Evening Star

Temporary Goodbye

2006-09-01T04:54:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

I will be taking a sabbatical from this blog. My life has spun in a new direction, one which has pulled my away from maintaining this blog as regularly as I would like to. I will be keeping my other blog, however, since that has recieved a better response than expected and also because it's part of the new path on which I've begun walking. How strange that I should feel the need to temporarily leave this space just as my number of readers have swelled.

In time, I will resume writing here and will probably give this blog a facelift from its current melancholy appearance. Thank you very much for reading me this far and I'll continue visiting your blogs, so we'll still be 'in touch'.

xxx
Starlight

For The Love Of Food

2006-08-18T07:18:00.000-07:00

Nine weeks, twenty photo shoots, sixteen interviews and enough food to feed a small village. The first stage of The Weekend Chef's debut cookbook - For The Love Of Food - is done. All that’s left is to slap the gorgeous pictures and stories onto the appropriate pages, publish it and wait for the stampede. In other words, the real work is only just beginning. But it’s been a wild and wonderful ride so far.

True to form, The Weekend Chef once again laid out a platform where people, whose paths would ordinarily never have crossed, reached across plates of food to form unexpected kinships with each other. As the food warmed our hearts and tummies, it also melted away our reservations. By the third shoot, we were sashaying into the chefs’ houses like we owned them. In between setting up the lights and lifting lids off pans, we brought each other up to date on our lives as hot cups of coffee and tea were handed around. At the first click of the shutter, the room instantly became charged with creativity, intensity, drollery and of course, the obligatory squabbles. And four hours later, everyone plopped around the dining table plowing their way through a very deserving feast. But not every shoot revolved around the same storyline. Some - three to be exact – had a touch of drama that we (and the chef concerned) will always remember.

The first took place at Zakri’s apartment. We were gushing over the view from his balcony, when the sky suddenly clouded over and a strange wind blew. Our arms became speckled with tiny pearly drops.

“Going to rain,” we said to each other wisely, and retreated into the apartment. Within minutes, the light drizzle turned into a howling freak storm. The stunning view slowly disappeared behind a white curtain of raindrops and the cacophony of doors slamming began. Zakri’s front door flew open and it took three of us to push it shut. His bamboo blinds were ripped off the balcony and his huge flowerpots crashed to the ground. Fearing for the life of the dancing cushions on the loveseat, Zakri slid open the balcony door and dashed outside to retrieve them. The fury of the wind that forced its way through the gap, had us all yelling and jumping to hold down our camera equipment. But sliding the door shut posed another threat. The wind pummeled the glass so angrily, that most of us were ducking behind furniture to avoid any flying shards of glass. Then just as sudden as it began, it stopped and a calm descended upon the neighbourhood. We surveyed the destruction and proceeded to soothe our nerves by digging into the food.

The second freak incident took place in Candice’s house, albeit on a smaller scale. Less than five minutes after we arrived, the downpour began and one magnificent flash of lightening plunged the house into darkness. Flipping the main switch back on again, we discovered that one of our lights had gone into shock. All forms of resuscitation proved useless. Yan Sean stared helplessly at the remaining light, then bravely decided to soldier on. The shoot turned out pretty well considering this little handicap and we joked that if there was ever a third water-related incident, we were officially jinxed. We spoke too soon.

A week later, we were making our way to Tricia’s service apartment with the sun blazing above us. According to Enid Blyton, it won’t rain if there’s enough blue in the sky to make a sailor’s trousers. Well, on that afternoon there was enough blue to make trousers for a whole platoon. When we arrived, all the food was ready except the bread and the toppings. Perfect, we cried, indulging in happy visions of returning home early that day. Then Fate gatecrashed the party. We were in the midst of shooting Tricia wearing the TWC apron when a loud rushing sound of water came from her bathroom. A pipe above her bathroom had burst and water was pouring from the ceiling. Tricia shut the door and serenely said, “I’ll call maintenance.”

While waiting for her to return, we laughed about our jinxed shoots. Suddenly, one of us noticed water creeping into the living room. A peep into her bedroom revealed that the bathroom had drowned and the rest of the apartment was about to follow suit. Shrieking in panic, we snatched our equipment off the floor, piled them up on the dining table and watched the snaking water in horrified fascination. To cut a long story short, maintenance took control of the situation and we were offered another service apartment for our shoot.

Thankfully, that was the last of our watery escapades. From then on, the shoots progressed without a hitch. Perhaps it’s true what they say about ‘bad luck’ coming in threes. But we solemnly swear that should you decide to contribute to our future books, we will mandi bunga before setting food in your home.

Pictures documenting the disasters can be viewed on the website. Slide your cursor across the door picture for some action.

Golden Book

2006-08-15T09:23:00.001-07:00

I recently read a literary gem. Devoured four hundred and forty six pages in just over twenty-four hours. The sun rose and set. I didn’t notice. I was drunk on the beautiful prose unraveling the story of one person’s life – a person I never imaged could touch me so deeply. When I turned the last page, I sat in stillness for a while, soaking in the afterglow of a truly great book. I wanted to tell everyone about it, but it is only a month later that I’m finally writing this review.

Goldie Hawn’s A Lotus Grows In The Mud is not a biography detailing the dizzyingly inane highs and lows of life in Hollywood. In fact, it only makes the briefest mention of her movies and that too, in relation to the lessons she has gleaned from the experience. This book is a personal and deep reflection on the life of a woman who is journeying through her life with her eyes and heart wide open. It’s raw honesty and it touched me to the very core. She shares her wisdom without sounding the least bit preachy, her sense of humour with every intention at laughing at herself and her compassion in the hope of giving her readers an ‘aha’ moment. The writing, the work of both Hawn and Wendy Holden, a journalist with the Daily Telegraph is as moving as the story itself. It’s like eating a warm moist chocolate cake that gets richer with every bite.

"Each of us goes through transitions and transformations," Hawn writes in the preface to A Lotus Grows in the Mud. "The important thing is that we acknowledge them and learn from them. That is the idea behind this book. Not to tell my life story, but to speak openly and from the heart."

A Lotus Grows In The Mud left me satiated for a long time after I slipped it into my bookshelf. Even as I write this now, I keep looking over my shoulder at it and feel the irresistible urge to plunge into its pages all over again.

Three's Company

2006-08-06T22:17:00.000-07:00

More Flash Fiction came in last week. Aplogies to the authors for posting them up so late. It's been a crazy week! So here are delicious little bites by Thaatchaayini, Jane Sunshine and Rafleesia. Oh, and the title of Jane's piece is named 'Untitled' because it doesn't have a title. :)

Smitha
By Thaatchaayini Kananatu

She stood in front of him, a golden goddess - shapely like a curvaceous Sarawakian clay vase, skin as creamy as rich coconut sweets - draped in delicate lavender silk. Her almond eyes watched him as he writhed nervously. With each flutter of her wing-like lashes, his heart skipped many beats.

Mesmerized by the sparkly diamond between her brows, matched only by green emerald pupils, Joe stood in a trance. She soothed him with Arabic prose. He eased. Her ebony hair flowed like a luxurious horsetail as she swooshed around the room like a fleeting nymph. On her silky drape, tiny mirrors shimmered like an embroidery of prism-dreams.

He garnered his scattered courage and reached out with trembling masculine arms, a sacred ochre string coiled around his wrist. Gingerly stroking her arms and holding her petite waist kindly, he whispered.

“Smitha.”

Somewhere, a mellow music played - embraced with the lament of violins and soft beats of a drum. Suddenly gaining momentum, staccatos becoming louder and obnoxious, graduating into accelerated drumbeats pounding like wild African tribes. Then, a rough mannish voice echoing.

“Joe!”

Smitha’s slender waist dissolved into a humid incense-filled smoke and reappeared a sari-clad tree trunk. Her smooth youthful face transformed into a wrinkled turmeric-yellow facade with an enormous red spot on a crinkled forehead. Her heavenly arms no longer draped around Joe’s neck like a luscious scarf; instead flabby short arms waved at him.

Joe shrieked like a sacrificial goat at a Kali temple.

“Do you know what the time is?” yelled the irate face.

Joe – trembling with aftershocks – opened his eyes wide to the rude awakening.

“Breakfast is ready,” said Joe’s mother.

As she closed the door behind her, a luscious figure reappeared. Smitha – flat - on a movie poster.

Untitled
By Jane Sunshine
By evening, she was in love again. Not quite but mostly yes. Let us meet all over again, she must tell him. The planets would have moved to new astrological signs and may bode better things for their destinies. Surely time will pocket the aching residue of all the bruises? She sat waiting.

He was tired. Striding up her limbs, he groped with clumsy familiarity. The cold beer and tobacco slithered down her spine as the lazy sensitivities of her skin stirred.

In a few hours, she will open the front door for the morning newspaper and start breakfast.

Mary Jane’s Shoes
By Rafleesia

Her red, red hair trailed behind her like the coloured streamers of a pom pom in mid celebration. She flew higher into the air. Up, up, up, the swing carried her.

Shrieks of laughter erupted as her white chubby thighs wobbled, her polka dotted skirt flapping up and down in sync with the motion of the swing. Shoes were kicked off gaily in upswing - red little jellies that sparkled like rubies in the sun landing at the edge of the garden where the mowed lawn ended and the great redwoods began.

She leaned her weight back so that her hair swept the ground like a broom. Knuckles white as she clutched the yellow painted metal chain that kept her head from scraping the bottom.

“Mommy! Mommy”, she laughed “Look at me!”

“Mary Jane!” Mommy answered from inside the candy-blue house. “Come in and wash your hands at once!”

Mary Jane, obedient to the very fibre of the silk ribbons in her hair waited slowly for the swing to slow its dance and before she herself danced into the house. Humming Pat A Cake as she went.

From beyond the trees, it watched silently with ragged breath. For that was what it had become. The soil underneath escaping with each rushed exhale.

It watched as the noises from the house receded, as Mary Jane washed her snowy white hands under the dripping tap in the bathroom at the front of the house. It reached out for the left sandal and slowly pulled it into the woods.

“Mary Jane! Where are your shoes?”

Mommy’s holler rang out loud and clear in the open as white fluffy slippers shuffled around the slabs that held the swing in place.

Mutterings and a big sigh and Mommy disappeared into the house again. Mission unaccomplished.

The house fell silent again. A cloven hoof closed over the right shoe and pulled it into the ominous blackness, its pink laces clutching desperately at each blade of grass as it trailed past in graceful finale.

Ted Mahsun's Short Shorts

2006-07-30T23:16:00.000-07:00

Here's Ted Mahsun's story bit. I can't believe how many stories have come and are still coming in! Thanks so much guys!

The Painter
By Ted Mahsun

Ash was a painter. He grew up on the outskirts of Ipoh, in a small Malay settlement called Kampung Sungai Rokam. Some might think Ash's real name was Abu. That is untrue. His real name was Ahmad Samad bin Hamidon. He kept his straight hair long, and sometimes if he felt it was becoming a nuisance, he tied it back in a ponytail. His skin was a dark brown, a contrast to his pearly white teeth which shone brightly back at you--a testament to his cheery disposition. He liked to wear a tattered, grey t-shirt, which he always wore together with a pair of jeans, which naturally, were ripped at the knees.I asked him once, why did he never change his shirt, and he replied that he did do so every day. He had seven t-shirts in his wardrobe, all of them equally tattered and grey.

One day a rich man saw Ash paint the roof of his house. The rich man, being a patron of the arts, offered a large sum of money to buy Ash's roof. Ash refused, and told the old man to go away and leave him with his painting. Ash was very stubborn and hated monetary rewards. I suppose one would think he was eccentric because he was a man of the arts. He vehemently denied such an accusation and treated "man of the arts" as an insult. He refused the label "artist", and preferred "painter" because that is what he does: he paints.

Animah's Short Shorts

2006-07-30T18:43:00.000-07:00

Denial
By AnimahK

I was planting daisies the day they stormed the Prime Minsterâ€™s Office. They were such pretty daisies. Floppy white petals with a sunny centre.

The next day I planted lily bulbs in neat little rows as a border. The riots began downtown and the Chinese flooded the airports.

On the third day I lovingly cradled my roses, soft pink, scentless but oh so satiny, and gently laid them in their warm ready bed. Designer boutiques blew up in iambic rhythm orchestrated by a manic musician.

I pondered over the travelers palm, coughing as the black airport smoke hung across the skies, a warning for those who dared abandon this beautiful land.

On the fifth day, I dug a deep hole and caressed the small frangipani stem. The Prime Minster was stoned and beheaded before a roaring crowd live on TV.
The Prophet, peace be upon him, had told us to plant for eternity even on our last day of life.

Mag Tan's Flash Fiction

2006-07-24T19:05:00.000-07:00

Here's a bite of fiction from Mag Tan. With all this unexpected response from complete strangers, I suddenly feel like putting together a compilation of flash fiction. Hmm...will have to chew on this a little more.

Horrific
They told me there’d been an accident. But I didn’t
know!
I didn’t know that I’d see, that I'd see such -

Look, I’m new, ok? It’s only my first week here, I
thought I’d be handling stuff like coughs and colds,
not, not -

(pause)

It was awful.
I thought she was gonna die.
If not from the loss of blood, then surely from the
shock.
Can you imagine?
They called it an accident!?
That young mother was gasping like a bloated fish out
of water and they called it an accident!
All the claws scratching her, the powerful canine jaws
shredding her womb, the screaming, the growls, the
PAIN!
And her dead baby.
Trampled beyond recognition. I didn’t even know it was
a foetus.
All chewed up into a mushy lump of blood and it was
supposed to be a newborn baby.
I didn’t know what to do!
I couldn’t look! I couldn’t stand it!
I just ran out of the room, I just ran.
And when I came back, there was no more mother.
Just the quiet nurses cleaning up the room.
I couldn’t help, I really couldn’t help.
I’m sorry.

Jerusha's Flash Fiction

2006-07-22T22:07:00.000-07:00

Jerusha, another one who got caught up in the Flash Fiction challenge, sent this little piece to me today. Have a read!

Cones
By Jerusha
Dots. Thousands of bright red moving dots, in a curly line like the inside of a 'C' weave between blades of grass. The first, with pincers snapping open, shut(a child's hands clapping in glee) treads the grainy soil with six impatient feet. These feet do acrobatics so cunningly (in strange akimbo fashion) that they threaten to dislocate and come off. All a hair's breadth away from the ground.

Suddenly, these feet halt. Red dominos tilt backwards in an effort not to crush their front neighbours. There's a faint stirring in the ground beneath as their hoofs jar the first layer.

They leave their prick-prints behind, orbits in a galaxy of dirt, climbing onto the wet, slimy surface of a half-eaten banana. Sinking their teeths into the sweet pollen.

Five feet away, a child (red gums in full view, spittle wetting her lips from the effort) whines to her blonde mother Why can't we have ice-cream, but I want an ice-cream!

John Ling's Flash Fiction

2006-07-21T01:37:00.000-07:00

Here's a nibble of fiction written by published author John Ling. It's actually the opening chapter of his novel in progress, but he reckons it stands well as flash fiction too and has kindly allowed me to post it up here.

Benjy
Benjamin Chang died suddenly, violently.

It happened when his tire blew out and went flat on the way home. He stopped at the side of the road and got down, braving the growl of passing vehicles, blinking away the grogginess in his eyes.

His wife Emma lowered her window, yawning as she did. "It's not safe, dear. Come back inside. We'll call for a tow truck"

He knelt and fumbled with the tire. He gave her his winning smile. "No, it's alright. I think I can handle it."

And that's when he got sideswiped by a drifting SUV. In the predawn darkness, Emma never saw its number plate or its model. All she saw was poor Benjy being flung by the bone cracking impact, his arms and legs twisting.

Emma screamed and screamed.

Another Bite Of Flash Fiction

2006-07-19T07:28:00.000-07:00

An anonymous reader of this blog left a comment on my 'Flash Fiction' post, saying that s/he just didn't get the story and that such writers should get off their high horse and write stuff that people can actually understand. I promised him/her another story from O magazine's collection, so here it is. This is also one of my favourites.

Her Number
By Antonya Nelson

Dear Jim Barr,
You don't know me, but I know you. I was given your old number. It's for a secret cell phone, bought to have a love affair. Sometimes, instead of calls from my lover, I get yours.

Like me, you can't be trusted. The angry woman, for instance, who accuses me and then lets loose her barrage of complaints about you. I can see why you'd abandon this number. Those creditors won't give up either, their flawless Indian-inflected English, the gentle hum of others in the background. like me, you've made some promises you can't fulfill.

You live in my hometown, your area code from the state where I grew up rather than where I live. If my husband discovers this phone in my underwear drawer, tucked awya like a land mine, I can claim it's my mother's.

I looked yo up, Jim Barr, last time I was home, just to see where you live. Not far from my mom's it turns out. You ought to get rid of that broken play pool on your lawn. And the swing set without swings. You got rid of your number, and now it's mine. My lover and I whisper over it persistently. My heart pounds. I want him so furiously.

I'm not you, I tell those clam but persistent 800 operators, them and that angry woman. She is as furious as my husband would be.

This phone is for passion; it ought to be hot to the touch.

Sincerely yours,
404-BAD-RISK

Frankly, if I got such a letter, I'd call Bukit Aman, burn the phone company to the ground and bury land mines under the broken swings. Anonymous, I hope you like this better!

World eBook Fair

2006-07-18T20:14:00.000-07:00

35 years ago, the United States Declaration of Independence was the first file placed online. Thus began a new era in the literary world - the era of ebooks. It wasn't long before the world's eBook Library was born and today, it boasts a massive collection of books in over 100 languages. In celebration of this 35th anniversary, the World eBook Fair is inviting all book lovers to download1/3 million eBooks FOR FREE. Who's responsible for such an indulgence? According to the fair's website ,

This event is brought to you by the oldest and largest free eBook source on the Internet, Project Gutenberg, with the assistance of the World eBook Library, the providers of the largest collection, and a number of other eBook efforts around the world. The World eBook Library normally charges $8.95 per year for online access, and allows unlimited personal downloading. During The World eBook Fair all these books are available free of charge through a gateway at http://www.gutenberg.org and http://WorldeBookFair.com.

We hope the invention of eBooks will advance the world as much as did the invention of The Gutenberg Press, and look forward to the Neo-Industrial Revolution following the advent of eBooks, just as the invention of The Gutenberg Press undoubtedly led to the first Industrial Revolution, and your participation can help bring this new revolution in reading and libraries to the world.

The fair lasts until August 4th. Still lots of time! I had a quick browse but it didn't pique my interest tremendously, mainly because there wasn't any modern fiction. A good number of their collections are non-fiction and trade books. But do have a look. Maybe you might strike gold!

Shorter Than Short

2006-07-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

Picking up this month’s issue of O magazine was like going mining for diamonds and later discovering you unwittingly brought home rubies, emeralds and sapphires too. The theme of this issue, printed in blood red along the spine, is Summer Reading Issue. The gems within include Love At First Sentence (a roundup of irresistible openings), What You’re Really Going To Want To Read This Summer (32 tantalizing books for the beach), How To Read A Hard Book, Flash Fiction, How To Tell A Story and The Reader As Artist (written by the great Toni Morrison). I’m only halfway through the magazine and can already feel my resolve to not buy another book this month steadily cracking. But what really grabbed me among the articles above was Flash Fiction.

O challenged eight writers to tell a story in less than 300 words or less. Something like, as O put it, a novel crossed with a haiku. The result was eight stunning pieces. Like exquisite hor’dourves.

Since reading Proulx’s masterpiece of Brokeback Mountain earlier this year (yes, I’m a late bloomer!) I’ve been fascinated by the art of short story writing. Getting my first piece rejected by the editor of Silverfish New Writing 6, made me even more intrigued about this cili padi of the literary world. So I gobbled up all these eight little pieces. All were delicious, but one left an aftertaste that lingered for a long time. Here it is.

Near Taurus
By Dawn Raffel

After the rains had come and gone, we went down by the reservoir. No on was watching, or so it looked to us.
The night was like to drown us.
Our voices were high – his, mine; soft, bright – and this was not the all of it (when is it ever?).
Damp palms, unauthorized, young: We would never be caught, let alone apprehended, one by the other.
He was misunderstood; that’s what the boy told me.
“Orion, over there. Only the best. The body won’t show until later,” he said. “Arms and such.”
Me, I could not find the best, not to save my life, I said.
Flattened with want: “There is always another time,” he said.
He died, that boy. Light-years! Ages and ages. And here I am: a mother, a witness, a raiser of a boy.
I could tell you his name.
I could and would not.
“Here’s where the world begins,” he’d said. I se him now – unbroken still; our naked eyes searching for legends – the dirt beneath us parched.

Now, I didn’t share this with you solely out of goodwill. ☺ If you’re reading this post, I challenge you to write a piece of flash fiction – 300 words max –and post it on your own blog. If you don’t have your own blog, you’re most welcome to email your story to me at stephsm_78@yahoo.com and I’ll post it up for you here. I’ll post my own piece up by the end of this week. On your marks, get set, WRITE!

P/S: Do drop me a note when your story is up. I’d love to read it!

New Birth

2006-07-12T01:12:00.000-07:00

I have a new blog. It's called The Path To Bodhichitta. However, this blog is like the durian. You'll either like it or hate it. My new blog is solely on yoga and all things related to it, including meditation, alternative therapy and healing. It will chronicle my new journey as a yoga teacher. This is a path I only recently started walking on and fell in love with almost immediately. Why am I writing it? To share my passion and create an awareness that yoga is more than just about tying yourself up in knots. It's not meant to preach, convert or brainwash.

So do drop by when the time feels right. Otherwise, just drop by this blog from time to time. I'll keep it for my literary escapades and the miscellaneous events that spice up my life!

Behind The Scenes

2006-07-11T20:03:00.000-07:00

My poor abandoned black blog! In my mountain of work, it has been pushed to the backburner and has patiently remained there for the past three weeks. One of the Everests I'm climbing is The Weekend Chef cookbook that's due out in October. Titled For The Love Of Food, it's aimed at the average Joe and Jane who love the idea of entertaining and playing chef but mistakenly believe they aren't up to mark. A total of 15 meals - each meal with a minimum of 3 dishes - will be featured in the book and 5 chefs are involved its creation. We've shot a grand total of 7 meals so far. It's been hard, hard work but such delicious fun!! And so here's a behind-the-scenes peek into what goes on in putting a cookbook together.

Early this year, Steven (TWC publisher) decided that The Weekend Chef needed a massive shot of energy. And so he made a bold proclamation.

“It’s time for a cookbook.”

Yan Sean, Jon and I raised our eyebrows, smiled and nodded politely. Then we moved on to the next agenda, amused at the far-fetched idea. A cookbook, indeed!

A month passed. At the next meeting, Steven tried again, “Guys, I really think it’s time we took The Weekend Chef to the next level. Let’s do the cookbook!”

“Sure, sure!” we chorused, the same way a guy assures a girl he never plans to date again that he will call her. Another month passed. Sensing he’d have to wield a rolling pin before the cookbook ever got off ground, Steven sat us down again and outlined his plan. This time his passion caught our attention and by the end of his little speech, the idea actually seemed plausible. But just to be sure, I decided to play the role of Negative Nelly.

“Who would want to support it?” I challenged.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But there’s no harm trying.”

That was enough for us. And so we set out to put a face to this vision. We burned the phone lines, faxed countless of letters, met numerous potential partners and spread the word across cyberspace. At first the response was discouraging. The initial companies we approached liked the idea but were ‘very sorry we can’t support you for various reasons’. Most of the chefs who wrote in submitted sample recipes that included fried cabbage with anchovies and fruit salad with yoghurt.

Gulping down our disappointment, we ploughed on. Then, something strange happened. The more we spoke about the cookbook, the more passionate we grew and suddenly doors began opening. Slowly, my unanswered questions found their answers.

We needed four chefs. Non-professionals who cooked beautifully, entertained frequently and who were available on both weekdays and weekends. In trooped Candice Foong, Tricia Especkerman, Rekha Sekhar and Alizakri Alias.

Then we needed partners, whose products complemented The Weekend Chef in terms of usability and style. Up stepped IKEA, La Bodega Deli and Nestle.

Next, we needed photographers who snapped for passion rather than money, who were unafraid and willing to go the extra mile. Enter Kevin Han and Yan Sean.

Finally, we needed a food stylist who understood our style, who would be easy to work with and who had an eye for style. Candice accepted the challenge.

Armed with this ensemble, we marched forth to create a cookbook that would be the first of its kind in Malaysia, and possibly in the world. Like with every other project, we had expectations of this one too – hard work, long hours, coordinating conflicting schedules, as well as endless research and planning. What we didn’t expect was to have more fun than we imagined!

One of the first few shoots was conducted at Tricia’s apartment. She had put together two menus, which Candice dubbed Vegetable Fiesta and Rustic Italian. When we arrived at 10am, the mushroom soup was bubbling merrily on the stove, the cherry cheesecake and papaya pie were sitting pretty in the fridge and a gorgeous array of fresh vegetables lay on the kitchen counter.

After the compulsory shot of caffeine, we got down to business. Yan Sean and her team set up the lighting, Candice began peeling vegetables and I assumed my spot by the kitchen sink. Washing up can be very therapeutic!

When the first dish was carried to the makeshift studio, the real work began. First the lighting had to be perfect – not too clinical and not too warm. Then the food had to be styled in a way that would make even a kitchen virgin grab an apron and oven mitt. This could be anything from shooting the dish in its entirety and zooming in on any tantalizing bits to slicing, breaking, scooping and piercing it. Each serving of food was placed in a variety of tableware from bowls and plates and to saucers and pans. Different textures were used, from wooden and ceramic to plastic and glass. It was shot with and without cutlery, given a messy and clean look, as well as raw and cooked. And that was just one dish. We shot a total of six dishes that day. By the time we wrapped up at 4pm, we were dead on our feet. But as we sank down to tuck into the amazing food, all of us had a satisfied twinkle in our eyes. Well, all except Tricia, who was craving a hot bath and deep sleep.

The cookbook photo shoot was nothing like the meal story shoots we’ve done for the website. This shoot demanded a more intense, detailed and creative approach which each of us strived to achieve. But despite the added responsibility, The Weekend Chef still worked its magic. It brought strangers together over food once again.

Throughout the six-hour shoot, there was a steady flow of laughter and banter. For all of us, it was our first attempt at a food project of this magnitude, but instead of working against us, our amateur status strengthened the camaraderie as we encouraged, supported, inspired and helped each other produce the best work possible. It was a wonderful feeling to look at each other at the end of the day and say, “That was fun!”

The Weekend Chef’s Rules Of Food Photography

• Always bring more props than you need. Creativity knows no bounds at a photoshoot.
• Never interrupt the chef while s/he’s cooking. We did and were punished with ten ruined gnocchi balls.
• Pleas like ‘Wait, wait, WAIT!’ have no place at a food shoot. Once the food has melted, cooled or burnt, there’s no turning back.
• If your hands buckle under pressure, do not volunteer to carry out any instructions that involve the words ‘just a drop’, ‘very carefully’, ‘very fine’ and ‘slowly’.
• Not everything is possible with Adobe Photoshop. Yet.
• If the chef is lifting a delicate piece of food and it wobbles dangerously, do not shout. Do not even whimper.
• Do have lots of paper towels ready. Accidents happen.
• Do not try to be perfect. Like real people, real food has its beloved flaws.
• Do not be afraid to experiment. You’ll know when you’ve gone overboard - the photographer will refuse to shoot.
• Do argue. The best ideas are born from differences in opinion.
• Do not feel obligated to carry on an endless conversation with the chef. S/he needs to concentrate and your chatter will be just white noise.

*Sorry can't provide pictures. I have no idea how to reduce the massive size and my creative producer is on leave!

Heart of Steel

2006-06-16T00:08:00.000-07:00

"Kathy likes romance," my sister informed me, as I searched for books to lend my grandmother's Filipino maid.

I brightened. Surely I would have a couple of Danielle Steel tearjerkers - a staple in my literary diet during my high school years - tucked away in the corner of my book drawer. It turned out that 'a couple' was a gross understatement. I pulled out book after book, my jaw slacking further and further, until a healthy pile of ten books lay before me. TEN BOOKS! After years of indulging in the likes of Cornwell, Grisham, Walker, Allende and other authors whose names I happily dropped over dinner with fellow book lovers, this revelation was flabbergasting and embarrassing. Had I read them to live vicariously, to learn a lesson or two or because I was a hopeless romantic? Suddenly, I was eager to relive my teenage years.

Picking up a book, I read the first chapter and the memories came rushing back. I had loved my Danielle Steel collection. So did my friends. These books were considered the Playboy-version of high school, but we smuggled them in and exchanged them anyway. The love affairs grew easier when I entered college. My housemate and I scoured the book rentals shops for them and I remember one evening when she walked into my room, tears streaming down her face, clutching a Steele book to her heart and wailing, "Oh my god, that was so sad!". Then we proceeded to dissect the plot, much to the disgust of our male housemates.

Each time I read a Steel book, I lingered over her description of the heroine. Gorgeous hair, multi-talented, procelain skin, model-like statistics, intelligent, able to carry a conversation on anything, brave...in other words, every single attribute that fell under the Perfection category. And I wanted desperately to be like that. I would stare in the mirror and complete imperfection would stare back at me. I used to wonder that it was like to be born beautiful and happy. I envied those fictituous characters. Looking back, it shocks me to realise that it never once occured to me that such women don't exist. I believed in them and I wanted to be them. And that was the beginning of my inferiority complex.

Then four years ago, out of the blue, I picked up the latest Steel book and couldn't get past the first chapter. It was like revisiting an old friend only to discover that she had undergone a personality transplant. I couldn't connect with Steel anymore. As I read the book I was about to lend Kathy, I suddenly understood why. I had grown up. I no longer equated physical beauty with inner happiness. I had learnt that our imperfections make us perfect and that happiness already exists within us, if we allow ourselves to see it. Danielle Steel's sugary characters and storyline no longer wove magic in my imagination. Her books fed my fantasies back then and I'm grateful for that, but I wish I had also discovered another writer whose words would have given me a good shake and burst my bubble of a perfect world.

In the ashram, we had an option of taking a spiritual name. However my American-air-stewardess roommate decided she didn't need one. A few days later she changed her mind. When I asked her why, she said, "Being in a career where looks are everything, I have been battling with my self-image for the past eight years. Yesterday, I suddenly realised that I am happy with the way I am. I have never felt so strongly and clearly about this before. It feels like I've just begun a new chapter of my life."

And that's the way I felt as I looked at my Steel collection. I had begun a new life once I stopped believing in the pictures she painted and created new pictures from life's lessons instead. Having said that, I still believe in one thing she taught me. That a fairytale love really does exist. I believe it because I'm living it and as corny as it sounds, it's exactly what she promised it would be.

So should I pick another one up?

Fever Food & Etiquette

2006-06-08T19:25:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from a food article I wrote for The Weekend Chef.)

• Do experiment with new dishes, but don’t expect any feedback. This is an opportunity to get creative without criticism.
• Do not cook anything that requires more than one cutlery to eat. In other words, don’t serve leceh food.
• Do not go out of your way to cook anything special. The Fan won’t notice.
• Do not cook anything that gets soggy or dry after 15 minutes. The Fan will only take a bite every 15 minutes.
• Do not ask if The Fan needs a refill. Just refill. And always do it from the side or back or during half-time.
• Do ensure the fridge is stocked with Coke, beer and The Fan’s favourite mixer.
• Do stock sausages, nuggets or anything The Fan can fry in a jiffy. Just in case s/he decides to watch a replay in his/her mind.
• If you decide to watch the match, don’t even think of starting a conversation over Buffalo wings.
• Anything that can be eaten with bread or dunked into chilli sauce is always a winner.
• Do not serve anything that will permanently stain the sofa or carpet when The Fan leaps up to shout in triumph or defeat.
• If The Fan’s team is playing, do make an effort to include the team colours in the meal.
• Do serve the food in plastic or paper plates or even Tupperware. This way if The Fan’s team misses a goal or loses the match, you won’t have to spend the rest of the night picking up tiny shattered ceramic pieces.
• Do invest in a large ice bucket because if The Fan misses a crucial moment while getting another beer, it will be your fault.

10 Simple Pleasures

2006-06-01T20:08:00.000-07:00

Jane Sunshine posted another meme on her blog and as usual, I couldn't resist. In my opinion, such trivial pursuits were created especially for Fridays when the mind starts gearing up for the weekend. So here are the 10 things that bring stars to my eyes (in no order of importance):

1. Hot coffee, cold tiramisu or cheesecake, a warm bed and a deliciously good book during a raging thunderstorm
2. Unexpectedly good writing from my own pen (or keyboard)
3. Sliding effortlessly into a yoga pose I've been practicing for months
4. Smooth flowing traffic on the Federal and Sungai Besi Highways
5. Meeting someone and instantly knowing you want to be friends forever - I've met 4 such people this year
6. A new handbag
7. A business meeting that finishes early in a shopping mall that houses a sprawling bookstore
8. A holiday with P
9. A party!!
10. Making someone else happy

Who's The Teacher?

2006-06-01T08:31:00.000-07:00

"Never forget that you are the teacher."

I was about to hold my first yoga class and had asked David Byck, a friend and experienced teacher, for eleventh hour advice. But his reply wasn't the flash of illumination I had hoped for. In fact, it sounded rather conceited.

"No, not like that," he explained. "What I mean is that it's all right if you forget a pose or two. It doesn't mean you're not good enough, it just means you've felt that they aren't ready for it yet."

Ah, this was exactly what I needed to hear. That I didn't have to be perfect and that I shouldn't expect to perform at the same level as my teacher. I entered the class with an added sense of confidence and exited an hour later slightly deflated. Despite mentally warning myself that this class would be worlds apart from those in the ashram, I still wasn't prepared for the complexities of teaching. It was tough!

Tough paying attention to more than one misaligned body. Tough concentrating on my words, my actions and my thoughts all at the same time. Tough trying to find the middle ground between command and compassion. Tough not being distracted by the other teacher and the students' varying reactions. And most of all, tough standing in front of a class instead of among it.

On my way home, I replayed and dissected my class. The feedback I received had one common theme - the class wasn't strong enough. At first I assumed they meant physically, but the more I thought about it the more I was certain it ran deeper than that. Then the illuminating flash arrived. Instead of guiding the students into following my rhythm, I had allowed them to suck me into theirs. Each time they displayed a hint of fatigue, I would immediately instruct them to release the pose instead of go deeper into it. By not pushing them, I stopped them from discovering their abilities and enjoying the class. I handed the student the reins and let them lead the class. In other words, I forgot exactly what David told me never to forget - that I am the teacher.

The good news is that it was the first of many classes and the last in which I will make this mistake.

Tagging Myself

2006-05-26T02:39:00.000-07:00

I got this from Jane Sunshine's blog and I couldn't resist. A very pleasant way to pass a wet and dismal Friday evening, I must say! And I'm tagging anyone who reads this because I love to see what gems others come up with!

I AM craving a slice of hot apple crumble pie.

I JUST NOW emailed a proposal to a promising new client.

I SAID no to an offer of partnership in a promising new venture.

I WANT to go home right this minute, curl up in bed with my favourite chocolate-coated orange biscuits and read my new books.

I WISH I could afford every single item in Marks & Spencer, all the books in Borders and an apartment in Bangsar.

I HATE Sunday nights.

I MISS the vegetarian food in India.

I FEAR that I will never be a good enough writer or yoga teacher.

I HEAR the rain on the window.

I WONDER if I should get a cat.

I REGRET not buying more books from India. They are so cheap there!

I AM NOT going to allow unimportant people to upset me anymore.

I SING very rarely and always reluctantly.

I CRY silently when it hurts the most.

I AM NOT ALWAYS nursing a food craving. Sometimes it’s coffee, books or handbags.

I MADE three strangers smile today.

I WRITE with passion.

I CONFUSE myself when I think too much.

I NEED to stop procrastinating.

I SHOULD listen more to my inner voice.

I START teaching my first yoga class next Tuesday.

I FINISH reading a very good book soon and will be entering a brief period of mourning.

Back To Life

2006-05-21T22:13:00.000-07:00

I feel as though the pinprick of light in a dark room has suddenly grown to thumbnail-size and I'm overwhelmed by the extra view.

India and the ashram was nothing short of amazing! The tiny ashram stood proud on the banks of the Ganges river, surrounded by the magnificent Himalayan range. The entire place throbbed with energy that gradually seeped into our bodies and made us feel like it was the safest, happiest, most peaceful place on earth. The daily 10 hours of yoga - includes meditation, chanting, philosophy lectures, karma yoga, Bhagavad Gita study and asanas - was gruelling at first but by the third week, our only concern was how to go back to our old life again. And to get used to the fact that we're now fully qualified yoga teachers!

Before I left, I said I would come back with a backpack full of stories to tell. Now I'm not so sure anymore. What I experienced was so deep that attempting to put it into words would mean coming across as a nutcase! :) However, I'm toying with the idea of writing a book about it when I'm ready so perhaps that would work out better. I'll also post up some pictures once I get them developed.

All I'll say now is that these past five weeks have been the best thing I've done for myself!

I'm Off!!!

2006-04-12T23:23:00.000-07:00

Finally THE DAY has come. I'm boarding a plane for India tonight, will be staying in New Delhi for two days, then on Saturday morning board the express train to Hardwar and a taxi to the Sivananda Ashram in Kutir. The picture above will be my home for the next five weeks. How do I feel? Thrilled beyond belief!!

So wish me luck, that I pass the ashram exams and the emotional and physical tests. I'll be back next month with a backpack full of stories to tell!

Adios amigos!!

How Could I Forget?

2006-03-28T20:37:00.000-08:00

It seems like a century has slipped past since I last looked at this blog! So much has happened in the past few days - my first poetry reading and wine dinner, countless business meetings, making new friends, Silverfish's looming short story deadline, yoga philosophy classes. It's been a rollercoaster of fun, frenzy and fatigue. But until two days ago, only one item on my to-do list was brandishing the Worry-Incessantly-About-Me-Now placard. My impending yoga trip to India.

How could October 2005 be six months ago? It feels like the ink hasn't even dried on my application form and I'm already dusting off my backpack. I leave in exactly 2 weeks. The very thought makes me freeze momentarily.

I've practiced yoga for over two years, I have a daily one-hour home practice, I've read countless books, my teacher has been generously 'tutoring' me in yoga philosphy for the past few weeks, I can chant the entire 24 lines of the opening prayer in Sanskrit by heart...and I'm not ready for this trip at all. Each time I have a bad practice, I ask myself what made me think I could be a teacher. When I have a good practice, I ask myself if it will be good enough for THEM. I wonder if I would be the only one there who can't nestle my head in my feet in a backbend, stand motionless on my head or stay awake during meditation. Each time these thoughts race through my mind, I feel my excitement draining faster than KL's irrigation system. It came to the point where I almost regretted enrolling.

Then, two days ago, I was given the priviledge of reading a new friend's book manuscript. The author is an Ashtanga practitioner and the book, It's A Long Way To The Floor, details his yogic journey. I read the book in record time, partly because the writing flowed so well and mostly because it summoned every one of my insecurities to the surface. The author had battled with the same issues I did when I first started - competitiveness, pride, frustration and disappointment. Over time, these negative emotions were replaced by the same emotions that spurred me to walk this spiritual path - patience, acceptance, humility, surrender, peace and pure happiness. By the time I reached the tenth chapter, I remembered why I fell in love with yoga in the first place. Because of how it made me feel, not because of what it made me do. I realise that I will never be completely ready for this experience and perhaps I'm not supposed to be. After all, I'm going there to learn and if I think I already know everything, then I will miss out on everything.

My excitement has begun slowly creeping back and now, I can't wait to get on that plane. I am ready now. So thank you David Byck for reminding me of everything I briefly forgot.

Feng Shui For Writers

2006-03-19T16:50:00.000-08:00

Something I found on www.about.com that relates to my previous post. Perhaps one of these might work for you!

Never sit with your back to the door.  
If you can’t see what’s going on, you and your work will suffer. Instead, face the door and have a solid wall behind your back so that you feel supported, protected and in a position of power.
The reason my writing takes so long is because I CAN see what’s going on!

Create a clean environment.
A cluttered, messy, or dusty workspace is a distraction from your work. You should always be able to find what you need when you need it.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think my mother slipped this one in.

Add a small plant, aquarium, or fountain in the southeast corner of your office. 
The southeast is the corner of creation and writing. Adding a plant, water fountain or aquarium here will help you grow as a writer by infusing this area with harmonious elements. The southeast is also the wealth sector, and by enhancing this area you might just also earn more from your writing.
Does a coffee pot with plant motives count? It’s still liquid, what!

Use a crystal for concentration.
Place a quartz crystal in the northeast corner of your desk, which is the direction of study and wisdom, to help your concentration and focus.
I have to figure out where to move my twin tower of unread books first.

Boost the south wall of your office for fame and recognition.
If you are trying to catch a publisher’s eye or market your articles/book, place work you’ve sold, prizes or awards you’ve won, diplomas, certificates, or pictures or letters from famous people on the south wall. Be sure to have a light positioned to shine on this wall and the accolades hanging there.
Carson Kressley would pass out from the sheer tackiness.

Keep open space on and around your desk.
Good feng shui is like creativity - it must be flowing. But, creativity and good energy cannot flow if your desktop is overly crowded or you can’t walk around your desk easily. Keep an open space in front of your desk so good energy can accumulate here, and around your work area so that good energy and creativity can flow easily around it.
My writing desk is like Shah Alam during a downpour. Nothing can move anywhere.

If you must stack up your work, stack it up behind you or to your left rather than in front of you on your desk where it will appear as something insurmountable.

L-shaped desks are very inauspicious (they look like a cleaver), so avoid these desk configurations.

Where Writers Write

2006-03-16T21:04:00.000-08:00

Last month, I struggled with a major upheaval in my life. I had to evacuate my current favourite writing spot because sitting on the floor was too uncomfortable and after tolerating my indifference to for a few weeks, my back retaliated with vicious spasms. Following Thom Felicia’s advice to get rid of furniture you don’t use, I banished my dining table to the balcony, threw out the coffee table and bought a low-rise Japanese-style dining table, which I use for dinner, writing and displaying unread books. It didn’t take me long to realise that such tables are NOT designed for the creation of long or short stories. So I had to move. But where?

The balcony table had been subject to hail and high water and now resembled a volcanic landscape. The side table wasn’t big enough to spread out all my stuff. That left the proper writing table in my study. It’s a decent size, with three drawers and ample surface space for four piles of books, a stationary holder, a pile of notebooks and a vase. The only problem was that I didn’t like its location. My study is the 1 bit in the 2+1 apartments. Cosy but devoid of my much desired no morning light, wonderful sights and welcome distractions.

As I grouchily resigned myself to it, I thought about how every writer deserved to have a scared space where they could create great literary works to bestow upon the nation and world. Apparently, The Writers Room thought so too.

The Writers Room opened in 1978 to provide a workspace for urban writers in New York, who don't always have a quiet place to write at home. For a fee of $350 to $550 every half a year and a one-time $75 initiation fee, writers get one of 39 partitioned desks in the large loft, a separate typing room with four desks, a library with approximately 1,000 reference books and Internet access.

Why don’t we have something like that here? A better question would be, what would happen if we have something like that here? Would it really be used as a sacred writing space? I have my doubts.

Anyway, to make myself feel better, I poked around in a few writers’ lives to find out where they sow their creative seeds. My nosey questions:

1. Where is your favourite writing spot and do you have a proper writing table there?
2. If you do have a writing table, where did you get it and why do you like it?
3. What's the first thing you do when you sit down at your writing table?
4. What's on your writing table right now?
5. What would your dream writing spot be
6. Do you think writers should have a proper writing table or should creativity flow anywhere and everywhere?

Sharon Bakar, Teacher, writer and reader extraordinaire
1. A beautiful teak writing desk in my bedroom for the creative stuff. Articles get written in my "work room" on her computer.
2. Hand-made by Ching Lee in Taman Tun.
3. Close my eyes for a few seconds and take a few deep breaths to iron out any kinds of tension.
4. Writing books which make myself
5. Outside ... in a garden or by the sea
6. Both ... you should take advantage of time to write wherever you are ...

Hisham Harun, Editor
1. Strangely, I like doing work at the internet cafe near Mid Valley (so that when I get tired, I'd just walk over to the Mall) Sometimes, it's at Baskin Robbins, Jalan Telawi.
2. I have one at home. Got it at a furniture store. But its become a CD/Karaoke CD and DVD rack. It's difficult to get work done at home.
3. In the office, I just switch on my computer and get on the Net to read my mail.
4. PC, Books, Files, papers strewn all over, calendar....
5. Preferably at home, but can't seem to find the right spot. Or it could just be me... I'm a little odd.
6. The latter.

Janet Lee, Copywriter
1. Table in my room facing the garden. I go there when I want ideas to flow. The I have my computer table, in another room, my office-at-home. It is on the other side of the house, facing the front garden.
2. My beautiful round creation table was painted for my by my cousin David, who’s a brilliant artist.
3. Put some blank paper in front of me. Maybe light a scented candle. Wait for a cat to jump up and plonk himself on my blank paper.
4. Aaarrgh! It’s a mess. All sorts of junk is on it! I haven’t been working here for a while.
5. That is my dream spot. I feel so at peace there.
6. It’s really up to the individual, I think. I love my round table in my creation room, but I can also work anywhere – just need a notebook (real one, not a laptop) and a purple pen.

Marisa Misron, Associate Editor
1. Since I write on my computer, it has to somewhere on a proper desk and comfortable chair. I have a computer table, does that count as a writing table?
2. N/A
3. Read that last thing I wrote.
4. Magazines, dictionaries, pens, books.
5. In a shady, breezy spot on a white, sandy beach and there's wifi.
6. I think writers should have a proper space to work in so that they know if and when they're in that zone, they are supposed to be WORKING and not WAFFLING. having said that, I waffle all the time!

An Unexpected Climax

2006-03-12T03:55:00.000-08:00

I’m currently working on a book project, which is a collection of short stories on life in the hotel industry. The tales are courtesy of housekeeping, concierge, room service, porters, waiters, chefs and even restroom attendants from a variety of hotels in South-East Asia.

My client, a hotelier himself, has been busy collecting these stories from current and former colleagues, and each time we meet he regales me with the Story Of The Week. We met again recently and after talking shop, he leaned forward with grin and said, “I just heard this from a friend in X Hotel.”

An attractive local woman had checked in and ordered room service. When the boy/man brought up her meal, she demanded a snog. The boy/man refused. She replied that if he remained a stubborn mule, she would slap him with a molest charge. So he conceded, one thing led to another and Durex’s had yet another satisfied client. After that, they parted ways.

However, Madam Seductress slinked about the hotel for a few more weeks during which she blackmailed two more employees into doing the karmasutra. Eventually this word leaked out and for some reason, the hotel's management decided to spot chekc her room. They found a hidden camera. Madam Seductress was filming a DIY porn movie. What happened next, only the corporate communications and CEO knows.

But I wonder how those three guys feel. I'm sure they never expected a climax like this!

It All Started With A Book

2006-03-06T16:20:00.000-08:00

So Brokeback Mountain didn't make a grand sweep. I'm still trying to get over the disappointment. Especially since I haven't had the opportunity to enjoy Crash yet and am terribly biased in my choice of 'Best Motion Picture'. But there are some consolations.

Ang Lee's triumph, for one. If only one person from the Brokeback team landed an Oscar I would have wanted it to be him. He truly deserved it for (as Proulx) herself put, 'making the screen better than the page'. Courage, faith and love. That's what he truly won the Oscar for.

The other sweet moment was Larry McMurtry's speech, in which he reminded the hundreds of millions of Brokeback fans that it was a book first. I felt a deep gratitude towards him for acknowledging the invisible and often forgotten creators of the many magnificent adapted screenplays, and for also paying tribute to the wonderful culture of the books.

And as I watched the nominees for the Best Foreign Language Film category, I made a little wish that one day, Malaysian filmakers the likes of Yasmin Ahmad will see their works of art vying for the golden statue. Who knows? Sometimes wishes do come true.

Have No Fear...But Listen To Your Gut

2006-02-28T15:49:00.000-08:00

After weeks of inelegant grunts and mutterings of despair, I finally saw the world upside down today. In simple terms, I managed to do the headstand. And it got me feeling higher faster than ten consecutive shots of tequila. Not only because I had reached another milestone in my yoga life but also because I had chopped off another layer of fear.

I am afraid of heights. Anything that involves rising past the fourth rung on a ladder invokes instant palpitations, which renders me hopeless at hanging up wind chimes, cleaning any ceiling apparatus, stilt-walking, mountain climbing, bungee-jumping…you get it. Add that to the fear of being upside down and you’ve got a whopper on your hands.

While inversions fascinate me, they also scare the hell out of me and I always find some excuse or another to avoid them. But being an admiring spectator in class very quickly became a yawn. I wanted to feel it for myself.

My initial attempts made me feel like a sack of potatoes but ignoring my bruised ego and scalp, I continued kicking my way up, determined to conquer both the pose and my fears. It would be many days later before I realised that sometimes, triumph is borne not out of conquering but surrendering. So I piled the fattest cushions I could find around me and prepared to surrender to whatever happened.

I displayed my soles to Heaven for a full split-second before crash-landing onto the soft mound. I had done it! I had allowed myself to go as high as possible and to fall, and now that I knew what that felt like, there was no unknown to fear anymore. Two weeks later and I managed to go all the way up and stay up today.

Buoyant, I completed the rest of my practice and just before rolling up the mat, decided to do a repeat performance. But the cushions were all tidied away. Never mind, do without them. Of course you can!

As my head sunk gently into the mat, a little voice piped up, “Maybe you should just get the cushions just in case.’ And almost immediately, another voice filled with super-confidence, boomed, ‘No need la!’

So up I went. And down I came again, in the same breath. Crashing onto the floor like a sack of potatoes again. Pride had literally come before the fall. And that fall was a hard one!

So have no fear but trust your instincts. The difference between the two? Fear will rattle off in breathlessly excitement all the reasons for not doing it. Your instincts will tell you, with quiet certainty, why you should but perhaps at better time or in a better way.

Book Hunting

2006-02-23T18:16:00.000-08:00

It's very depressing to wake up to a beautiful morning with a scratched throat, messy nose and a steadily climbing temperature. But the only good thing that came out of this blasted flu is that I took a day off work and managed to finished reading Mistress of Spices. Didn't quite live up to expectations but good for days when medication makes you nod off in midsentence and you can pick up from where you slept off without re-reading the entire chapter.

Despite the hacking and sniffling, I'm back at work, not because of any relentless ambition, but just so I don't feel guilty when I trawl the Times warehouse sale during lunch break. My conscience is well-trained to the point of being annoying.

This will be my second trip to the sale as I made a measly purchase of 5 books the first time. Sacriligeous for a self-proclaimed bookworm! But I did manage to unearth a book I've been hunting for - The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst. But because it's so thick, I have a sneaking suspicion that it's going to be gathering an impressive layer of dust on my bookshelf. But there's nothing like the thrill of running your eyes over rows and rows of books and feeling that jolt of excitement when you spot a gem. It's a feeling that will never dull with time.

Being kiasu as I usually am when it comes to books, I drove all the way to Kelana Jaya on the same day to check out the MPH sale. Was in and out within 15 minutes. Very disappointing. Limited selection, average discounts and too many screeching children. Had to battle an overpowering urge to kick a couple of kids who were pretending to be superheroes. Probably caught this nasty flu bug from one of those brats too.

Ah well, at least I have the prefect excuse to avoid all boring social functions this weekend and curl up with my new books!

A Trip Into My Bookshelves

2006-02-19T20:28:00.000-08:00

Jane Sunshine sent me a book meme which resulted in my Monday morning productivity coming to a screeching halt while I spent many delicious minutes doing this.

1. What is the total number of books you've owned?
Over 100. It would be more if I was rolling in ringgit and could buy instead of rent them.

2. What is the last book you bought?
A Gathering of Spirit; A Collection by North American Indian Women. Stumbled on it while pretending to browse the New Age section in Payless Books so I could eavesdrop on a fat man airing his disdain of gays to the cashier. The minute I picked it up, I found myself paying for it.

3. What is the last book you've read?
The Bus Stopped by Tabish Khair. It looked so promising and I was on the waiting list for three months, but it turned out to be a disappointment. This is when I'm grateful for book rentals.

4. What are you currently reading?
A Gathering of Spirit
A lovely collection of short stories and poems from North American Indian Women about their lives, beliefs, struggles and triumphs.

Salina - A. Samad Said
A little simplistic and waffly, but I want to finish it because apparently things start getting interesting after the halfway mark. Plus, each person I mention it to has the same reaction - wide eyes, small gasp and exclamation of 'ooh that book was quite startling!'.

The Quiet American - Graham Greene
Slow moving and rather dry but I'm somehow still interested in finishing it.

Close Range and Other Stories - Annie Proulx
Am halfway through the second story and I love the way she manages to fit so much into so few pages without making the story feel rushed.

Mistress of Spices - Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Just started this yesterday and adore it! If it's not obvious by now, I have a soft spot for Indian writers and New Age stuff.

5. What are the 5 books that have meant a lot to you or that you particularly enjoyed?
A Fortune Teller Told Me - Tiziano Terzani
I have bought a copy for all my bookworm friends. Terzani has a great sense of humour, a razor sharp eye and a gift of description.

I Dreamed of Africa, African Nights & Night Of The Lions - Kuki Gallmann
I'm going to cheat by lumping all these three titles together! I fell in love with Africa and Kuki's writing within the first chapter of I Dreamed of Africa. She writes with such passion and honesty. Even more amazing is that she only started learning English after leaving Italy for Kenya.

City of Beasts - Isabel Allende
The first time I read it before sleeping, I had the most amazing dream and it instantly became my bedtime book. It got to the point where I would slip under the covers in a state of excitement and read a couple of pages before turning out the light. It sounds crazy and I hardly know how to explain it but the dreams I had were nothing liek I've ever had before. I used to wake up euphoric. Obviously, I was heartbroken when I reached the last page!

By The Light of My Father’s Smile, Alice Walker
This book made Alice Walker one of my favourite writers. Two sisters discover sex and love in their own ways but the writing is never crude. She spins their discoveries in a wise, magical, startlingly insightful web.

Bono The Biography, Laura Jackson
I finished this book and thought, when I grow up I want to marry Bono. This was last July. I'm not a big fan of U2, but I would give my right arm to meet Bono. He's the most inspiring celebrity I've read about and it makes me ashamed that I'm not even half as busy as him and I still find excuses to put philantrophy on hold.

6. What book(s) would you wish to buy next?
Light On Life - B.K.S. Iyengar
Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro
Serving With Curry - Amulya Malladi
Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
Teacher Man: A Memoir - Franck McCourt
On Beauty - Zadie Smith

7. What book(s) that caught your attention but never has a chance to read?
The Year of Magical Thinking - Joan Didion
The Line of Beauty - Alan Hollinghurst
Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path To Higher Creativity - Julia Cameron

I somehow can't seem to find them amidst the commercial books. Or maybe I'm not looking hard enough.

8. What book(s) that you've owned for so long but never read it?
Grapes of Wrath - John Steinback
Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
Touching Earth - Rani Manicka
Tibet; My Story - Jetsun Prema

At the beginning of each month, I declare "THIS WILL BE THE MONTH!". At the end of the month, I look desparingly at the untouched books and make my declaration in a louder voice.

9. Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?
I normally don't force these things on people, but this time I'll give in to my curiosity. Only two people on my list though.
Bibiobibuli - because she has such a diverse and interesting taste in books. (If you've already done it, just point me in the right direction!)
Yasmin Ahmad - because I would love to know her taste in books. Though I doubt she will see this post!

My Literary Investment

2006-02-16T09:45:00.000-08:00

I received a PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL letter from MPH today.

Congratulations! You have qualified for MRC Rebates! its contents crowed.

Apparently I had spent RM667.83 in 6 months. RM667.83! Where did that money come from?

But that's in the past. It doesn't matter now. What matters now is the future and whether I'll be able to find the same amount of money to blow during next week's MPH sale.

It's Not About The Food

2006-02-15T19:33:00.000-08:00

There was a time when I loved to cook. When I adored scouring both dusty and crisp recipe books for tantalising meals. When I ate new dishes with my mind, heart and mouth, curling my tongue around every morsel and indulging every tastebud. When I cooked purely for the joy of creation, expression, emotional fulfillment and the gentle boost of ego.

But that was a long time ago.

That was way back when I was a university student in Down Under, living alone for the first time and faced with two choices - endure a diet of take-outs or enjoy wholesome home-cooked food. Since the well-stocked hypermarket was right across the road, the choice was obvious. I was ambitious in my first attempt, choosing to whip up a batch of chocolate chip muffins. They turned out beautifully and I became a faithful fan of Pillsbury’s muffin mix. Two months and five batches of muffins later, I met Robert. We had studied in the same college back home and our paths had crossed before, but we had never said more to each other than the polite greeting. Little did I know he would soon become my culinary mentor.

Before long, our tentative amicability exploded into a full-blown friendship, and with it came a journey into food heaven. Robert, an architecture student, was an amazing ‘chef’. He loved food and more importantly, he understood it. He knew how a certain herb would completely transform a dish and which ingredients would result in a richer flavour, smoother texture and deeper colour. He knew how to clean fish, pick the freshest fruit and vegetables, and turn an ordinary dish into a masterpiece with a few sprinkles of impromptu ingredients.

The first time I set foot in a wet market was with Robert. Every Saturday at 7am sharp, he would softly beep his car horn outside my window and I would stumble bleary-eyed downstairs, clutching my shopping list. As we trawled the market, he would banter with the various sellers, asking questions and exchanging tips. I stood beside him soaking up all this.

Then we would drive to his home, where we would unload the groceries, lay out the necessary ingredients and utensils, and start on Sunday brunch. While we chopped, grated and sliced, we talked about our lives. My then boyfriend, his ex-girlfriend, the places we wanted to go, our assignments, lecturers, mutual friends, hopes, dreams, fears and our lives back home. We laughed, empathised, argued, advised, scolded, taught, learned and reached out. When the actual cooking began, the wonderful aromas that filled the cosy kitchen would massage away the last of our reservations and pull us closer together.

Each dish we created became yet another piece in the tapestry of our shared lives. Our conversations flowed as effortlessly as the chocolate icing, our bond was as thick as the beef stroganoff and our enthusiasm as fresh as the garden salad.

Then as suddenly has he walked into my life, he walked out. I was confused and heartbroken. It was then that I realised it wasn’t about the food anymore. It was about the friendship. Although Robert eventually stepped back into my circle, the magic was gone and we never embarked on our food journeys again. But that dark cloud had a silver lining - I was now able to take new trips with other people. So I did.

Jeff and I discussed music as he jammed his cowboy hat on his head and taught me to make his special country Bolognese. With Yvonne, I learnt self-confidence and inner strength, even as we scratched our heads over her mother’s pang su si recipe. Daphne and I talked so much about relationships that the birthday cake we were baking for a party that evening burned. Ryhan revealed what really goes on in a guy’s head, as we threw together ingredients for spicy Indonesian fried rice. And Roger cultivated my taste for history as we barbecued in the Australian Outback.

That year, I had the most intimate brush with food as I’ll ever get. And I loved it! Since then, my culinary skills have somewhat improved but I have never been able to feel completely satiated, no matter how well a dish turned out. I've eventually realised that cooking isn’t just about the food, but the extra ingredients that you unconsciously throw into it. The warmth of good company, the pleasure of rich conversations, the blossoming of a deep friendship.

In Australia, the food was always perfect, but the true nourishment came from the experience.

Don't Think About Them...Yet

2006-02-14T15:33:00.000-08:00

I've just watched the Oprah episode featuring the cast of Brokeback Mountain. For such young people, they sure say profound stuff! But what struck me most was what Jake Gyllenhaal said about public reaction to the movie. He said they had no idea it would have such a powerful impact and if they did, they probably wouldn't have done it.

"You have go and you have to jump into it and if you’re thinking about a response from people while you’re doing it then there’s no way you’re going to be able to do it."

I think this should be in every writer's Code of Writing too. Too many editors and publishers holler 'write what your audience want, not what you want!' and while this is perfect for the sales and marketing team, it does zilch for the writer's creative process and emotional satisfaction.

If you're always wondering about your reader's response to every scene, you'll never get it right. No scene will be funny enough, sad enough, angry enough, poignant enough....because you'll be writing from other people's hearts and minds. Your writing will only have the desired effect when it holds a piece of your mind, heart and soul. because when you're honest about what you want, your readers won't be able to help wanting it too.

And then, your writing will be perfect.

Meditating With My Monkey

2006-02-12T18:28:00.001-08:00

It was my first meditation class and I was so terrified of falling asleep that I knocked back an extra shot of caffeine before leaving.

I was nervous. Meditation - or anything to do with being still for over a minute - is my Archille's heel. Which is why I have never had hair treatments, a full body massage or watched Lord of The Rings in the cinema. My mind, as my yoga teacher Parveen eloquently puts it, is like a monkey. Never staying on one branch of thought for a long time.

HOWEVER. Even worse than my Monkey Mind is my extraordinary gift for nodding off anywhere, anytime and often at the worst possible moments. So while the caffeine would probably send that monkey into spasms of hyperactivity, it was better than the humiliation of dropping off to sleep and having that horrible falling dream.

For the first five minutes of class, all six of us sat quietly in a softly lit room, accompanied by the delicate sounds of a flute. The Monkey hummed. I was still very awake and very pleased. Then Parveen padded into the room and softly said, "Today we'll practice a different kind of meditation called sleeping meditation. The challenge here is not only to focus your mind but to keep from falling asleep." In that instant, I knew my caffeine plan was doomed.

But I would not go down without a fight, so I ordered the Monkey to chant a mantra. Perhaps that would keep me awake. As soon as we were flat on our backs, the Monkey obediently began - I will stay awake, I will stay awake, I will stay awake.

I only regained consciousness when Parveen gently asked us to resume our sitting position. The Monkey stretched luxuriously. Then Parveen asked us to imagine a white light shining in the space between our eyebrows. The Monkey began chattering again. Allow the white light to send its rays across your forehead and down to your heart, Parveen said. Unable to visualise this white light for more than five seconds, I decided to focus on another serene image instead. I chose a still lake. My mental eye drank in it's serenity, soaked up the tranquility, swept acoss the landscape, rose to the mountain range behind it, caught sight of two cowboys on horseback...by the time the class was over, I had watched the first half of Brokeback Mountain in my mind's eye. So much for transcending from the physical body into the astral one.

But there's always the second class on Friday, so all hope is not lost just yet.

All 'Established' Writers Raise Your Hand

2006-02-09T23:10:00.000-08:00

"...We are talking about writing. I ask if they have ever thought of doing an issue devoted to the writing of Indian women. They are enthusiastic, ask me if I would edit such a collection. There is panic in my gut. I am not an 'established' writer. (To this day I don't know what those words mean.) I have never edited any work but my own. And I do not have the education. And to me, that says it all."

So lamented Beth Brant, the eventual editor of A Gathering Of Spirit, a powerful collection of short stories and poems by North American Women about North American Women. It was one of those books that jump of the shelves as you idly browse them. Thanks to Mentor, who suggested going to Payless instead of Borders during lunchbreak, this book came home with me today. But I'm digressing.

What I want to know, just like Brant does, is what makes an 'established writer'. Is it someone who has many published but poorly-received books? Someone who has won a literary prize? Someone whose work is only published online? A magazine journalist or reporter? A music, movie or book reviewer? Someone with credentials? And how many of us, like Brant, judge our writing abilities this way?

I've always believed that an established writer is someone whose work is widely read and enjoyed. Someone whose work inspires, delights, provokes and even enlightens. Someone who understands that words are not meant to be used as weapons but as beacons. Someone whose writing depicts his soul rather than his vast vocabulary or familiarity with 10-letter words. Someone whose opinions are respected and trusted because his writing is honest, strong and simple. Not because he is working for some hotshot publication or has published a book on How To Become The Next Malaysia's Most Beautiful. Some of the best writers I know are my own friends, who have yet to publish a book but who know more about writing than most local authors.

Second question - what qualifies one as an editor? Do you need credentials or a published book before you're allowed to even hold an aspiring author's manuscript? Or do you just need an intuition for a good story, a deep love for reading and an impeccable command of English? (Sorry, but the last is a must-have on my list.)
A fellow writer and I were tossing around names of possible editors for my book. He suggested someone who fits my above-mentioned criteria. I was reluctant to engage her, simply because I have a high regard for her opinion and was terrified she would be unimpressed at my work. (Yes, I know I have to set pride aside in this regard!) Anyway, my friend insisted on me calling her and inquired what books she had written. To my knowledge, this potential editor hasn't had any books published and I so I told him that.

His eyes immediately went cold and he sneered, "Then why is she passing herself off as a literary expert?"

"But she isn't," I corrected him. "Her readers view her as one because of her extensive knowledge, genuine love for books and generousity in sharing and spreading it."

Bottom line? Perhaps those who yearn to be known as 'established' writers should stop looking in the wrong places for affirmation. Perhaps they should start listening to their heart and their readers instead of indulging their ego and their idols. And perhaps people like my friend should look beyond contracts with MPH when assessing a person's literary strengths.

Someone Else's Voice Is In My Head

2006-02-07T18:28:00.001-08:00

It is impossible to work on one story when you have another playing in your head.

I'm in the midst of reworking a book and all I can hear are the voices of Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist. Even as I write, words from the book whisper in my ear, leaving me in helpless despair as my work pales in comparison. My dialogues seem like
thin broth, my scenes like cardboard cutouts and my characters like paper dolls. This always happens when I read a God's-gift-to-mankind book.

It's tough going back to your own writing after being moved by someone else's words. Some writers are able to admire and learn from another's elegant prose, but for me, once my breath is taken away it's a long time before I can catch it again. When that happens, I have to turn to one of my favourite sayings and mentally repeat it like a mantra.

"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart."

Old Wordsworth said that. Perhaps he too was wrestling with a mind that was stubbornly hanging on to someone else's writing? Probably not the case, but it's a comforting thought and I shall nurse it while I try to finish this damn book!

Sunday Blues

2006-02-05T15:07:00.000-08:00

I spent last night in tears.

Despite reading Brokeback Mountain twice (the second time aloud to PP) my emotions insisted on running amok when I watched the movie. By the time the credits rolled, the Mandarin orange I was clutching was liberally splashed with the saltiness of heartbreak. PP exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, 'Wow.' It was the perfect ending to a perfect holiday.

Besides the unexpected run-ins with startling family secrets, the glorious nine days were spent learning new card games, losing ang pau money during the traditional Chinese New Year family gambling, gorging myself silly and best of all, burying myself in books without a slightest tinge of guilt. I have my thumb in Salina, one finger in The Quiet American, another finger in The Bus Stopped and a third finger in The Light Of Yoga. The only book I completed was Sula by Toni Morrison, which to my surprise, I didn't quite enjoy. But I will give her another chance with Beloved.

Right now I'm trying to pull myself together in preparation to return to the real world tomorrow. I'm suffering from Sunday Blues again.

The Stories Of Six Women

2006-02-02T23:23:00.000-08:00

They lived in the Solitary Durian vicinity, sandwiched between New Hill and Bear Hill, and flanked by a chapel and a small kampung. Their white and red bungalow sat proudly on a generous slice of land, complete with rows of various coloured hibiscus, a vegetable patch, pots of roses and bougainvilleas, vines of morning glory and a throng of fruit trees. They lived in that red and white house, with its sunny kitchen, sprawling living room and three cosy bedrooms. A long time ago, three dogs and five children frolicked in and around the red and white house but the dogs have since died and the children have moved to the city, frequently returning to visit the original eight inhabitants of the house. And each time they returned, they were rewarded with another crumb of insight into the eight lives that existed before theirs.

The Old Man
An estate owner, and a proud and stern man with a legendary temper. So feared was he among his six daughters that they only spoke to him when necessary. If they needed money for school fees or books, he would find a little note strategically placed on the dining table in the morning. By sundown, the note would be gone and the exact sum left in its place. Time and age eventually tore down the barriers between him and his girls, allowing them to enjoy his sunset years together. When his time was up, his girls were heartbroken to see the man who once stood tall and erect, lying curled and crumpled in a hospital cot.

The Old Lady
She was her husband’s invisible pillar of strength. Of her six children, she only brought up the eldest, who is now her faithful companion. Her five grandchildren love her, but none of them know her name. To them, she’s just ‘Grandma’. Time has made her weary and slow on her feet, but her children make sure she always gets through another day.

First Daughter
Her illiteracy has cut her off from the rest of the world. The only place she knows is the red and white house and the only people she knows are the seven others who co-exist with her. The Old Man once brought her a suitor but she cried so hard, he never attempted it again. Perhaps her life would have been different had the old man allowed her to go to school, but it’s too late for such dreams.

Second Daughter
Her children believe she was destined to marry a crass, obscenely rich, Chinese foreman but she somehow wound up with a Portuguese postal clerk. Nevertheless, she has remained firmly rooted in the Chinese way of life, dabbling in feng shui and delighting in gold, 4D and Chinese superstition.

Third Sister
A devout Taoist, she declared to never marry after seeing her friends being made fools of by their men. Her cynicism manifested itself in her sharp tongue and bad-temper which belies the kind heart underneath.

Fourth Sister
A born daydreamer, her nightmare began when she fell in love with a married man who reciprocated her love. But his wife, who had no use for him anymore, refused to retract her claws from his arm. Their relationship was fraught with heartache but love still conquers all and after 15 years of waiting for each other, they were finally united.

Fifth Sister
She was walking home from school when the May 13th riots erupted. Taking shelter in a schoolmate’s house, she feared the worst for her family until The Old Man appeared at the doorstep. Her family was safe but she never forgot what she saw.

Sixth Sister
Fiercely independent, happy and lonely. The man she loved broke her heart when he turned out to be a fraud and a womanizer. From then on, she closed her heart to romance, throwing herself into family, religion and friendship instead.

These are the stories of the women who live in the red and white house. These are the stories of the women who live, love and laugh through their joys, sorrow, triumphs and defeats. These are the stories of the women in my family.

Moved By A Mountain

2006-01-27T15:50:00.001-08:00

I devoured Annie Proulx's Brokeback Mountain at the chiropractor's yesterday evening, while lying on my tummy, my face squashed into the gap in the massage bed and my hands curled around the bed to hold the precious book literally beneath my nose. As I read, jolts of electricity surged through me and I couldn't tell if they were from the prose or from the maze of electrolodes stuck on my back. I finished the story even before my session had ended and sighed aloud in gratification.

My therapist turned around. "What are you reading."

I flashed the book at her. "Is it good?" she asked.

I couldn't even begin to tell her just how good it was. The part that really got me was when Ennis enters Jack's room and spots Jack's blue jacket with his own 'missing' plaid shirt carefully tucked inside and brings it to his nose to inhale the scent of memories. I had to stop reading for a while to pull myself together. Raw, painful and honest. I loved it. And I think everyone, whether gay or straight, will love it too because it addresses the one thing that brings princes and paupers to their knees - the agony of love lost.

In a recent interview, Proulx said, "Straight men are seeing it, and they're not having any problem with it. The only people who would have problems with it are people who are very insecure about themselves and their own sexuality and who would be putting up a defense, and that's usually young men who haven't figured things out yet. Jack and Ennis would probably have trouble with this movie."

I have read countless comments on the movie but the most moving was from a visitor to the Brokeback Mountain website - I haven't seen it yet, but when I do, I know it will be a day for my soul.

Jungle Jeopardy

2006-01-24T18:25:00.000-08:00

(An article I wrote for a travel magazine. The unwritten sequel involved a major blowup, WW making Naomi Campbell look like Pollyanna and the death of a friendship. Moral of the story? Sometimes love just ain't enough.)

If you have spent a good part of your life sashaying down paved sidewalks and shiny shopping mall corridors, then you have no business tramping about in an unknown jungle without a guide, in bad light and with three other city slickers. Any fool would have known that. But we weren’t fools. We were optimists. And not just any optimists, but optimists gripped by a recklessness that only a holiday can drum up.

The motley crew consisted of WW, GS, SB and yours truly. We coated ourselves in mosquito repellant and assembled at the edge of the jungle, brimming with undisguised enthusiasm and well-concealed nervousness. Before setting off, we gave the jungle rules a once-over.

1. No plucking or snapping anything (unless it attacks you)
2. No littering
3. Stay together all the time
4. No lingering
5. No poking fun at any flora or fauna

It’s true what they say about people only remembering the first and last items on a list. It took all of five minutes for WW to break Rule #2. Assuming leadership position, she marched ahead in great strides leaving a faint trail of perfume for us to follow. GS scurried behind, shouting at her to slow down and bravely trying to keep up despite her bad leg. SB and I trudged at the back, eyes to the ground and muttering about ‘over-exertion’. When we looked up next, both our comrades had disappeared from sight. We stopped and pricked our ears. From beyond the lush fronds, we could hear GS still yelling her head off. But this time, her tone was panicked instead of exasperated. Suddenly she burst out of the greenness, wild-eyed and breathless. WW was gone.

Since WW is more a The Simple Life than a Fear Factor person, we didn’t worry about her plunging into the depths of wilderness. But after our search and rescue mission stretched past fifteen minutes, we were forced to face the startling possibility that she may have done exactly that.

So we put on our Adrian Monk hats and began retracing our steps. We explored every single fork in the trail, eliminating all those that involved climbing or wading. We kept our eyes peeled for signs – ANY signs – that indicated she may have passed through that area. And we abandoned the golden rule of never shouting a person’s real name in a jungle. According to a bunch of old wives, if the orang bunian (little people of the jungle) know your real name, they will mimic a friend’s voice to lead you into peril.

After 45-minutes, we were stumbling along on a wing and a prayer. Our feet ached, our throats were sore and our eyes strung. To top it off, the evening sun had begun casting warning shadows around us. Then, as it usually happens in the last 30 minutes of a movie, we suddenly stumbled upon the trail. Energised by this unexpected discovery we surged forward, confident that WW would be waiting with folded arms and a tapping foot at the other end. We were wrong.

Hope turned into fatigue and we were faced with the inevitable choices - continue searching and risk getting lost in the jungle at night or returning to camp (ie. wooden chalets) to keep vigil. We went with the second choice.

We got back just as twilight dropped its curtain. As the chalets came into sight, we saw something that made us stop in our tracks. A light shone bright in WW’s chalet. We pounded on the door and WW flung it open, squeaky clean and wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe with a matching towel around her head. Her story? She had waited for us to catch up, got scared and trotted back to camp.

Today, we can laugh about it. But that incident nudged me to review our jungle rules and make some minor amendments.

1. No plucking or snapping anything, unless you have to throw it at a Road Runner in front of you.
2. No littering, unless you’ve resorted to Hansel’s plan.
3. Stay together all the time, I repeat ALL THE TIME.
4. No lingering, unless you’re waiting for a comrade or the search and rescue team.
5. No poking fun at any flora, fauna or a slow comrade.
6. NO UNDERESTIMATING THE GREAT OUTDOORS!

No Dancing & No Stilettos

2006-01-23T01:32:00.000-08:00

“You have scoliosis.”

I met the chiropractor's revelation with a mixture of shock and relief. Shock because that was the last thing I expected to hear and relief because the pain I've been living with for the past few years finally has a name.

Scoliosis is a spinal condition where the spine is shaped like an S or a C instead of an I. In my case, it is the former. The curves nestle in my left shoulder blade and above my right hip. This in turn has led to uneven shoulders, a higher right hip, back muscles as hard as armour and frequent back and muscle aches. To add to the hodgepodge is my flat-footedness. Apart from interfering in my efforts to be the best athlete in school, my flat feet have also allowed the impact of the ground to travel straight up my knees and spine. An arch would have absorbed this impact. So how exactly did I live with the pain for so long? By holding steadfast to the myth that if you ignore it, it will go away.

I have always wondered about the stabbing pain in my lower back each time I sneezed, coughed and got up from lying on the floor or on my stomach. But since the pain had been a faithful companion since my teenage years, I diagnosed it as a i'm-still-alive-so-i-can-ignore-it-for-one-more-day kind of pain. Naturally, days turned into years and I grew accustomed to it.

Then I took up yoga and realised for the first time that my posture was rather odd. My right hip stuck out, my left back was more developed and my right shoulder blade jutted out a little. Again, I chalked it down to one of those unexplained but insignificant anomalies. I struggled in my yoga classes, unable to achieve certain poses that others glided into. I put it down to inflexibility and worked on lengthening my hamstrings and strengthening my back.

Last August, I was diagnosed with chronic muscle spasms in the upper back and told to seek treatment. Of course, I once again chanted my there's-always-tomorrow mantra. What finally led me to the chiropractor's chair was the increase in muscle pain after each yoga class. So now I know and everything has suddenly fallen into place.

Now I know why I can only find relief in a slumped posture. Why only the left side of my back hurts. Why I simply can't straighten my back in a headstand. Why I can walk painlessly only if I lie on my side.

I have packed up all my high heels to give away (doctor's VERY strict orders) and will now have to find confidence in every inch of my 154cm height. I have to abstain from Friday night jiving and have to wear a very uncomfrortable insole in my shoes for that dratted arch.

I'm writing this post in the hope that anyone who suffers from similar symptoms will not be as indifferent towards them as I was. Scoliosis isn't as obvious as a slipped disc. It's sneaky and very quiet. My chiropractor told me I was lucky to be in tune with enough with my body to know something was very wrong. And that I was lucky to see him in time. Had I waited a few years later, the spine would have become harder to manipulate and the discomforts would have escalated into excruciating pain.

In short, if you suspect something is wrong with your body go check it out ASAP. At best, it could turn out to be paranoia. At worst, it's not too late for treatment.

Books I Have Read In 2005

2006-01-17T15:04:00.000-08:00

Last night I forced myself to spring clean my writing table. Tucked in the corner of the lowest drawer was a handwritten list, proudly announcing to anyone who chanced upon it, the 'Books I Have Read In 2005'. I remembered last year's resolution. A resolution I made in July to make time to read more and taste a variety of authors. Glancing over my list, I saw that I had been brave. None of the names had been familiar to me six months ago. Pleased, I began counting them. The grand total? 23 books in six months. Both fiction and non-fiction. Not too bad for someone who only managed single digits in previous years. I ran through the list again, pausing after each book to observe the flashbacks of that reading experience. Here are some of them:

Chronicles of Narnia (Volume 1-3), C.S. Lewis
I had spotted this value-for-money edition while I was hurrying down the escalator in MPH. Eager to read it after horrifying a fellow writer with my unfamiliarity with C.S. Lewis, I snapped it up and invited it to be my companion on the long bus ride to Singapore. I devoured it on the trip back. With another half-hour more to go before we pulled into Pudu, I indulged in delicious daydreams about living in Narnia.

The Girl Who Married A Lion, Alexander McCall Smith
I still maintain my stand that this book is like flavourless gum. I only finished it because I kept telling myself to give the next story a chance. And also because I hate abandoning a book halfway.

By The Light of My Father's Smile, Alice Walker
I fell in love with Walker the instant my eyes fell on the cover. After the first chapter, I knew it would be an everlasting love. This book left me feeling like a bud of beauty and tenderness had been planted in me. I had to keep putting the book down every now and then to savour the beautiful phrases that are liberally sprinkled within its pages. Even after I finished it, I kept returning to it just to read ym favourite lines. And they still have the same effect on me.

Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neale Hurston
I love any book that involves women empowerment. the main character Janie lived up to expectations and gave me a little insight into why women stay with abusive men and what they're really thinking. This was a very emotionally satisfying book but reading it took time because of the African American slang. I tried reading the dialogue aloud and promised myself to never again do such a foolish thing.

Possessing The Secret of Joy, Alice Walker
This book was heavier than the previous, as it dealt with female genital mutilation. I remember how sickened I felt after reading it and it prompted me to do a little research on FGM. What I found out sickened me even more. But Walker addressed the subject without a direct appeal to emotions. She told a story and she told it beautifully.

The Lemon Table, Julian Barnes
I have no real complaints about Barnes' collection of short stories, but they just aren't my cup of tea. The stories were short enough to hold my interest but there was none of the much-enjoyed electric charge one feels when reading a good book.

Sightseeing, Rattawut Lapcharoensap
All it took was the first story for this book to be included in my list of All Time Favourites. Lapcharoensap has a wicked sense of humour, a sharp eye and a stunning writing style. He manages to expose Thailand's quirks without shredding its dignity. I can't wait for his next book.

Lucky Child, Loung Ung
This book was on my Christmas list and my father was darling enough to hunt it down. I opened it on Christmas night and finished it on Boxing Day. Ung, a Cambodian, tells the story of how she immigrates to US with her brother and struggles to fit it. I remember being rather impatient at her frequent emotional outbursts but then I realised it was only because I was uncomfortable with the thought that it could have been me.

Bono:The Biography, Laura Jackson
The frontman for U2 became my new hero halfway through this book. I loved his selflessness, his ability to scrutinise his own faults and above all, his humility and compassion. And Jackson did a superb job in shining the light on all these qualities.

The Noodlemaker, Ma Jian
My first complete taste of Chinese flavour. And it satisfied my palate. I've always been hesitant when it comes to Chinese writers, believing they could never quite match up to the humour and flair of Indian writers. Each tiny sip I've had of their writing left a dull taste in my mouth. But Ma Jian was a delightful surprise. This book addressed public suicide, death and adultery in a startlingly practical manner. Very refreshing.

The Curious Incident of The Dog In The Nightime, Mark Haddon
One of my favourite books. I immediately bought it as an early birthday present for a friend as soon as I turned the last page.
I loved the dry humour and the honest thought pattern of an austic child. It helped me see that sometimes things really are exactly as they seem and it is us who mess it up by being over-analytical. I started on it in Thailand and read a couple of funny bits aloud to PP. From then on, she kept asking me to keep narrating the story and to read out all the parts that made me laugh. Even without reading it, she loved it too!

And So It Is Done

2006-01-07T03:11:00.000-08:00

I dove headfirst into the New Year, got sucked into an unexpected whirlpool of exhilarating changes and am only just surfacing for my first breath of air. But first, the second part of our tsunami campaign.

PP and I only rose after midday on Dec 30 and were faced with two choices - we either get our brown butts moving right that instant or spend New Year's Eve trawling and toiling in makeshift shelters. It was a split-second decision and we were hailing a boat to Krabi less than 30 minutes later.

Another Thai friend, Poon, had suggested we visit tsunami villagers in Krabi. He scribbled down our intentions in Thai and told us to show it to any policeman who would be able to point us in the right direction. When we docked in Ao Nang, we booked ourselves a minivan and showed the guy at the counter our little note.

No need to travel to Krabi, his boss said. There's a tsunami village right here. Only about fifteen minutes away. Many orphans.

Perfect.

We reached the village and our driver delivered a snappy summary of purpose of our visit to the inhabitants lolling around. PP and I exchanged uncertain glances. There was something not quite right with the place. We asked if there was anything the children needed. School books? School bag? Uniform? One of the men shook his head.

But their parents need money, he said. They have no jobs.

We nodded politely and asked if we could take a look inside the shacks. The man pointed to one with an open window. We peeked in and reeled. If being jobless in Thailand meant a shack with a colour TV, DVD player and a washing machine, then I'm ready to change citizenship. No, we absolutely could not do any form of contribution here!

The next village wasn't any different and we were feeling more dejected by the minute. Then I remembered a Thai guy, La, whom I had gotten in touch with before we left. He's a member of HiPhiPhi, a relief organisation comprising young travellers, that had single-handedly helped Phi Phi get back on its feet. In fact, Time magazine had lauded its efforts, calling it one of Asia's Heroes. I punched in his phone number and muttered a silent prayer.

This time Lady Luck decided to beam on us. He happened to be just twenty minutes away from where we were and had a window in his frenetic schedule. We sped over.

We poured out our story and he assured us that if we were looking for scenes like that in Sri Lanka, we weren't going to find any. Yes, there were people who still needed help but they were all over the country. Before our faces could fall any further, he said the magic word - BUT! There was a tsunami orphanage that needed funds for the children's monthly allowance. He ran the orphanage and personally checked out each child's background to ensure they qualified. He had documents, pictures and most of all, very honest eyes. We handed him the money, filled up the relevant forms and made it back to our island minutes before an impending storm whipped the sea into a frenzy.

And so it was finally done. That night we toasted each other and marvelled at how things had worked out so well. And we both agreed that although it gave us a wonderful high, it would be a long time before we summoned up the energy to do it again.

Back To The City Of Angels

2005-12-28T01:02:00.000-08:00

Arriving in Bangkok is like coming home. This is one of my favourite cities in the world and I've spent the last hour smiling idiotically at all the familiar sights I've missed. But what started off as a holiday has now become a working trip.

PP and I will be heading for Phi Phi island on Friday where we will be distributing the rest of the aid we collected to the tsunami survivors. Our Going The Distance For Phi Phi & Galle campaign has been a huge success so far! PP just got back from Sri Lanka yesterday, where she bought stoves and kettles to 20 tsunami survivors in Galle. After a whole day of planning, shopping and packing the stuff into the van, distributing the goods made her feel like she had just run and won a marathon. Their reaction, she said, brought tears to her eyes. Women venturing tentatively out of their shacks, holding the stove in confusion, then shrieking in joy and disbelief. I hope we can bring the same elation to Phi Phi.

But now Khao San Road and it's treasures beckon so I'm off to treat myself to a soft serve ice-cream from McDonald's and a lovely afternoon of shopping!

One Year On

2005-12-26T03:22:00.000-08:00

When I was in Koh Lanta last month, the manager of my guesthouse showed me a song book. It was a joint effort among local artistes to raise financial aid after the tsunami. The songs touched on various topics but two in particular stood out. They were about the tsunami and may have been performed at the commemorations in Thailand today. Fortunately, both included English lyrics.

Tsunami
Never dream, never thought
Of what may come
To be completely in the dark
To live these live upon the fear
Never sight, never sense it and there is no clue
What is tsunami out of the blue
How many lives that we have lost
They came like the Great Reaper
Upon the beach unstoppable power
Destroy everything
Tsunami
Never dare, we are all surrounded
They are seeking survivors
Oh no can't you see
We all tremble now with pain
No matter who, no matter which nations
There is no exception
Mother Nature masters everything
Everyone likes a little sand
Andaman
A place of paradise
Now we are leaving when they are dying
They had suffered whilst we are crying...oh life
Andaman
Still a paradise
No more pain, no more cry
Healing by love giving heart
No more pain, no more cry
Healing...

26/12/04
Well, I'm sure that by now
You have seen all the scenes
On the TV screens
And the statistics
It's the day after Christmas
We know that you’ll miss us
But we’ve gone away
It’s a wave and it came
Ant it took away everything
That meant anything
Schools and hotels
Temples and bells
A vision of hell
Mother or father
Sister or brother
Prince or pauper
There’s no difference
In their hundreds of thousands
A matter of second
They washed away
And you’d think
There is a reason
Or maybe a season
That is to blame
And those that survived
Are left wondering
Why oh why not me?

Tracking Down The Turkey

2005-12-23T06:18:00.000-08:00

Four malls, eight supermarkets and not a single turkey in sight. Under each huge sign that announced 'Christmas Turkey' lay an empty container. Not even a gobble was left. Which was to be exepected 72 hours before Christmas. Except that my parents hadn't expected it. So there I was running around the Klang Valley like a headless turkey looking for a bird. Just one bird.

Afer speed walking through three malls, I sank into the seat across Tinselbits and fell upon my roast chicken with great relief. She remarked that I should perhaps try another mall. She had seen eight turkeys there just a while ago. By the time we got there, the container was empty. Uwilling to believe that EIGHT (her emphasis, not mine) birds could be snapped up within the hour, she proceeded to interrogate the staff, convinced they had purposely hidden the birds so they could sell them at double the price on Christmas Eve. From the looks on their faces, that idea hadn't even crossed their minds. But I bet they now wish it had.

The closest I came to getting my hands on a turkey was when another woman and I were pawing through a cluster of five birds. They were huge and we both sensed that the other was looking for the same sized bird. As we flipped over each weight tag, we shot a hurried look at the tag the other was holding, hoping desperately it wasn't the perfect size. Alas, none of them were.

At the end of the futile hunt, Tinselbits dished out an unexpected compliment. She said she had gotten caught up in the spirit of Christmas too because our hunt reminded her of Christmas comedies. Particularly those in which the father/mother remembers his son's/daughter's present on the night before Christmas and tears down the entire city looking for the last one. Her only complaint was that there was no catfight in our drama.

Perhaps next year.

As It Usually Happens

2005-12-22T16:33:00.000-08:00

Well, whaddya know? After staying up past the witching hour for the past few nights preparing for the magazine pitch, we get word on the morning of the big day that the pitching has been postponed to January 12th. Didn't know whether to laugh or cry. So I chose the second best alternative - plunge headfirst into eleventh hour Christmas shopping. I exited One Utama for the umpteeth time this morning with the final batch of presents. Now it's my sister's turn to wrestle with the wrapping.

I can't wait to get home tomorrow evening. No doubts the highways will be choked with traffic but the thought of the festive air back home more than makes up for it. Pie, turkey, ayam masak merah, tomato soup, lamb, chutney, acar, coleslaw, mash potatoes and if I'm lucky, even trifle. And that's only the Christmas Eve dinner menu!

By the time I crawl into my next yoga class, the only pose I'll be able to muster would be The Pot-Bellied Pig....if it existed.

A Dual Celebration Tomorrow

2005-12-20T16:54:00.000-08:00

Last week my business partner dropped me an email that sent me into a bigger frenzy than all the Christmas shoppers in the Klang Valley put together.

The message was sweet and succint: 'Please take note that the date for the magazine pitch has been set for Dec 21.'

That was one whole week before the previously agreed date. I had five whole days to whip the entire mock-up, rate card, powerpoint presentation, editorial lineup and advertising revenue projection into shape. Hello midnight oil, goodbye lunch-hour-Christmas-shopping.

After spending the last five days in a haze of frantic writing, sourcing, designing and compiling, we're finally ready to unveil our baby. Today we were finally able to look at the mock-up and each other with outspoken glee instead of unspoken anxiety. Our eyes sting, our right index fingers are numb with scrolling and clicking and I could really do with a tall, ice-cold glass of gin tonic right now. Or even better, a long leisurely dip into any of the shiny new books nestling in the other-people's-Christmas-presents box. But there is still the blasted PowerPoint presentation to complete, so all those indulgences will have to wait until after 6pm tomorrow.

A celebration tomorrow would also mark another small victory. The 'Going The Distance For Phi Phi & Galle' campaign that PP and I put together on December 1st. When we first began the campaign, we hoped we could raise at least RM2,000. 20 days later and we're staring unbelievingly at the RM7,500 in our collection box. We knew we would have strong support from family and friends, but we never dreamed it would be this powerful!

On Thursday, PP will be going to Galle to attend the one year anniversary and to give aid directly to those who need it. A few aid agencies have stepped up to point us in the direction of the worst-affected and what they need. So while paying homage to the coconut tree that saved her life, PP will also be bringing gifts of fishing nets, rations and what-have-you to those who are still displaced. And next Wednesday, both of us will prepare to travel to Phi Phi to do the same there.

In hindsight, the campaign has done more for me than for the survivors. It has restored my faith in human compassion. So the next time someone says, "No one gives a rat's ass anymore!" I can reply, "Actually they do."

Battling the Book

2005-12-16T18:50:00.000-08:00

I had lunch with Mentor in Atria on Wednesday. We passed Payless Books on our way out and all it took was a "Shall we go in?" from Mentor for me to gallop straight in. Within fifteen minutes I was clutching three absolutely-MUST-buy-TODAY books. A C.S Lewis book (of which the title has completely escaped my mind right now!) Zadie Smith's White Teeth and Alice Walker's The Temple of My Familiar. Since the latter two are on my Christmas list, I reluctantly put them back. Idly browsing through the biography section, I noticed a fat sunny yellow book peering out merrily from its spot. Take Me With You by Brad Newsham. Mentor strolled up, peered at the book and said, "That's a really good book. Very funny!" It seemed like the perfect gift for my cousin, Richard. At least, until I left Payless.

By the time I got home, I was wondering whether he would really enjoy it. Perhaps I should read a couple of pages to be sure. One page later and I had to force myself to put it down before I devoured it completely. Yes, I firmly told myself, Richard would love this book. I looked at it again. Oh, the upper corner was slightly creased. Wasn't there a Christmas law against giving damaged goods as presents? But what if I was depriving him of a really good book. Better read another page to be sure it was good enough for him. As I read, wonderful images danced in my mind's eye to the tune of Mentor's earlier praise of the book. Five minutes later, I slammed the book shut.

This was unacceptable, I told myself sternly. No true book lover would voluntarily give away what they know FOR SURE would be a great book. Not even during the season of giving. It would be sacriligeous. So I decided to keep it.

Today I found the perfect book for Richard. This Is Paradise by Hyok Kang. From the shelf to the counter, I stole a few cursory glances at the pages and a feeling of deja vu crashed over me. Now I have to fight the same battle all over again.

Decking The Halls

2005-12-11T05:48:00.000-08:00

Eva, my Swiss backpacker friend, hopped on a bus to the air-conditioned island of Singapore last Friday. I bid her adieu, half wistfully and half relieved. I adore running a mock backpacker's joint but after 72 hours, the four walls start tiptoeing closer towards me and my air supply grows thin. That's when I ring my mental check-out-time bell. (Note to self: impose maximum of three days stay for future guests)

But Eva was absolutely delightful! She loved everything about Malaysia - the rain, the LRT, the blazing sun. She went crazy in Masjid India, was gobstruck at the size of KLCC, went wild in Kinokuniya, enthusiastically wolfed down thosai and chapati, polished off the ketupat and satay sauce, closed her eyes in pleasure after her first heaped spoonful of nasi lemak and then asked for seconds, and savoured her leisurely stroll from the Bangsar LRT to Telawi 3. Nothing makes me fall in love with my country faster than watching someone else helplessly succumb to its charms!

Now that Eva has continued her journey, I can finally turn my attention to the High Priority task on this month's To-Do list. Decking my halls with boughs of holly. Bought from Metrojaya, of course. But the lack of pine tree, snow angels and crackling fires do little to damp my Christmas spirits. In fact, my spirits are higher than the contents of a bottle of Galliano right now.

I love Christmas and even that's an understatement! The minute I flip over the November page of my calendar, I start getting minor palpitations. Delicious shivers of excitement strum my spine and my heart feels lighter than a snowflake. And when the sweet Christmas breeze dances into my apartment, I lie on the floor, smile my biggest idiot-like smile and hug myself in happiness.

Is it corny for your stomach to get tied up in knots at the sight of a gorgeous Christmas tree, at the smell of freshly baked cookies and at the sound of carols? Perhaps, but I say to hell with being too posh for pleasure! Everyone is entitled to indulge in corniness if it makes them feel ridiculously happy!

Through Another's Eyes

2005-12-07T15:55:00.000-08:00

Yesterday PP and I threw open our doors to a young Swiss backpacker. We met Eva in Thailand and when she mentioned she was planning on passing through Malaysia, we thought it would be fun to play tour guide again. In fact, since last year we've been gracious hostesses to three Dutch girls, one Israeli/American girl, one English lad and now, Eva. All whom we've met on our travels.

Most people view my open house practice with alarm. "Eh, you better be careful la. You don't know where these people have been and what diseases they're carrying." or "I don't understand how you can be bothered to jaga orang lain." or "You better lock up all your valuables, man! You never know these people might rob and run."

Wehave yet to listen to any of these warnings.

What they don't understand is that we're not hosting strangers. We're hosting friends. People whom we've met in a strange land and with whom we've discovered a connection. People who are just as interested in finding out more about our lives as we are about theirs. People who have made the liberating decision to live with only their clothes on in their backpack for the next 6-12 months, and who secretly long for a private room and shower for just a couple of days. That's not too much to ask.

But we have an ulterior motive too. When we showed our first guest, the Israeli/American girl around KL, we pulled over across KLCC to scout for a good picture-taking spot of the Twin Towers. Our friend climbed out and exclaimed, "Oh my god! It's beautiful!" All three of us craned our necks up at the towers, stretching magnificently skyward and glittering gloriously against the night sky. PP and I looked at each other with the same thought - "Actually it IS really bueatiful." And that marked the first of a million more times we would fall in love with our country after looking at it through a stranger's eyes. Since then we've been taking the extra step everytime a foreigner graces our soil by introducing them to nasi lemak, banana leaf rice, Ladies Night, batik, PS Boutique and Chinese restaurants with frogs on the menu.

Last night I got Eva, a fruit fanatic, acquainted with nangka, jambu air, dragonfruit and jambu. Between us, we polished off RM26 worth of fruits in half-an-hour. This morning she wandered around the Central Market and is currently enjoying a coffee in Starbucks while waiting for me to pick her up. Tonight, we're heading down to Brickfields for banana leaf and then to the Twin Towers again. This time PP is hauling along her tripod and camera as well. We can't let the foreigners have the best pictures now, can we!

Touched By Tibet

2005-12-05T17:02:00.000-08:00

Last night I completed a book I found at a secondhand bookstore in Koh Lanta, Thailand. I had been planning to travel to Tibet next year, so when my eyes fell upon For Tibet With Love, I of course saw that as a sign! But the book isn't about Tibet. Instead it's about the author, Isabel Losada's, experience of discovering, learning about, fighting for and falling in love with Tibet. And despite the preachy tagline 'A Beginner's Guide To Changing The World', there is nothing preachy about her storytelling.

I absolutely loved the book! Losada speaks with honesty, candidness, wit and passion. Her strengths and weaknesses have an equal place in the spotlight and not once does she ramble on about how her life has changed or how wonderful it is to be good to mankind. Rather, she articulates thoughts that all of us would have harboured at some point in our lives but would rather have our teeth pulled out than admit it. There's no subterfuge of any sort and she lays her cards out right from the start - she has written the book to raise awareness about the plight of Tibetans and to hopefully inspire more people to stand up for the country. I read it with a cocktail of emotions ranging from amazement and admiration to horror and disgust. The best bit is when she meets the Dalai Lama. That's when I took comfort in the fact that I'm not the only person who is reduced to idiocy in the presence of those I hold in high regard.

For Tibet With Lovealso gently unveiled my ignorance. I had met a lovely Tibetan lady two years ago while travelling in Goa and though she told me how she fled Tibet to seek refuge in India, I'm ashamed to say that it didn't strike a nerve. Now it has and I'm more determined than ever to set foot in this country.

P/S: Highly recommended especially to those who think China is God's gift to mankind.

Going The Distance Campaign

2005-12-02T18:39:00.000-08:00

I can't believe it. The humble campaign Partner-In-Crime (PIC) and I amateurishly launched yesterday is blasting full steam ahead. The response we've received is amazing. Here's what we've done.

After bearing witness to the minimal financial aid that Phi Phi received and reading about a similar plight in Sri Lanka, we decided it’s finally time we made our contribution. So we launched the Going The Distance For Phi Phi & Galle campaign.

But this isn’t a public campaign. We’re only approaching friends and depending on our reputation and their trust to raise funds. How much are we hoping to collect? It doesn’t matter. A Sri Lankan man told PIC (who survived the tsunami in Sri Lanka) he had lost his entire life savings of R16,000 which is roughly about RM1,000. So no amount is too small for those who have nothing.

We’ve started the ball rolling by putting in RM1,500 of our own money. I’ve also decided to add a fun twist by promising to kick my 27-year nail biting habit in return for donations. Friends think it’s hilarious. What’s even funnier is that some have pledged to contribute a certain amount for each millimeter my nails grow. It’s so nice to see people laughing while opening their wallets!

The campaign will run until December 20 and the money will be divided between Galle and Phi Phi. On December 22, PIC will be traveling to Galle for the first anniversary and on December 29, both of us will be heading to Phi Phi. In other words, your money will be given directly to the people who need it most.

I'm thrilled by the support we're getting! Also greatly touched by our friends' generosity. And knowing that we'll be giving some people a brighter New Year makes me feel like I just drank a gargantuan mug of hot chocolate!

Land of Sad Smiles

2005-12-01T21:20:00.000-08:00

I returned from Thailand yesterday with a lovely tan and a broken heart.

Partner-In-Crime (PIC) and I spent the past week in Phuket, Koh Lanta and Koh Phi Phi. All three islands still bear the scars of last year’s tsunami. Especially Phi Phi.

The minibus wove its way through the narrow road towards our usual guesthouse in Phuket and it suddenly occurred to us that the building might no longer exist. To our relief, it was still there. The owner welcomed us back with a big smile and we spent the next half-hour chatting about the tsunami. She related how the water had gushed inland, sending she, her husband and their five dogs scrambling to the upper floor for safety. Many survived the wave, she said, but not the electrocution. Unlike Phi Phi, the wave hadn’t cut the power supply and torn cables lines sent jolts of electricity through the churning water.

We mentioned we were heading to Phi Phi to look for a friend. A handsome young Thai boatman named Win whom we had befriended on our first trip there. He usually slept in his boat at the water’s edge until late morning. We prayed he had found another bed that Christmas night. She wished us luck but warned us that Phi Phi was still in bad shape.

That night, we strolled along Patong beach and marveled at how expertly it had gotten back on its feet. Scrubbed floors and a few licks of paint, and it was like the tsunami never happened. The beach was brightly lit. A policeman scanned the sea for any suspicious happenings. A young Japanese girl stood on the sand, gazing with the saddest eyes at the black water. It was a beautiful night. If you tried hard enough, you could almost convince yourself the tsunami never happened.

The next day we headed to Ko Lanta, where Win’s family lived and ran a guesthouse. Our search was futile but a few locals assured us that he and his family had survived. He had returned to Phi Phi again, they said. We would stop there on our journey back. The rest of our stay in Lanta was spent talking to the locals and hearing their stories. For most of them, the horror was still fresh in their minds.

Pat, the manager of our guesthouse, is a resident of Khao Lak, the worst hit island in Thailand. He told us how he awoke to a roaring sound on Boxing Day. Peering out of his window, he saw the water rushing towards him. He immediately smashed the window and climbed onto the roof, where he hung on until the wave snatched him down and propelled him inland. As the water receded, he knew another wave was coming and made his way to a concrete building. He stayed there until the tsunami was over.

The bar manager, Yor, told us how he ran for his life when he saw the wave approaching his beach bar. Tong, the manager of the neighbouring guesthouse, attributed his survival to his girlfriend, who woke him up to see ‘the sea’s strange behaviour’. He escaped by the skin of his teeth.

Their stories were all different but they all uttered the same chilling sentence – “I thought today I die for sure.”

I couldn’t even comprehend what that felt like. PIC, who almost died in Sri Lanka, knew exactly what it did.

Before we left for Phi Phi, Pat got our his guitar and played us a song that a group of Thai bands had composed for the first anniversary later this month. It brought tears to my eyes. I will post the song up on December 26th.

Then we traveled to Phi Phi. Our Phuket guesthouse lady’s warning did nothing to prepare us for the sight that greeted our eyes. Before the ferry would swing around a huge limestone and Phi Phi would glide into view, its fringe dotted with longtail boats, rows of umbrellas and happy people in colourful swimsuits. This time, there was a smattering of boats and an empty beach. Where once you couldn’t see past the first row of beach front chalets, you could now see right to the other end of the island. I felt like a part of me had died.

Phi Phi has a special place in my heart because that’s where I chose to take my very first solo trip. I fell in love with it at first sight and stayed in love. To see it shattered was heart-wrenching.

We stepped onto the pier in a daze and there stood Win! After the ecstatic hugs and exclamations, he looked at us and said, “Phi Phi finished. Your bungalow finished. All gone.”

Then he slung his arms around us and took us for coffee. I will never forget his story.

He and his brother Fad, had been in Koh Lanta that morning and were extremely reluctant to go work in Phi Phi. But their sister and father wouldn’t hear of it. There were customers waiting to go on tours in Phi Phi so they had better get their brown butts out of bed. So they did. While waiting for their customers to show up, they decided to have breakfast at a coffee shop by the pier. Halfway through, the water disappeared into the horizon. Win ran out to examine the odd phenomenon. Tourists were disembarking from a packed ferry that had just docked. Behind them, racing faster than a bullet train, was a monstrous wave.

When it hit the island, people from one end were thrown to the other and sucked back again. Chalets fell like matchbox houses. Zinc roofs flew into the water, slicing people. The second cause of death after drowning, Win said.

“I run to Phi Phi hotel, but too many people already. So I run to mountain. Water is behind me. Noise very bad and so many people screaming “Help me!”. But I cannot stop. Water touching my feet. I think today I die.”

He tells us his story with his hands over his ears, as though still hearing the sound. His eyes are filled with anguish.

Win and many others stayed up the mountain for the rest of the day and night. Rumours spread that another wave was coming and many of the injured died from shock and the effort of trying to climb higher up.

At daybreak, they descended to find bodies and body parts strewn all over the island. In one area, bodies were stacked up like a wall. Dead fish were everywhere. The Reggae Bar became a makeshift hospital. Everyone was evacuated as soon as possible – the locals to Krabi and the tourists to Phuket airport. When the locals returned, nothing was left of their beloved island.

Win took us to the PP Twin Palms where we stayed during our first trip. It was gone. Then he took us to PP Pavillion where we stayed during our second trip last January. He said that the most number of deaths came from those chalets. We stared in silence, thinking of how much we loved those chalets and of the glorious week we had spent in its serenity.

Around us were pieces of debris, a sprawling vacant land, Thai boatmen trying in vain to entice tourists into a tour of the islands, makeshift stalls selling trinkets and a half built chalet.

As we surveyed the area, it puzzled us how Phuket was able to bounce back and Phi Phi was still struggling to even get on its knees. Then Win told us a story that was almost as shocking as the tsunami.

After being promised heaven and earth, the people of Phi Phi had only received RM200 each as compensation. No one knew where the millions of dollars in donations had disappeared. The residents had grown tired to waiting for the government to keep to its word and began to take matters into their own hands, by reopening their businesses as best they could.

Win, who had lost his boat Jennifer, is now working in a travel agency on the island. Even that is struggling to stay afloat. Tourists are trickling back but not enough of them for the Phi Phi residents to rebuild their lives again. We gave Win RM200 before we boarded our ferry and promised to be back with more.

On the journey back, PIC and I put our heads together and discussed how to raise money for the Phi Phi residents. Our plan is slowly but surely taking off and to our delight, many friends have come forward to offer support.

I will post pictures of Phi Phi here soon. If any of you are contemplating visiting the island, please do. The beaches are still gorgeous and the people still wonderful. Prices may be a little steep but let me know if you’re planning on heading that way and I’ll get Win to work something out for you. Any support, no matter how small, goes a long way.

All My Bags Are Packed...

2005-11-23T23:53:00.000-08:00

I'm off to Thailand tomorrow. Am so very excited! A whole week of island-hopping, soaking up the sun, making new friends, gorging myself on green curry and catching up on all my reading. Heaven! Will have many pictures to share when I'm back.

You have yourselves a good weekend!

One Of My Own?

2005-11-22T18:25:00.000-08:00

I've been given one month to create a lifestyle magazine for the uppercrust breed of entrepreneurs and professionals. Come the last week of December, I will be pitching my baby against three other babies. Then I will know beyond a shadow of a doubt whether my keeping one foot in the maagzine world for the past five years has paid off. Spent the past few days interrogating editors, daydreaming and ploughing through stacks of various magazines trying to glean inspiration that could polish my raw ideas. That inspiration finally came today.

I feel the excitement mounting as I gaze at my editorial line-up. My very own line-up. I've dreamed of this but never imagined it could actually happen. I've longed to return to the magazine world but never expected it to take this route.

Of course, this isn't even the beginning. That would be if and when the potential investors flash the green light into my anxious eyes. Then my life will turn topsy-turvy with the endless writing, shooting, assigning, styling. And I will be in heaven.

TIME's 100 Best Books

2005-11-20T22:14:00.000-08:00

The Adventures of Augie March - Saul Bellow
All the King's Men - Robert Penn Warren
American Pastoral - Philip Roth
An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser
Animal Farm - George Orwell
Appointment in Samarra - John O'Hara
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret - Judy Blume
The Assistant - Bernard Malamud
At Swim-Two-Birds - Flann O'Brien
Atonement - Ian McEwan
Beloved - Toni Morrison
The Berlin Stories - Christopher Isherwood
The Big Sleep - Raymond Chandler
The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood
Blood Meridian - Cormac McCarthy
Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
The Bridge of San Luis Rey - Thornton Wilder
Call It Sleep - Henry Roth
Catch-22 - Joseph Heller
The Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger
A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess
The Confessions of Nat Turner - William Styron
The Corrections - Jonathan Franzen
The Crying of Lot 49 - Thomas Pynchon
A Dance to the Music of Time - Anthony Powell
The Day of the Locust - Nathanael West
Death Comes for the Archbishop - Willa Cather
A Death in the Family - James Agee
The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen
Deliverance - James Dickey
Dog Soldiers - Robert Stone
Falconer - John Cheever
The French Lieutenant's Woman - John Fowles
The Golden Notebook - Doris Lessing
Go Tell it on the Mountain - James Baldwin
Gone With the Wind - Margaret Mitchell
The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
Gravity's Rainbow - Thomas Pynchon
The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
A Handful of Dust - Evelyn Waugh
The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers
The Heart of the Matter - Graham Greene
Herzog - Saul Bellow
Housekeeping - Marilynne Robinson
A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul
I, Claudius - Robert Graves
Infinite Jest - David Foster Wallace
Invisible Man - Ralph Ellison
Light in August - William Faulkner
The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe - C.S. Lewis
Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
Lord of the Flies - William Golding
The Lord of the Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien
Loving - Henry Green
Lucky Jim - Kingsley Amis
The Man Who Loved Children - Christina Stead
Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
Money - Martin Amis
The Moviegoer - Walker Percy
Mrs. Dalloway - Virginia Woolf
Naked Lunch - William Burroughs
Native Son - Richard Wright
Neuromancer - William Gibson
Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro
1984 - George Orwell
On the Road - Jack Kerouac
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - Ken Kesey
The Painted Bird - Jerzy Kosinski
Pale Fire - Vladimir Nabokov
A Passage to India - E.M. Forster
Play It As It Lays - Joan Didion
Portnoy's Complaint - Philip Roth
Possession - A.S. Byatt
The Power and the Glory - Graham Greene
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie - Muriel Spark
Rabbit, Run - John Updike
Ragtime - E.L. Doctorow
The Recognitions - William Gaddis
Red Harvest - Dashiell Hammett
Revolutionary Road - Richard Yates
The Sheltering Sky - Paul Bowles
Slaughterhouse-Five - Kurt Vonnegut
Snow Crash - Neal Stephenson
The Sot-Weed Factor - John Barth
The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
The Sportswriter - Richard Ford
The Spy Who Came in From the Cold - John le Carre
The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway
Their Eyes Were Watching God - Zora Neale Hurston
Things Fall Apart - Chinua Achebe
To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
To the Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf
Tropic of Cancer - Henry Miller
Ubik - Philip K. Dick
Under the Net - Iris Murdoch
Under the Volcano - Malcolm Lowry
Watchmen - Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons
White Noise - Don DeLillo
White Teeth - Zadie Smith
Wide Sargasso Sea - Jean Rhys

TIME Magazine recently compiled a list of the 100 Best Books that were published between 1923-2005. The project began in January, with two critics each drawing up a list of nominees. According to one of them, the project involved not only reading but also re-reading.

“It meant revisiting a lot of novels both of us had not looked into for some time. A few titles that seemed indispensable some years ago turned out on a second tasting to be, well, dispensable.”

When they compared notes, they discovered that more than 80 of their choices matched. The remaining slots were divided between them, so that books that the other would not have chosen would make it to the list.

This list had two purposes - to instruct and to enrage. But I think there’s a third unintended one – to induce guilt in people like me! I’ve only read a miserable six of the hundred!

How many have you read and what would you have liked to see on the list?

The Chronicles of C.S. Lewis

2005-11-18T16:36:00.001-08:00

I discovered C.S. Lewis and The Chronicles of Narnia two months ago, while scouring MPH for substantially sized book to read during a bus ride back from Singapore. MPH was offering the first three volumes for a pretty penny so my decision was instantaneous. I opened the book at Woodlands and turned the final page with a heavy sigh as the bus pulled into Puduraya. With an imagination like that I figured C.S. Lewis must have led an enchanted life. Far removed from mundane worries. Soaking in childlike joy throughout his life because he still believed in magic. What a wonderful world to live in! Or so I thought.

Yesterday I read an article on him in The New Yorker and was rudely reminded of the consequences of judging a book by its cover.

Apparently, old Lewis was quite a controversy. Ridiculed by the British and adulated by the Americans. A fantasist as well as staunch Christian. He relished feasting on generous servings of Beatrix Potter and Longfellow, as well as an intoxicating cocktail of poems, myths and fantasies. But what satiated his soul also planted in it a seed of guilt, as it reduced his magically-devoid religion to dry sermons and dull rituals. In fact, Lewis wore a myriad of masks throughout his living years. A chronicle of his life would look something like this:

Bright sensitive English boy - victim of public-school sadism - confused sexual pervert surviving on inner joy - traumatised soldier - tough but inspiring English teacher - orthodox Christian convert - iconic writer.

A few years before penning what would be hailed as one of the world's greatest classics, Lewis' good friend JRR Tolkein convinced him that 'one had to become religious to save the magic, not to be saved from it'. Lewis bought it. For the first time in his life, both sides of his mind collaborated to produce some of his best works. However, he decided to build his Northern myths around his Christian beliefs. Tolkein hated that and violently opposed the Narnia books, which contained this subtle Christian allegory. But Lewis's soul was at peace. By combining religion and fantasy, he had been able to create something more powerful than just a story. He was able to create a world where both atheist and believer could stand side-by-side.

I wondered if I would have readily picked up the book, had I know about Lewis' motives beforehand. Nothing to do with religion, everything to do with hidden agenda. Having said that, don't all stories contain a clandestine message? Doesn't every story contain part of a writer's beliefs and opinions? And doesn't every writer, whether consciously or not, try to impart a certain message to the reader? Some of the messages are blatant, others are subtle. But they're all there. The tricky bit is deciding which comes first. For instance, does Tuesdays With Morrie belong under the fiction or motivational section? Same goes for Paolo Coelho's books. I appreciate both authors' honesty in revealing the books' real agenda. Because if they had tried to pass them off as pure fiction, they would have fallen flat on their faces and in the eyes of their readers. Narnia was able to stand as a piece of fiction because Lewis was skilled enough to make his Christian references the grease on the baking tin rather than the cake mixture itself.

So, my image of a dreamer-like Lewis has been shattered. But know what? I like him more now simply because he's living proof that a less-than perfect life can still produce perfect writing if the words are spoken in the voice of the heart.

In a couple of weeks Aslan, Peter, Susan, Edmund, Lucy and gang will be hitting the big screen and my palms are already sore with all the gleeful rubbing.

The Cruelest Cut of All

2005-11-17T22:09:00.000-08:00

An estimated 135 million women and children have undergone female genital mutilation or FGM, and approximately 6,000 girls go under a penknife, broken glass, tin lid, razor or scissors A DAY.

Did you know that? I didn't. Not very many people do and that is why Alice Walker wrote Possessing The Secret of Joy.

The story revolves around an African girl named Tashi who decides to go ahead with the female initiation ceremony to keep her culture alive. It's a controversial story, yes but perhaps one that will open the rest of the world's eyes to this practice and why its practitioners are fiercely fanning its flames.

FGM is inhumane. That is irrefutable. But FGM is also performed as a cultural or religious ritual or to gain acceptance within society. All those reasons make it almost impossible to completely and permanently eradicate. How do you pit medical facts against ancient customs? How do you challenge matters of the heart with musings of the mind? How do you convince people who have never even taken cough syrup that their ancestors' beliefs are evil bullshit because some other people living somewhere they can't even pronounce have conducted something called medical research that says so? It's tough.

On one hand, I'm hesitant about beginning Possessing The Secret of Joy simply because of the images that will no doubt creep into my dreams at night. On the other, I can't wait to start because I'm dying to find out why an African woman who is about to leave for America would willingly subject herself to this gruesome process beforehand, despite watching her sister die from its consequences.

We have heard the voice of crusaders against FGM, the voice of supporters and the voice of the victims. Perhaps it's time we hear the voice of a volunteer. Perhaps it's the most important voice we'll hear.

Note:
Here are some other reasons behind FGM:
- if the clitoris touches the penis, the man will die. if a baby's head touches the clitoris, the baby will die or the breast milk will be poisoned.
- removing the clitoris will eliminate bad genital odours
- an unmodified clitoris can lead to masturbation or lesbianism
- prevents nervousness from developing in women and girls
- prevents the face from turning yellow
- so older men will be able to match their younger wives' sex drive

Telling The Truth In Writing

2005-11-14T11:17:00.000-08:00

In a Newsweek interview, Frank McCourt confessed that he fumbled in the dark for about 15 years before finally finding his footing and voice as a teacher in New York City classrooms. His third memoir Teacher Man is an insight into his less famous but possibly more powerful vocation. According to the journalist, 'Now he's told the tale of that experience so well that when you've finished it, you don't envy him. You envy his students.' What's interesting though is the correlation he makes between teaching and writing.

"Teaching is like writing," he says. "You have to find your tone. And you have to tell the truth. If you put on a mask, they'll find you out every time."

An interview in TIME, meanwhile, revealed that Nicole Ritchie also believes in writing based on truth and experiences. Her new novel (TIME's words, not mine!) The Truth About Diamonds chronicles the journey of a rock princess coming of age. When asked what she could possibly have to say at the age of 24, she quipped:

I was approached to write a self-help book and I didn't feel like taking on that responsibility. I'm still growing myself. But writing a story is something every girl does, even when she's little. I spoke to my Dad [singer Lionel Richie] and asked him how he writes his songs and he said he just grabs his experiences from his life and turns them into songs so I took that approach.

For The Love of The National Language

2005-11-12T22:59:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, I was privy to a conversation that raised my hackles. Two people in a business meeting I was in struck up a conversation on the benefits of speaking Mandarin in the 21st century. I wholeheartedly agreed. Then one of them commented what a bloody waste of time and brainpower it is to be speak Bahasa Malaysia. I vehemently disagreed. Actually no, I lie. I was pissed.

I love this country. Yes, I do despite its stinky drains, queue-cutters, corruption, horrendous traffic, tail-gaters and whatever else you've got on your What-Pisses-Me-Off-About-Malaysia' list. I have no intention of charming a foreigner with my exotic Asian looks and skipping off merrily with him into a California/Malibu/Paris/Whathaveyou sunset. I may not know the names of our national football players or who owns which mall in KL but I'm as Malaysian as you get and I'm proud of it. Just as I am proud to speak the national language.

As a student, I was adamant not to spend my precious evenings in a BM tuition class so I turned to my Malay friends for help. Armed with books and cassettes of their favourite authors and singers, I began to teach myself the language. That's when I discovered how beautiful it is. I delved further and happily soaked myself in the delicate prose. By the time the SPM rolled around, I had fallen deeply in love with the language.

Since leaving school, I haven't been speaking BM as much as I used to and when I do, the words stumble rather than glide off my tongue. But each time I hear a famliar Malay song from the 90s, I get that funny feeling in my tummy. I still love the language and contrary to my acquaintances' opinion, it has served me very well. It has...

1. ...enabled me to befriend some very interesting characters who don't speak English.
2. ...bridged the divide between me and the folk in rural areas where I sometimes pass through on my travels.
3. ...helped me plead my way out of a traffic offence without involving money exchanging hands.
4. ...helped my travel buddy and I discuss bargaining strategies, escape routes or observations of a hot guy in a foreign country, as well as score major Brownie points and huge discounts in Indonesia.
6. ...made me feel special to be able to speak a language that isn't shared by the rest of the world.

On Monday, I'm heading to Bookstreet to borrow a couple of Malay novels!

Casting Away The Shadow of Darkness

2005-11-11T12:54:00.000-08:00

'Come to the edge,' he said.
They said, 'We are afraid.'
'Come to the edge,' he said.
They came.
He pushed them...
And they flew.
- Peter McWilliams

The people of Jordan must have been afraid when their king led their country into the fight against terrorism. They knew it was the right thing to do, but they also knew they might one day pay the price for their integrity. That day came on Wednesday.

Three hotels, 56 dead, 93 wounded and millions of others plunged into black pits of grief. But fury soon replaced agony and the people of Jordan wiped away their tears to stand up to the evil that had almost broken their spirits. "We sacrifice our lives for you Amman," they chanted, marching bravely onto the streets. Their hearts may have been cold with fear, but their eyes were hot with anger and a fierce determination to stand up to their enemies. My heart was wrenched by the descriptions of the carnage, but even more so by the courage of ordinary people, who had formed an impenetrable shield simply by standing inside themselves. The people of Jordan were pushed...and they are now flying.

I closed the morning papers with tears in my eyes. How unfair it seems that those who hold firm to their principles and who try to do what's right, are often those who suffer the most. But strength comes from suffering not joy, so perhaps the scales are balanced after all.

I have given up trying to comprehend why some people use the blood of others to paint hideous pictures in the name of God. These days I just pray for those who were at the wrong place at the wrong time. I know I will never get used to these horrific headlines, but that's what our world has become today. Perhaps our small contribution to this greater cause could be to practice kindness, tolerance and compassion in our daily lives. Perhaps one day that will be enough.

I Wanna Know, Have You Ever Seen The Rain?

2005-11-10T21:26:00.000-08:00

I love a good thunderstorm and today’s was quite a beauty.

The warning rumbles had been echoing across the sky all day without any sign of their aftermath, so my running buddy and I decided to call the storm’s bluff and head for the park anyway. According to Enid Blyton, it won’t rain if there’s enough blue sky to make a sailor’s trousers, and there was still a sliver of blue up above. Of course, my sailor would have to be smaller than a hobbit but that’s beside the point.

We had just worked up a nice sweat when the sound of a grand piano crashing down a staircase boomed in the heavens. A gentle wind blew. A flock of birds took off in a hurry. Panting joggers and cuddling couples peered up nervously. The sight took my breath away.

Clouds, grey as an elephant’s hide, were rolling in from the direction of the Twin Towers. Thick, massive and pregnant. Everyone made a run for it.

The rain came lashing down as soon as I was safely in my apartment’s covered car park. Raindrops the size of petai came hammering on the plastic roof, the racket more deafening than music in a Telawi Street bar. Thunder growled louder, lightning flashed and bits of paper pirouetted crazily across the floor.

By the time I reached my apartment, the orchestra that heralds a storm’s arrival had begun. First up was the slamming of doors. Then the crashing of flimsy clothes hangers made its debut, followed by the rattling of glass doors. Next was the distant wail of a siren, built into a crescendo with the cacophony of car alarms.

I stood at my balcony door, watching skinny trees being gleefully whipped in all directions by a merciless wind. Watching adults sprinting through puddles and children strolling through them. Watching flowerbeds turn into miniature ponds. Watching familiar landmarks in front of my apartment slowly disappear behind a shimmering white curtain of rain.

I took a deep breath. The air smelt fresh, clean and sharp. A shot of pure air in my lungs. Instinctively, I sat on the floor pulling my legs into the lotus position. It was the perfect time to indulge in breathing and meditation. Two minutes later, a purple bolt sliced into the greyness and sent me scuttling to the other end of the room.

I popped on some lounge music and watched the rest of the storm. It raged for another half-hour, then gradually weakened and eventually died down. The air hung like as light as a piece of chiffon. The street lights came on and the swing, slide, monkey bars, cars and leaves glistened like the y had been sprinkled with tiny diamonds. Everything was shiny again.

I love a good thunderstorm. Not only because of its beauty but also because it’s the one thing that gets us to slow down and relax. Nothing else does. Not a migraine, not the flu, not an unhappy partner or child, not even a punctured tyre. But rain? That immediately stops people in their tracks. Forces them to stay put. Persuades them to put their frenetic schedules on hold with a coffee and a magazine, by calling an old friend, by doing a spot of spontaneous shopping, by getting a massage…I could go on longer than a Duracell battery.

Today’s storm was beautiful. Not only for what it did for the world but also what it did for me.

It will Come When It's Ready

2005-11-07T19:57:00.000-08:00

We were practising the crow pose in class and the normally tranquil studio was filled with thumps and thuds of falling bodies. One girl in particular sat up after her third fall, pushed her hair out of her eyes in frustration and said, "I can't do this!"

My teacher looked at her and smiled. "Your body is still trying to understand what you want it to do. The important thing is to keep practising. It will come when it's ready."

That night I settled at my laptop, ready to continue my novel. Five minutes passed. Then ten. I had written, rewritten and deleted the same paragraph and my frustration was mounting. Why couldn't I get it right? Then I heard my yoga teacher's voice again.

The important thing is to keep writing, I told myself. Taking a deep breath, I launched into the same paragraph for the umpteenth time. And for the umpteenth time my mind screamed, it's all wrong! I've never been one of those who can write without simultaneously editing my work. A sentence must be absolutely perfect before I can move on to the next, so this fast writing was very very difficult.

It took another half-an-hour before things finally began to take shape. From there on, the story moved as smoothly as a knife sinking into a cheesecake.

Perhaps this is something to remember whilst tackling the NaNoWriMo madness. Don't force, push or prod your mind. Your story will come when it is ready. Until then, just keep writing!

Family of Friends

2005-11-05T15:53:00.000-08:00

I learnt two things yesterday - your feet can hurt after eight hours of walking even if you're wearing flats, and age is irrelevant in the presence of a passionate shopper.

Yesterday I went shopping with my mother for the first time. At the end of the eight hours, I was down on one knee with my imaginary hat over my heart and my head lowered in reverance of her superhuman endurance. Even my younger sister was forced to admit defeat after six hours, collapsing on a massive IKEA sofa in exhaustion.

But I wouldn't have passed up on the excursion for anything in the world. Even if it meant not being able to sleep past 9am on a public holiday! It was yet another chance to strengthen my bond with these two people. Two people who, not too long ago, were like strangers to me. We resided under the same roof loving each other in a obligatory way but not understanding each other in the simplest of ways. Perhaps we were destined to be that way, I thought. Perhaps not all families were mirror images of Enid Blyton's creations.

But time and age have an intolerance for sameness and predictability. They also have a fondness for orchestrating upheavals in one's life at the least expected moment. Four years ago, I ended a four-year relationship, moved out of his house, rekindled an old friendship, made a lifelong friend, learnt to drive and most of all, learnt to live. All in a span of one month.

Unknown to me at that point, the third chapter of my life had just begun and this time the characters included my family. So we all tentatively reached out to one another, each in nervous anricipation of what we might discover. But we must have liked what we saw for the bond that sprung up then has lasted until today and shows no signs of abating.

It's a special feeling to be friends with your family. Because although being family isn't a choice, being friends is and when something is made based on choice it can last a lifetime.

Discovering Alice Walker

2005-11-01T22:10:00.000-08:00

This evening, I closed Alice Walker’s By The Light of My Father’s Smile with a feeling of deep satisfaction and regret. It’s been a long time since I had read writing that glowed on the pages. Walker’s book did more than that. It positively sparkled!

By The Light of My Father’s Smile is about a father who watches his two daughters blossom and discover their true selves through their sexuality. If you’re a prude, be forewarned that a good number of pages are filled with detailed descriptions of lovemaking. And if you skip them, you will miss out on being fully embraced by this story. But don't fret, Walker’s bedroom scenes are more like rhapsodies than romps. Her descriptions are bold and blush-provoking, but never trashy or revolting.

The story begins with an atheist couple, who are actually anthropologists, who have conned a church into funding their studies of the Mundo tribe living in the remote sierras of Mexico. The father masquerades as a minister, preaching about a God he doesn’t believe in, the mother plays along and their two daughters are brought up on a medley of ancient and modern beliefs. One daughter’s life is destined to forever be entwined with the Mundo tribe and since I find folklore and pagan beliefs incredibly romantic, this was another part of the book’s appeal.

Storyline aside, the writing was pure and unpretentious, and the words carefully chosen to perfectly harmonise with each other. Walker springs surprises at the most unexpected moments, eliciting the occasional ‘Oh!’ from you. Then there are the bits that make you lower the book and stare into space, absorbing them. I suppose the only drawback (if you can even call it that) is that each chapter begins from a different person’s point of view and it’s up to you to figure out whose eyes you’re looking through. But once you get past chapter five, you kinda’ get the hang of it. She also does away with punctuation rules during dialogues, which make the writing sound and look freer.

Here are some of the gems that shone the brightest for me:

Sighing, Irene said, Why is it that we can love so much that which only makes us cry?
Susannah thought only for a moment, and then, with certainty, she said: Because it is that which calls us home to the heart.

(The preceding paragraph was about two lovers who had found each other again and rekindled their love)
As we were leaving the restaurant, Manuelito, singing drunkenly, and turning towards me and then swinging his arms up as though to embrace the rising bright moon, was hit by a bus. The bus dragged him for half a block. By the time I got to him, he was gone.

After being made love to by Pauline, you didn’t say as the hot Christian ladies do, Amen; no, you said what the wild Indians say after a powerful prayer: Ho!

When you see that people are so poor it’s hard to believe they know what they’re doing.

Mrs. Robinson, said my youthful doctor, the important thing is that you must lose weight.
But my memories are so heavy, doctor, I said.

The only way to solace anyone who loved you in life is to be a good memory. (On the people you leave behind in death)

So Much For Assumptions

2005-10-29T12:45:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-10-27T18:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-27T16:45:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-10-25T15:00:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-24T21:19:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-10-22T13:12:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-20T05:25:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-19T01:53:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-19T01:30:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-17T15:30:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-15T12:10:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-10-14T11:10:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-14T01:54:00.001-07:00

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

2005-10-12T01:28:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-10-10T09:58:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-07T01:05:00.000-07:00

“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

2005-10-05T00:37:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-10-04T11:54:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-03T20:06:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-01T23:49:00.000-07:00

“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.

Care For Some Copy?

2005-09-29T16:58:00.000-07:00

95% The Writer's Academy is organising two talks on copywriting. In case you're wondering if it's worth two hours of your precious Saturday or if you're suspicious of the low entrance fee, let me put your worries to rest. I graduated (are eight gruelling weeks of classes and homework deserving of that word?) from the 95% Storywriter In Progress course in July. It was well worth the time time and money. The upcoming talks will be conducted by Janet Lee, an award-winning copywriter and a very good teacher. In other words, also well worth your time and money. I promise.

Creating Ideas
Everyone's looking for the "idea" in your ad - but what are they talking about?! If you want to learn about ideas, come and hear from Janet Lee, a Creative Director who's been in the ad industry for 20 years, and won over 80 advertising awards.

Day & Date : Saturday, 1st October 2005

Time : 12-2pm

Venue : 95% The Writers Academy, 80A, Wisma Dicklin, 59000, Jalan Bangsar, KL

Entrance Fee : RM20

Copywriting As A Career
What does a Copywriter really do? Is it only word crafting or is there more to it? What does it take to be a succesful copywriter? Do Art Director and Designers need to understand Copywriting? Come and find out.

Day & Date : Saturday, 8th October 2005

Time : 12-2pm

Venue : 95% The Writers Academy, 80A, Wisma Dicklin, Jalan Bangsar 59000,KL

Entrance Fee : RM20

Om Namah Sivaya

2005-09-28T18:18:00.000-07:00

It was a picture in last month's issue of Yoga Journal. A young woman clad in white was performing Dhanurasana or the Bow pose on a rock. Her body was arched in a perfect replica of an archer's bow and her face was a landscape of serenity. Above her were the words 'Yoga Teachers' Training Course. An intensive 4-week experience immersed in the yogic way of life. Open to students of all levels with a sincere desire to learn'. I saw it, I desired it and I sent in my application two days ago.

The International Sivananda Yoga Vedanta Centers is the Oxford University of the yoga world. Its branches are scattered all over the world but since I wanted a truly authentic experience, I chose India. The Sivananda Kutir ashram is located in the north, right below the Himalayas. Quiet, obscure and isolated. The perfect spot for a spiritual journey. Yes I know aesthetics should play a miniscule role, but doesn’t good presentation always make the food taste better?

The ashram accepts 30 students and the waiting list is probably as long as Santa Claus’ list. I’ve applied for the April 2006 course and now it’s just a matter of waiting and hoping for the letter of acceptance to pop up in my mailbox. I’m sure everyone anywhere in the world knows what that feels like!

But this is a huge step for me. After I hit the ‘Submit’ button on the website, I sank back in my chair and stared at the screen. Could I live and breathe yoga from 5.30am-10pm everyday for a month? Could I study and pass the philosophy exams. And most importantly, could I survive a whole month without meat? But I knew that this is what I wanted to do more than anything else in the world…writing not included!

Why? Besides the fact that yoga has done wonders for my physical and emotional wellbeing, I think I’ve had a pretty good life and it’s time to give back and this is the best way I know how. I’d like to afford a yoga centre where payment is on a donation basis. None of the studios-cum-mini-clubhouse for me, thank you very much. Yoga was created to bring heart, mind and soul back to basics and that’s the way it will be for me.

Fables That Fall Flat

2005-09-27T18:10:00.001-07:00

I must apologise in advance to any fans of Precious Ramotswe or Alexander McCall Smith, but reading ‘The Girl Who Married A Lion’ was a little like chewing on flavourless gum. I picked it up from Bookstreet because of the quirky title and because it looked like light reading. Turns out it was too light to pin down my attention. I read the entire book, though.

'The Girl Who Married A Lion' is essentially a collection of African folk tales, some from Smith's collection and some gleaned from interviews with natives in Botswana . Kinda’ like Aesop fables. There are stories that enlighten the reader as to why hyenas and elephants live separately and why baboons are lazy, as well as stories on values like honesty, vanity and the like. I can take the morality and the talking animals, but the ways in which the issues are resolved are rather unnerving. In most of the stories, the most favoured solution is killing and eating the wrongdoer, whether the crime is telling a white lie or a homicide. I enjoyed Aesop and Mother Goose but I felt these stories just didn’t encourage the readers (who are reputed to be predominantly children) to think out of the box or resolve problems intelligently. In my humble opinion, the only thing that worked for it is the engaging writing style.

Having said that, this slim paperback has been hailed as ‘heart-warming’ ‘a treasure’ and ‘a truly beautiful read’. Perhaps it’s just me, then. Pick it up and judge for yourself. I’d love to hear another point of view.

10,000 words less, another 30,000 more to go

2005-09-18T22:14:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I heard the words that send shivers up every writer’s spine – ‘I don’t think the story angle’s working’. My publisher, with whom I was collaborating on this particular writing project, had only just realised this. Three months and 38,933 words later.

I sat dumbfounded as he tweaked and twisted the story in every different direction. The end result was like a quill being driven into the heart. The new story direction would involve slashing 10,000 words and writing an additional 30,000 more. One that would require me to delve deeper into the story, a story that was already befuddling my mind. (I was working on this project with two experts on the topic and my only role was to put their ideas into a story form. Something along the lines of Tuesdays with Morrie.) As I listened to him, I felt my heart sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of dismay and mild hysteria.

I left his office shortly after and tried to digest his words during the drive home. Initially the only screaming thought was the prospect of trashing 10,000 words. But other thoughts eventually shoved it aside and those thoughts were what I’d known all along.

If a story doesn’t work, then it has to be reworked – it’s the most basic rule in the book, no two ways about it. Why waste your time with something that you already know is doomed for failure? More so when it’s your craft! Like Rattawut Lapcharoensap said, your responsibility is to the page.

Rewriting isn’t an alien concept – every self-respecting writer would never publish the first draft of his or her work. In this case, better now than then.

Never let emotions get in the way of professionalism – it’s always hard to kill off a favourite character or scene. Just ask J.K. Rowling! But sometimes it’s the best thing to do for both the character and the story. Eventually you’ll realise it was the best thing to do for you too! Like Stephen King says, KILL YOUR DARLINGS!!!

What really made the task painless and completely humbled me was an article in Newsweek Special Report: After Katrina.

“At Tulane University, Dr. James Robinson, a prominent AIDS researcher, and his wife Monique, decided to stay behind to protect some cell lines – white blood cells infected with the disease – that represent decades of research on his part. He packed his lab with food and water and relied on generators to keep his freezers and incubators operating. But by Wednesday, with the water rising, his generator failed. The Tulanes made their way to the university parking lot where he called his daughter in Providence to tell her they were all right – for now. “I didn’t dare ask him about his work,” said his daughter. “I fear it’s all probably a loss.”

And I was heartbroken over the loss of 10,000 words?

Do It The Write Way!

2005-08-31T19:41:00.000-07:00

Went for the Singapore Writer’s Festival last weekend. Came back with only one regret – that I couldn’t stay long enough. But at least I caught two really good talks. One was by Rattawut Lapcharoensap, the young Thai writer who recent blazed into the literary world with his first book, a collection of short stories called Sightseeing. He did a reading, which I missed thanks to Orchard Road’s Saturday afternoon traffic. Got there just in time to hear novelist Suhayl Saadi author of Psychoraag wind up his reading. Then came the good part – we got to ask questions.

Someone asked Rattawut how true the saying ‘write what you know’ is for him. His nuggets of wisdom;

Write what you know from your emotional center which you know is true.
Write what you know but realise it could be more than your life experience.
And knowing what you have written can be more useful than writing what you know.

Actually he said a whole lot more than that, but these were the bits that stood out. Another lady asked him how he learnt to write and he shared his secret - by reading. A timeless, painfully simple solution that has been tirelessly dished out and largely ignored. Rattawut also cheekily warned that once you start writing a lot, you start plagiarizing yourself. It was a funny thought but oh, so true! Haven’t you ever written a really swell sentence, patted yourself on the back, suddenly feel like you’ve recognised it before, panicked because you think you’ve stolen it from some great literary icon and discover you wrote the same sentence in a previous piece of work? Well, I haven’t. Which means I’m either very creative with words or I just haven’t written enough.

Rattawut wound up his talk with ‘the internal critic is the only one for whom you should write’ and ‘your responsibility is to the paper, not the market’. And for those of you who despair over the lack of interest in your short stories, take heart in the fact that Rattawut himself was inundated with a pile of rejection slips and regretful sighs of “If only you wrote a novel, we could take you on.”

The second talk was Writing Crime: C.S.I. Style. The speakers were Kathryn Fox author of Malicious Intent and FH Batacan author of Smaller and Smaller Circles. The former is a medical doctor and the latter is an award-winning writer.

This talk was definitely intense! Fox talked about her experience as an intern and her first encounter with a dead body. She spoke about examining bodies that were battered with unimaginable atrocities, of her growing desire to create more awareness on the complexities of forensic science and of the advantage of being a woman in this business.

“Women always have the upper hand in crime because men tend to take them lightly. They become more careless in what they say and what they leave behind in the room when they slip out to take a leak because they think we won’t peek. But we’re women, of course we’ll peek!”

On a more serious note, she says that every aspiring crime writer should keep one thing in mind. Always let science be a slave to the plot, not the other way around. According to her, CSI is guilty of breaking this rule, which is why their episodes keep getting more and more bizarre.

Batacan on the other hand says she always tries to earn the ending. ‘I try to end it in a way where there could be absolutely no other way for it to end. I’m not a fan of endings that hang in mid-air.”

Lest anyone think that crime writing is a piece of kuih lapis, here’s something for you to chew on. The most time-consuming, yet absolutely crucial aspect of crime writing is the research. Fox related how she once had a friend over whose son ran out to play in the yard. The two of them were role-playing a scene in the book to see whether it would work and when the kid ran back in right in time to see Fox attacking his mother with a butter knife. Batacan recalled how she asked the new man in her life to sit with his back facing her while she experimented the best way to clobber him to death.

So how long did these it take for these two books to hatch? Hold your breath now. Fox took seven years to write Malicious Intent (she wrote 30 drafts and showed it to five people) and Batacan took six to write Smaller and Smaller Circles (three to write and another three to rewrite). I guess I’d better get started on my psycho-thriller now before I’m forced to add another item to my mid-life crisis list.

Editing

2005-08-24T00:28:00.003-07:00

Last week, I told someone whose book I was editing that it needed a whole lot of reworking. She replied, “Ya la, my writer did such a bad job. Since you’re editing it, can you rewrite the bad parts?”

Today someone asked me how much I charge for editing. When I told him, he said, “Wah! So expensive just to check for typos ah?”

Editing is so misunderstood that if it was a person, it would constantly be on Prozac. Why oh why do people think that editing a book is like reading a bedtime story? I have great admiration for editors because I know how difficult it is to be one. Last year I worked as a freelance sub-editor for a women’s magazine. They finally found a full-time sub-editor after three months and I gratefully relinquished my duties. It’s a tough job made even more gruelling when the story is boring beyond belief. And putting myself through that is breaking my golden rule. I try my best not to read anything that bores me. Life is too short.

Editors are terribly underrated and underpaid and almost never acknowledged. They’re the faceless sculptors behind every great story. The people who see a story for what it really is, not what the writer wants it to be. Theirs’ is the invisible hands that guide a writer up the bestseller list.

Stephen King pays tribute to his editor in his book 'On Writing'. In his third foreword he says:

“One rule of the road not directly stated elsewhere in this book: ‘The editor is always right.’ The corollary is that no writer will take all of his or her editor’s advice; for all have sinned and fallen short of editorial perfection. Put another way, to write is human, to edit is divine.”

NaNoWriMo

2005-08-20T15:37:00.000-07:00

I did another uncharacteristic thing today. Woke up before noon to attend the NaNoWriMo meeting in MPH 1 Utama. The event only commences at the stroke of midnight on October 31st (looks like I’ll have to end my annual Halloween party a little earlier this year!) but some wonderful soul decided it would be a good idea to form a ‘support system’ even before it began. I was thrilled to bits!

The turnout was better than expected with about 40 plus people turning up. And who should the wonderful soul who initiated this be but Sharon Bakar! By the end of the morning emotions had run from I-think-I’m-going-to-try-this to oh-my-god-who-am-I-kidding and finally to I’m-damned-well-going-to-do-this! It was fantastic to see aspiring writers of diverse ages and backgrounds with one thing in common – a scorching desire to get their inner story on paper. I took part in NaNoWriMo a couple of years back but didn’t make the cut. Well things are going to be different this year!! Fingers crossed.

Have also finally addressed the yearning to do ‘something’ for the Malaysian literature scene. Will be meeting Sharon this Thursday to thrash out my half-baked ideas on how to help local English fiction writers make a mark in the international scene. The Tash Aws and Rani Manickas of the world are great but I don’t want aspiring writers thinking you can only make it if you cross the ocean to sell an exotic Asian story to a Western publisher. Then again, many local writers are also suffering from acute sour-grapes-syndrome, attributing Tash and Rani’s success to location rather than effort. Trust me, I’ve the whining.

So what’s my goal? To clear the misconception that a few published letters-to-the-editor and celebrating your 40th birthday isn’t enough to warrant a book. And also to help aspiring writers understand that while writing is like a fun-filled trip, a certain amount of effort is still necessary to get to the destination.

Dancing The Night Away

2005-08-19T23:33:00.000-07:00

Arts and culture are to me what WiFi is to a kampung kid. So I suppose I gave my cultured friend quite a fright when I invited her to watch an Indian classical dance at Sutra Dance Theatre. And on a Friday night too!

My yoga teacher from Yoga2Healthcalled me that Tuesday afternoon asking if I would be interested in watching the show. I delivered my usual non-committal I’ll-think-about-it line. Well, guess what? I did and I decided why not do something different. So there we were at Sutra Dance Theatre on a cool Friday night, after almost getting hopelessly lost in Taman Ttitiwangsa.

Sutra House is absolutely gorgeous! Fell in love with it right away. The soft lights, lush trees, good hot coffee and intoxicating incense made it all quite surreal. That night’s show was the third performance in the Under The Stars 2005 – A Season Of Odissi programme. This time two sisters – Leena and Leesa Mohanty – were going to perform a repertoire called Shyam Shyama – A Journey Divine. Even the name sounded surreal!

I’m pleased to report that my very first taste of the classical world was wonderfully sweet. The dancers were amazing! Swirls of white and brilliant vermillion, painted hands and feet, clinking jewellery and fluid movements – it was breathtaking! Am planning to go for January Low’s interpretation of The Apotheosis - In Search of the Dark Lord next month.

The other highlight of the night was shaking hands with Malaysia’s dance legend himself. Would you believe it was my first time meeting Ramli Ibrahim? My friend couldn’t. When I told her, she just stared at me and said, “What world do you come from?”

Oh and how could I forget the clever pricing strategy! Rather than say ‘Entrance Fee: RM30’, it said ‘Invitation by donation of RM30’. If that’s the case, then I just collected 60 Brownie points since I paid for both tickets!