relieving twists. To take my mind away from this deprivation, I stayed longer at work. I used the time set aside for my daily practice to write that extra report or reply an email. I figuredthe injury was meant to give me time to catch up on work. A couple of days ago, I realised I was looking at the wrong silver lining.

I was complaining how rotten I was feeling and my wise friend said, "maybe this is a good time to practice your breathing or meditation." Then it struck me how my reaction to this injury had contradicted my entire outlook on yoga. The reason I want to be a yoga teacher is because I want to teach others that yoga isn't just about postures and the physic. Yet that was exactly what I had reduced yoga to when I stopped practicing because of a physical injury. I could have still kept to my daily yoga schedule by using that time to study yoga philosophy, get a headstart on my reading material for next year's course or like my friend suggested, practice meditation. Instead I chose to rest the value of my yogic journey solely on the postures. And for that, I am truly ashamed.

This discovery has also led to a personal breakthrough in my writing as well. When I was a teenager, I declared that I wanted to be a writer because I wanted to be a voice for those who had none. I have been wondering what happened to that dream and it only recently occured to me that I can still make it come true through this blog and my magazine articles. Ordinary words can have extraordinary results if I use them to reach out and touch someone. An article on post-natal depression could bring relief to a new mother who doesn't understand what she's going through. And an article on emotional abuse, could be the final push a woman needs to leave her relationship. I will never know. And that's why I will now work harder at each article in the hope that it may speak to someone who needs to hear those words.

When things go wrong, we sometimes feel compelled to create our own silver lining in order to justify misfortune. Perhaps if we just step back a little and take another look at the big picture, we may realise that the silver lining has been there all the while. We just couldn't see it through our emotional haze.

Reiki

For those of you who still haven't crossed off 'Try New Things' on your New Year Resolution List 2005! I'm putting it on my 2006 list. I find it very hard to be ambitious at this time of the year!

REIKI I : 18th – 20th November 2005
Place : Swiss Garden Hotel , Kuala Lumpur
Investment: RM1,150 (adult), RM900 (children under 18 years). full payment by 31st Oct 2005 entitles you to an early bird fee of RM1,050 (adult), RM800 (child) only

Fri 18 Nov: 6pm - 11pm++
Sat 19 Nov: 9am - 7.30pm ++
Sun 20 Nov: 11am - 8pm++

(Fee does not cover the costs of main meals or accommodation. Only light refreshments served)

FREE LECTURE (with demonstrations) : 16th November 2005
Time : 7.15pm – 10.0pm
Place : Crystal Crown Hotel , Petaling Jaya
Contact details: reikiseminars@yahoo.com / 012-210 5959 / 012-223 0890
Website: www.usuireikiseminars.com or www.reiki.com.au

In The Grip of Beautiful Titles

As usual, I walked into Bookstreet in Desa Sri Hartamas clutching a list of books to rent and walked out with only two books that weren't even on the list. Don't tell me it hasn't happened to you before! I think the only time I stuck to a list was when Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince was released.

This time the seductresses were Zora Neale Hurston with Their Eyes Were Watching God and Alice Walker with By The Light of My Father's Smile. It's impossible to swish past such hauntingly beautiful titles!

Hurston's novel revolves around a woman's quest for self-fulfilment while Walker's explores the 'richness of female sexuality as a celebration of life, affirming belief that love is both timeless and beyond'. I've had to put the books out of sight to quell my temptation to dive into their pages RIGHT NOW. I have an article due this evening and it will never get done if I allow myself a taste of even the preface.

The only problem I foresee with my excitement is that the books may not live up to expectations. Then again, I've always believed that the search for true beauty begins by giving a little of yourself first.

The Flight of The Eagles

This time last year I was getting ready for one of the biggest nights of my life. The Eagles Farewell I Tour in Bangkok. In mapping out the venues, the organisers conveninently skipped KL leaving me with two choices - Singapore or Bangkok. It was an easy one.

So there I was with my best friend Priscilla, in a hotel on the famous Khao San Road, putting the finising touches to our placard, which screamed 'Malaysia Loves You Too!" Hey, if you want to be a groupie you may as well go all the way. Priscilla was a bigger fan of Bangkok than of The Eagles but my excitement was infectious and her huge grin matched mine.

We were among the first few to arrive at the Muang Thong Thani stadium and snapped up The Eagles memorabilia being sold at the booths. We had great seats but not as close to the front as I would have liked, so I told Pris "I don't think many Thais are fans so we'll scoot to the front later on." Fat hopes. Within an hour the stadium was packed with Thais of all ages. The well-heeled farangs (foreigners) filled up the front row seats. But no matter, we still had our very powerful binoculars!

When the first strains of 'Take It Easy' filled the stadium, the corwd went wild. Then the stage lights burst on, I was blinded for the first five minutes by tears of disbelief and happiness. Terribly corny I know, but absolutely true! I had to literally pinch myself to believe that I was actually sitting less than 200 meters away from Don Henley (such a legend in my book!), Timothy B. Schmidt, Glen Frey and Joe Walsh. For the next hour and a half, we sang our hearts out (the Thai guy next to me couldn't speak English but knew all the lyrics), waved our placard madly each time the spotlight swung our way and danced in the bleachers. Oh and of course, we screamed ourselves hoarse too. It was such a brilliant night!

One year later and I still remember exactly how I felt. It's an exeprience I revisit each time I forget what pure fulfilment and carefree joy feels like. In those 90 minutes, everything was just perfect.Everyone should have at least one magical moment or experience they can relive over and over again. It's what makes life worthwhile.

Uh Oh...

A quote by American novelist Don DeLillo, published in this week's issue of Options (TheEdge pullout).

"Years ago, I used to think it was possible for a novelist to alter the inner life of the culture. Now bomb-makers and gunmen have taken that territory. They make raids on human consciousness."

A Difficult Decision

Today I decided to give this year's NaNoWriMo a miss. It was an agonising decison but one that had to be made. It's not that I don't have a story rumbling within me. Quite the contrary actually. My inner story is screaming to be freed but I can't do it yet. Not now. Not right after 3-months of an exhaustive struggle with another book (which I've been told to complete by next Wednesday).

When this current book goes to print, I will have written two published books already. Yet I don't consider them MY work because both were written in collaboration with someone else. Both were born out of someone else's ideas and passions. I was merely the medium in communicating those thoughts to the public. And neither books was on on topics in which I could lose myself. Which is why I decided I would no longer write in collaboration with anyone else again (more on this another time!). I wanted to write from the heart. My very own story. In July, that story strolled into my mind and refused to leave.

I have never felt so strongly about a story before and I already know so much about my main character, Farah. I know her fears and joys, I'm dismayed and elated at what she will be going through and I'm itching to take this trip with her. She has already come alive for me but I'm afraid that if I start telling her story now, I would be killing her.

I'm mentally tired and don't think it's right to begin a story I feel so strongly about in this frame of mind. I know NaNoWriMo is not about churning out Nobel Prize material but it just feels wrong to give this story anything less than my best. I initially wondered if my reluctance to begin this story lay in my fear that it wouldn't be as perfect on paper as it is in my mind. But now I know that I'm just not ready mentally. Perhaps I will start my personal NaNoWriMo in December or January. It won't be the same without the camaraderie of other NaNo-ers though.

I was really looking forward to participating this year, so yes, I'm frustrated. But the thought that Farah will be given the attention she deserves if I wait just a little while longer is a good enough antidote for the disappointment. And I will still be able to experience the thrills and spills vicariously through the rest of you!

Who Wants To Be A Writer

A writer friend recently had her comment on being a writer published in a local magazine. It read - "Not everyone can become a writer so stop dreaming. There's nothing more pathetic than a writer wannabe." This statement sparked a slew of outrage, criticism and hate mail. In rehashing the drama to me, she was unapologetic about her opinion, saying that too many people are masquerading as writers these days and she is sick and tired of it.

I mulled over her statement and finally concluded that I disagree with her. Not with her sentiments about pseudo-writers but about giving up the dream of being a writer. What is a writer, really? You may love Barnes, I may adore Sheldon and someone else may idolise Murakami. Do the different preferences make any one them less of a writer? Is a writer someone who wrote a crappy book or a brilliant advertisement? Is a writer someone who says 'crepuscular lighting' or 'twilight'? Is it someone who writes fiction or non-fiction? And are haiku writers real writers?

There is a misplaced reverance for writers. They are regarded as extraordinarily gifted people, when the truth is, all that separates them form the average Joe is that they're willing to work their fingers to the bone to make their dream come true. Any literary prize winner will tell you that his or her masterpiece was 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration. Yet there are still people who think that being a writer means having words flow effortlessly from your fingers.

I agree with my friend that there are people who call themselves writers after having their 'Letter to the Editor' published. That's plain delusional. But there is the other group of people who dream of being a writer and who struggle day after day to put the very best of themselves on paper. If they ever stopped dreaming it would be a huge loss to the literary world. For all you know, Rowling and Tolkein could have been among those dreamers! In fact, no one should ever kill their dreams for fear of being a 'wannabe'. Because if writing comes from the heart, then all of us have what it takes to be a writer.

When Characters Come To Life!

Last weekend I finally understood what it meant to let your characters travel their own paths. Having never written a piece of fiction before, I had been fastidious about my characters’ personal details. I had painstakingly listed down both their characteristics and characterisations and was determined not to be led astray during the writing process. Then I received this nugget of advice from Razlina Ramli of 95% The Writer's Academy and another writer, Sharon Bakar – let your characters take over. I understood what they meant but the real experience only took place 40,000-odd words into the book.

I was in the middle of a scene where my main character, who was already happily attached, was introduced to a female volunteer where he was doing charity work. They were barely five minutes into their conversation when I suddenly stopped typing and realised, “Oh my god. He’s going to leave his girlfriend. This new woman is going to tell him to.”

The clarity was startling. And liberating. Finally my characters had found their own voice and were making a stand. Adam, who had just proposed to Lisa, was about to realise that she wasn’t worth it. Lisa, who started out as the perfect girlfriend, was going to turn readers against her because of her misplaced priorities. And Joanna, who was never meant to be more than just another volunteer, was now about to become Adam’s guiding light. My characters had found themselves and I was no longer the puppet master. Or mistress.

I had been waiting for this moment for a long, long time. For the moment when the story finally becomes more than a plot, subplot, climax, obstacles, setbacks and payoffs. When the story truly springs to life (like the jagged line on a heart rate monitor) and I write without referring to my index cards. When my characters assure me they can take care of their own live and invite me to enjoy it with them by relinquishing my fears, doubts and obsession with ‘the rules’.

What did it feel like? Intoxicating.

The other highlight of my weekend was an email from the Sivananda Centre in India telling me I had been accepted into next year’s Yoga Teacher’s Training Course. Woo hoo!!

Fictitious Facts

“How do you differentiate between fact and fiction in an autobiography?” demanded an aspiring author over drinks earlier this evening. His father had published an autobiography, which was liberally peppered with inaccurate facts and a few of them referred to him.

“Perhaps that’s the way he remembers it,” I said, after he recounted a couple of examples.

“That’s the problem!” he cried. “’We both have different versions of a certain incident. So who has the real facts?”

Good question. And a worrying one too, because if you don’t know (or don’t care) then you’re inadvertently lying to your readers. On the other hand, if that’s the way you remember it then that is what’s factual for you. After all, isn’t an autobiography your account of what happened in your life as you remember and interpret it? It’s a debatable issue.

Then there are those who intentionally stretch the truth because the original story isn’t interesting enough. Or because they can’t remember exactly what happened and rely on imagination or assumption to fill in the blanks. This is unacceptable. It’s like saying you stay in a penthouse when in fact you live on the top floor of the Pekeliling Flats.

What’s interesting however is that mere mortals aren’t the only ones to resort to such measures. Hemingway’s autobiography True at First Light is apparently being called a fictional memoir (isn’t this an oxymoron?) by publishers because they aren’t sure exactly how much of it is true. In fact, an article in the New York Times says even Hemingway’s son doesn’t believe his father really had the explicit experiences the book describes like taking a few African woman as his wives and bedding all of them on a 14-foot goatskin bed.

According to another article, this one on Poynter Online, an author named Cassandra Pybus wrote about the history of Sarawak’s White Rajahs but publishers rejected her book because it had too many gaps. Pybus argued that the gaps were inevitable because no one knew exactly what happened. Well, apparently someone did know. This person wrote a book called Kalimantaan, cleverly disguised it as a novel, filled in the gaps via imagination and turned the three Rajahs of Sarawak into one person.

If you ask me, no one should even attempt to write a factual piece if they don't give a damn about the facts.

Too Close To Home

Warning: Contains material that may be disturbing to flight attendants and pacifists.

Let me clarify right now that this is not a review of Jodie Foster's new movie. Nor is it about the scriptwriting or any writing for that matter. This is about how Flightplan was uncannily spot-on in its portrayal of flight attendants from a certain airline.

I have flown this particular airline every time I travel to destinations further than 3 hours and each time I have left with a bad taste in my mouth. Am I exaggerating? Well, considering that most fellow travellers have shared similar unsavoury experiences, I don't think so. Here are just two examples:

Last December my two close friends returned from Sri Lanka with only borrowed clothes on their backs and various injuries. After take-off, one of them asked for a first aid kit. The stewardess unconcernedly replied, "Ok, but I have to serve the orange juice first."

Upon arrival at KLIA, they disembarked with a airline blanket wrapped around them as neither was wearing any undergarments. A steward stopped them and demanded the blanket back, saying it was airline property.

According to an E! Online report, 'It will be a cold day in hell when Flightplan winds up as an in-flight movie - especially if flight-attendant unions have anything to do with it". Apparently flight attendants the world over are calling for a boycott of the movie, saying they fear it will depict them in as rude and unhelpful.

After being in the company of the World's Best Cabin Crew, I must say that this fear is totally justified.

Ignorance Exposed!

I should have known better than to give my two-cents worth on things I know little of...like classics. My indignation over the apparent defiling of Tolstoy's work turned out to be much ado about nothing. In my outrage I neglected a tiny detail called 'translation'. An experience all foreign language books go through if they are deemed worthy for the eyes of the world. Thank you Sharon for pointing out my foot-in-mouth moment! This is not my first, though.

I have a tendency to think that the first translation I pick up is the original. I've done that once before, arguing with others that my book had to be the original because it had better sounding words and descriptions. Doh!

It didn't help that my copy of Anna Karenina was musty-smelling, dog-eared and coffee-stained. I could have probably conned myself into believing that it came directly from Tolstoy's personal library!

But two good things have sprung from this faux pax. One is that I won't be making the same blunder again and two, I know my blog is being read!

A Classic Disppointment

I stumbled upon an e-library the other day called Classic Bookshelf. My initial reaction was one of delight, thinking that I had finally found a way to have my book and devour it. I entered the library and was greeted by dusty shelves crammed with yellowed, dog-eared classics. Well, at least that’s how it would look like if it were a real library!

I loved the idea. Now no one, myself included, had any excuse to be ignorant of Trollope, Sewell and Twain. Let me confess right now that I’m VERY ignorant of these literary greats. The only reason I remember Sewell’s name is not because I read Black Beauty as a child but because the crossword I was doing last week included her name. But I’m slowly educating myself. I picked up Anna Karenin a few months back and am determined to finish it by the end of the year. So yes, I was very pleased to see that a collection of classics was now available at the click of the mouse.

Then I decided to read a little of Anna Karenin just to get a feel of what it would be like reading a book online. That’s when I discovered that the online version differs from the real book. The gist of the meaning is the same but the words are different. Call me anal, but I didn’t like that one bit.

If I wanted to read a classic I would want to read it in its original piece. The website mentioned nothing about the books being abridged, unabridged or bridgeless so forgive me for expecting Tolstoy to sound exactly like Tolstoy. I just don’t think it’s right to mess around with other people’s work and hide this little detail from future readers. To make matters worse, the e-version doesn’t have the same impact as the original. In other words, readers are being deprived of the real thing. Kinda’ like giving a meat lover a hamburger with soy meat.

I’ve included both versions below. The first is the original and the second, the e-version. Think old Leo would be as startled as I am?


“And exactly at the moment when the space between the wheels drew level with her she threw aside the red bag and drawing her head down between her shoulders dropped in her hands under the truck, and with a light movement, as though she would rise again at once, sank on to her knees. At that same instance she became horror-struck at what she was doing. “Where am I? What am I doing? Why?” She tried to get up, to throw herself back; but something huge and relentless struck her on the head and dragged her down on her back. “God forgive me everything!” she murmured, feeling the impossibility of struggling. A little peasant muttering something was working at the rails. And the candle by which she had been reading the book filled with trouble and deceit, sorrow and evil, flared up with a brighter light, illuminating for her everything that before had been enshrouded in darkness, flickered, grew dim and went out forever.”

“And exactly at the moment when the space between the wheels came opposite her, she dropped the red bag, and drawing her head back into her shoulders, fell on her hands under the carriage, and lightly, as though she would rise again at once, dropped on to her knees. And at the same instant she was terror-stricken at what she was doing. "Where am I? What am I doing? What for?" she tried to get up, to drop backwards; but something huge and merciless struck her on the head and rolled her on her back. "Lord, forgive me all!" she said, feeling it impossible to struggle. A peasant muttering something was working at the iron above her. And the light by which she had read the book filled with troubles, falsehoods, sorrow, and evil, flared up more brightly than ever before, lighted up for her all that had been in darkness, flickered, began to grow dim, and was quenched forever.”

The Land of Words & Coffee

“Jaya Jusco is opening in Seremban this Saturday,” my dad told me when I called him a few days back.

“Cool.”

You have to live in Seremban to understand my nonchalance. Of the town’s two main malls, one has kapchai-kutus adorning its front steps and the other boasts of a variety that could only please Mowgli and gang. I’m sorry but Mid Valley and I Utama have spoiled me rotten.

“It’s got more than a hundred shops,” my dad went on. “Including MPH and Starbucks.”

My whooping would have made any Red Indian proud. I’ve always lamented the fate of book and coffee lovers in Seremban. When I was a student, I depended on the only decent bookstore SBL to satisfy my literary palate. I spent hours there reading the Sweet Valley High books my father refused to buy. Then SBL closed down and the other bookstores stocked more revision books than anything else. Those were dismal times. But finally, there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

My father used to make monthly pilgrimages to Kinokuniya and MPH for his literary fix. He could have always given me his book list, but no true book lover would willingly forego the delightful opportunity to lose themselves for hours among shelves of classics and bestsellers. Nothing pleased him more than splurging on a huge bag of books. Now that pleasure is only a 15-minute drive away.

The absence of a good bookstore in Seremban also contradicted efforts to create a reading culture in Malaysia. If you want people to read, you have to bring the books to their doorstep. It’s as simple as that and the ‘great minds’ have finally realised it.

As for Starbucks, nothing makes a reading experience better than a tall latte.

Today good books and good coffee came to Seremban. And with it, a brand new future.