I want to be able to write again!
Goddamnit, I used to write stories, translating the ideas, and scenes going on in my head, into coherent words that make up actual stories! I even used to write stories for the sake of writing. Of course, those kind of work just end up down the drain…
But the point is, I want to write!
To me, every person has to leave a mark, a legacy, before they die, lest they be forgotten. Parents have children to continue their line, painters have their masterpieces admired even after hundreds of years go by. I, personally, want to leave my mark through an actual novel. Not just a mere novel, but one that actually matters. One that has meaning and measure, that touches at least one life.
Enter the nightmare of getting an English novel published in Malaysia. I have asked around. Most Asian-based English literature are actually translated into English, from their native languages. And it is not easy to penetrate Malaysian market with an English literature as it does not sell well. Not many publishers are willing to take the risk.
Then comes the permanent writer’s block (or so I keep telling myself). All this while, my stories are Americanized, when I don’t write fantasy. My characters were mainly Caucasians, as it was difficult for me to comprehend Malaysians conversing and thinking fully in English. It was just weird for me. So during high school, my entries did not win anything. It may be because my writing sucked, but all winning entries involved Malaysian characters. The judges wanted (and still want) stories that are steep in Malaysian flavor. I even tried submitting my works to Silverfish Books, a Malaysian-based publication house that produces an annual anthology called Silverfish New Writing. Again, all stories have their own local flavor, and with the really good ones, I could actually feel like I was in Singapore, or Vietnam, or even here in KL while reading them. And these stories were originally written in English!
A particular story used to reside in my head, and I kept developing my characters, as well as the plot, and storyline. But my teachers and mentors had always advised me to write about things that I know well, things that I can describe without having to tax my imagination, for me to be able to write well. And that had me thinking. I have been living a comfortable, if sheltered life. I have no stories of war and conflict to express, neither have I any experience of poverty or difficulty growing up. I have had fond affection, but never the passion of love and lust (although, surprisingly, people seem to like my love stories…). But what I do have, I have taken for granted. I have always scorned TV series about doctors and the medical profession. Some are really good show, but they invariably paint a picture prettier than reality. This is my field; I know it well. I could really write something meaningful that can leave an impact.
And indeed I do have a complete story brewing in my mind. Written correctly, it could impress a powerful message. But it would mean honest study and research, and none of this instinct-only stuff. Cringe!
Come to think of it, I still remember vividly an event that occurred when I was in Standard 5. I have forgotten my English teacher’s name (I stink when it comes to names), but I still remember what she looked like. Tall (well I was really short at that time!), skinny, with long, curly ebony hair that she wore loose. She wore these big spectacles, and she had an-almost buck teeth. She was quite dark, even for an Indian. Anyway, back to the point. One day she was teaching us past tense, and it was something about woodland animals (sigh, these silly workbooks). So she asked us to choose which one was right, to complete the sentence: (something) to ______ (pick, picked, picking). And I answered ‘pick’. And right there, in front of the class, she scoffed at me and said "Wrong. That is present tense." And I was adamant that my answer was correct. When she asked me why, I could only say that it sounded right (bear in mind that at that time, I was in love with Enid Blyton’s books as well as Narnia). And she laughed at me, and naturally, the whole class joined in. However, she called me to her desk the next day, and quietly told me that I was right. ‘To’ is followed by a present tense, as the action has not yet taken place. And I still remember the way she looked at me when she said that. I still hope it looked like frank admiration. Of course, she then informed the whole class, but no one actually cared. But that was not the point.
So. Back to the present. The Story (with capitaled S to emphasise its importance and impact). I’ve given all the excuses. I’m now left with the final hurdle to jump.
Me.
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