"For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause."
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet
I have been cracking my head thinking up a title for this post. I want to avoid phrases like 'reflections' and 'year that was' and other overused titles to wrap a year. Plus, perhaps by now you have an inkling of my flair for the dramatic.
I'm a writer. What am I if not dramatic?
For all the teachings of our various faiths and religions, we don't really know what happens when we die. Oh, we know what happens to our physical self. But what about the spirit? I am my no means a spiritual man. Friends and family are well aware that my faith is somewhat lacking. So why, then, the stories I have published throughout this year, have a common theme of spirituality?
In Act of Faith (COSMOS, Dec 2010 - Jan 2011 issue), a retired ustaz shows an android the beauty of Islam, of faith. In Equatorial Snow (Crossed Genres, CoC issue), a young man clings onto his faith in God despite facing a dying world with his wife and newborn son. In Flight of the Ibis (Aether Age: Helios), a ayoung scribe finds in his heart faith in his Gods' divine plan, and faith in his own worth.
Not all my published stories are based on faith in the divine, though. In Fountain of Youth (Skive Magazine, August 2010), Shadow of Phrixos (Aether Age: Helios) and Visions (Expanded Horizons, March 2010 | Fallen: An Anthology of Demonic Horror), my main characters hold steadfast faith in one another.
I never write a story to preach. So far, I have not based my stories with moral premises, nor any premise, for that matter. My stories are character-based, and I develop my ideas using "what if". What if I dump my characters in certain situations? What would they do? I was surprised when I realized how the premises formed themselves. Honest.
Looking back, I am thankful for the blessings God has granted me throughout this year, even though I've offered nothing in return. I have achieved one of my greatest dreams: to see my stories in print publications before I reach 30. Technically, that was in 1997, when my first story was published in my school magazine, Garudamas. But I won't count the two stories and two articles I have in Garudamas, no matter how much I love the magazine. My first online publication was late 2009 (KAP, TMPC, and QLRS), but I received my first payment in February 2010 for Visions (USD 30, Expanded Horizons). I first held a physical book with my name in the ToC sometime in September, with Skive Magazine. Four more stories are already available in print: Flight of the Ibis and Shadow of Phrixos in Aether Age: Helios (hardcover/paperback), Equatorial Snow in Crossed Genres, and Act of Faith in COSMOS. A few more are due out sometime in 2011.
I have also submitted my application to pursue my Master's Degree in Neurosurgery. I have to go through an exam and an interview before I can say for certain that I have been accepted, but because of this, I have experienced six wonderful months in a new environment in a different hospital. I learned new things, refreshed on what I have learned, and most important, I made new friends.
2010 is another year I feel blessed to have a family such as mine. We've had our quarrels and disagreements, and there are days we get so exasperated with one another, we just slammed the door shut, but I wouldn't trade my family with another's. Speaking of family, Mama, Kasha, Faiz and Ayis threw me a fabulous Mexican-themed birthday party (well, Mama and Kasha worked the hardest). Even though I ended up not blogging about it, you can check the airwolf photos Faiz and Ili took here. Almost all of the most important people in my life were there. To top it up, Reza gave me a much-wanted/needed iPad for my birthday.
Unfortunately, there are also things I am not proud of, things I've left undone. I had promised myself to use the more relaxed environment at Hospital Selayang as an opportunity to study Neurosurgery, and to write my novels. I have attempted at writing two novels and a novella. I am a short story person, so this is quite a daunting task. I still want to finish them, and I hope that 2011 will make it a possibility.
As for studying, I really have to make an effort before the interview, and at least get the flow going before I start my Master's program. This I have to do, no excuses.
That's what I keep telling myself. Sigh.
As the year closes, I can't help but pause and reflect on the things I have done, things I have achieved, and things I should have done better. I may not be able to turn back time, but at least I can learn from my experiences. I hope I am a better person for it, and a better writer.
I am not one for resolutions, but I hope 2011 will be a spiritually enlightening year. I miss conversing with God. I do not know what dreams may come, but I know that life is a grand adventure.
May we all have grand adventures of our own, so that when we pause an think about the great unknown that Afterlife is, we will be able to smile and face it with grace and dignity.
I stand at the entrance and crane my neck to look for him, or at least another familiar face. Most of the bar tables arranged in a circular manner in front of a stage are already filled. A couple of guys in black T-shirts are on the stage, inspecting the drumset, guitars and microphones.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. "Miss?"
I look to my left and see a sausage of a finger on my shoulder. I look up, and gulp. A goateed bouncer glares at me from behind a pair of shades.
"In or out? You're blocking the way."
"I'm waiting for my friend."
He steals a quick glance at his chrome watch, which looks too small on his wrist. "You're Eizlan's girl?"
My heart almost explodes. He's never introduced me to anyone as his girl. Actually, I don't even know where we stand. Not knowing what to answer, I can only nod.
The man points toward the center of the bar. "Table twenty. In front of the stage."
"Thank you."
He nods. Maybe he's born with a permanent scowl. His expression hasn't lighten up a fraction.
I weave through a sea of strangers toward an empty bar table with a "RESERVED" sign set in front of a flute-tip vase centerpiece. A single stalk of turqoise rose in full bloom stands in the transparent vase. I take a seat facing the stage. My feet swing idly as I fidget with my phone. Where is he?
As a waitress in a red blouse passes by, I order a glass of Pepsi. Somehow, a cup of coffee seems out of place here, and I'm agitated enough as it is. All around me, there are at least two to four people per table, chatting and laughing and leaning close to one another. I feel out of place, just like a cup of coffee. He knows I don't like strangers. Why isn't he here yet?
After what feels like forever, there is finally activity on the stage. Four guys, all around my age, take their places behind each instrument. I didn't even check which band is playing tonight. Must be someone big, judging from the turnout. I crane my neck around.
"Looking for me?"
I almost fall off my seat. Eizlan is standing behind me, grinning. His hands rest firmly on my arms, though I only realize it belatedly. He turns my seat so that I face him.
I blink at him. I'm still trying to process the intimate gesture he just did. Maybe he only wanted to stop me from falling, is all. "You cut your hair."
He scratched the back of his curly head. "I only trimmed a bit. Didn't think anyone would notice."
I notice everything. Instead, I reply, "Looks good."
"Thanks. Hey, have you ordered your drink?"
"Yep. I haven't ordered for you. Didn't know what you'd want."
"I'll drink later. I need to do something first."
With that, he turns my seat facing the band again and then bounds onto the stage. He stands behind the microphone at the center. He looks beautiful, in a snug white T under an open-button checkered shirt with rolled-up sleeves. I think it's his favorite shirt. He throws a smile at me before addressing the crowd.
"Hi. Welcome to Ben's Singers' Corner. I didn't expect the crowd will be this big. Thanks, guys."
Scattered claps and cheers from the audience. Suddenly I feel like my guts have been wrenched out. I never knew Eizlan has a band. And I thought I knew everything about him.
"I don't know if you guys know this, but our local singer and model, Adrian, used to sing here before he became famous."
"He still does, when I call him!" a Chinese man in his forties hollers from behind the bar.
Eizlan gives a lop-sided grin. "Say hi to Ben, ladies and gentlemen. Anyway, rumor has it that all his songs are written for his girl. That's how he tells her how much he loves her without saying 'I Love You'. I hope to one day write songs as beautiful as his, but for now, I'll cover one of his songs for my own special someone."
I turn red and shrink into myself when I hear claps and hoots from the crowd. If only my fringe was longer, I can at least hide my eyes.
"Tasha," Eizlan continued after the cheers have settled. "I love you."
Before I can react, the drummer starts to play, and Eizlan closes his eyes. He grips the microphone with both his hands, and sings.
Suddenly the rest of the world dims. Only he exists. His voice is clear, with a tinge of huskiness. I can lose myself in his voice and not want to find my way out ever again.
When our eyes meet, I know he is just as lost as I am. He extends his right hand toward me.
Two weeks left before the year ends. Time to settle accounts, to be with the family and friends for the holidays, and to wrap up a great year. Indeed, this year has been kind to me. I began to seriously publish my stories in August 2009, and in the fifteen months since, I have published fifteen stories.
I have just received my largest payment for a story, MYR910.40, to be exact, from COSMOS Magazine, which paid me AUD300 for "Act of Faith", out this month. Unfortunately, I've checked all major bookstores here, and none of them sell the magazine. Good news is I'm traveling to Singapore next weekend, and will buy a few copies of COSMOS there.
With my dayjob, I've submitted my application to pursue a Master's Degree in Neurosurgery, and am currently agitated about the interview. I just finished my General Surgery rotation, and after these two weeks of holiday, I'll be reporting for duty back at Neurosurgery HKL. My bosses are expecting diligence and dedication from me, since I'm applying to become a Neurosurgeon myself. [Deep breaths.]
2010 has been an eventful year for me, but it's near the end of the year when my writing career seems to take a leap. My most anticipated project, Aether Age: Helios, is out, and I'm expecting my contributor's copies anytime soon. "Equatorial Snow" came out at Crossed Genres for its Characters of Color issue, and yesterday it received a full review. I've linked the page, but here's what the reviewer, Scooter Carlyle, had to say about my story:
In “Equatorial Snow” by Fadzlishah Johanabas, a very misguided attempt to counteract global warming goes terribly awry making it snow for months on end in equatorial Kuala Lampur. Amri and Zarina face worldwide famine, disease, and death as they wait for their unborn child, who decides to come a little earlier than planned.
It was the relationship between the man and his wife and the choices they were forced to make as the world crumbled around them that drew me in. The voice was engaging, and the setting rich. I loved it.
Heady stuff. Tomorrow I will be reading one of my stories in public for the first time. I am still unknown among our local English writing community, and getting an invitation to read at Seksan is a great honor, one that I hope I won't blunder through.
More important, though, a reader from somewhere across the world gave me a personal message on Facebook regarding "Act of Faith". I had never expected for this to happen. Whenever I read a book that move me, I write a thank you email to the author. Sometimes they write back. Someone I don't know had written me something to that effect.
I have always loved writing for the sake of it. I publish my works because I want to touch people's hearts, to move them, to make an impact. I may not be able to do anything about it locally, and I may end up an unknown writer unless I make a splash overseas or something, but I don't think it matters anymore.
I have touched at least one person's life. I have made an impact.
Getting accepted for publication at professional- and semi-pro-paying venues speaks volumes about my stories. Getting a review, an invitation for a reading, and a thank you note from a reader, all in the same month, somehow solidify my place in the world as a writer of fiction.
For better or for worse, I have arrived. My only prayer is that I won't disappoint in years to come.
Two days ago, while managing the outpatient clinic, I came across a pleasant old lady referred from another department. Why am I being subtle? The referring department was Orthopedics. The patient has long-standing hypertension and diabetes, and she already has peripheral neuropathy. In other words, she has high blood pressure and high blood sugar, long enough to cause end-organ nerve damage. She does not have any sensation on both feet, extending beyond her ankles. No sensations of pain, heat, cold, pressure, nada.
She must have stubbed the toe of her left foot, because in August this year, her daughter noticed pus seeping from the toe. It was a bit dusky, but she could still move all her toes. She was seen in the emergency department, and was promptly referred to Orthopedics. The patient was discharged with a course of oral antibiotics. Unfortunately the story didn’t end there. Her daughter brought her to the emergency department a few times in subsequent months, and she was also seen at the outpatient clinic. She was last seen in November, where the attending doctor referred her to General Surgery to exclude peripheral vascular disease (blood vessel damage). Maybe they didn’t have a Doppler machine to hear the pulsations of the vessels, but they could have at least done some investigations, such as feeling for the peripheral pulses and taking the Ankle-Brachial Pulse Index.
That didn’t irk me. Something else pulled the trigger. I did the bedside examinations and verified that the patient did not suffer from peripheral vascular disease. The left foot, however, was warm and slightly swollen. I suspected cellulitis (a nasty infection that crosses tissue layers from the skin inward). I called the Medical Officer on-call, to refer the patient back to them for further management.
What did the doctor tell me? “The patient doesn’t need surgery, right? Refer her to Medical.”
I said, “You’re the primary care team. The patient needs further treatment, and you cannot push her around.”
“That’s our policy.”
“Fine.”
I hung up and promptly called the Medical Officer on-call for General Medicine. She was kind and accommodating, but was overwhelmed by referrals at that time. She asked me to send the patient to the Emergency Zone, so that the ED Medical Officer could refer her to her colleague. Yeah, a bit convoluted, but at least they were more than willing to attend to the patient.
Let me make it clear that in no way whatsoever I am dissing the Orthopedics department. This is not the first time something as screwed up as this has happened, and this will not be the last. I have even witnessed pervious colleagues from my own department doing this to patients.
I am far from perfect. I come late to work, and I usually leave a half-hour early. I take extended lunchtimes when I know my patients are stable. Every so often I’ll lose motivation, and when I’m dead tired from hectic call schedules and cases, I’ll get cranky as hell. I make mistakes, though in my defense, I try to learn from them. But I am saddened by the prevalence of apathy among my colleagues. When we first decide to pursue this line, most of us are aware of what we’re getting ourselves into. It’s not an easy occupation, and the pay—if one stays in the public health sector—is nothing to brag about. As a matter of fact, a majority of us develop an inferiority complex when we compare ourselves with our contemporaries in private sectors. Those of us in major centers have a huge patient load, and we tend to overexert. We wear ourselves thin.
I can understand if a colleague is overwhelmed and cannot cope with additional patients. But pushing patients elsewhere when they have the resources to treat them, that’s just wrong. When asked, the common response will be, “this is a public center. If a patient wants better treatment, they can go to private centers.”
This “government” excuse for apathy is so overused, it’s a cliché. Yes, we concentrate our resources on treatments and medications that patients receive next to free, so much so that we cannot afford more comfort for patients and their families. This doesn’t mean Medical staff cannot offer the best possible comfort possible. People come to clinics and hospitals because they are sick. They want to get better. A little comfort goes a long way in facilitating this. I’ve seen some of my closest colleagues, both doctors and nurses, sigh and complain about their work—I join them in complaining, sometimes—but when they attend to patients, they put their game face on. They are at their best when attending to patients’ needs. I have nothing but love and respect for these colleagues.
Everywhere in Malaysia people are complaining that there are too many new House Officers produced each year, and their quality is steadily declining. One House Officer for every 2 to 3 patients. When I was one, the ratio was one house officer for every ward (28 patients). Theoretically, patient care should be better nowadays, right? I’m on the fence with this. I’ve seen good House Officers, and I’ve seen bad ones. However, I’m not so concerned about the sheer number of House Officers. The apathy of existing Specialists and Medical Officers should be addressed first.
Is this the example we want to set for the younger generations?
"Other people drive so you also want to drive-lah, yes or not?"
I'm told my lips purse when I'm agitated.
"Eh, don't so serious-lah. Learn to drive is like learn to smoke. Actually you don't want to smoke one. But you want to be someone who smoke. Because smoking is cool! Same thing-lah. Driving don't mean you got licence. So many people drive go no licence what! But driving means you got a car. And if you got a car, you are cool. Yes or not?"
"No-lah! Where got?" I say.
Of course no-lah where got. Because I'm not a cliche. I'm not so predictable that some Jinjang Joe driving instructor can decode me so easily. I'm complex and complicated and other polysyllabic words. No-lah, where got? C'mon, dude. Show him.
"It's a rite of passage."
"What?"
"Rite. Of. Passage. It's ... it's something that shows you've come of age.
Blank stare.
"It's the right thing to do for a kid my age."
Blank stare.
"Hai-yah, I'm in Form Five already! It's time to get a licence what!"
Instructor smiles. His teeth like an insult.
- Ivan Yeo; Clutch, Brake, Sellerator (Clutch, Brake, Sellerator and other stories, MPH Group Publishing 2010)
Depending how Mangled your Malaysian English is, you'll have different versions of Manglish. Above is an example that works. The protagonist actually uses proper English, but he uses Manglish to converse with the driving instructor, who either speaks poor English, or thinks that the protagonist speaks poor English, so he talks like a typical Malaysian Chinese to communicate with the protagonist more readily.
To confuse you even more, what if the protagonist is a Malay, talking and thinking in Malay, while the instructor is a Chinese who isn't fluent in Malay, just enough to use a broken language. Only thing is, the author uses a Universal Translator from Babylon 5 so that readers see the story in Standard English (and its broken equivalent).
Malaysians generally view Manglish with pride. It's uniquely Malaysian, this mixture of English-Malay-Chinese-Tamil. 1Malaysia la katakan (inside joke). To be honest, I mix English with Malay in my day-to-day conversations (occasionally even during formal presentations), plus some Cantonese, Tamil, Italian, or French, depending on the first curse word that pops into my head when the need arises. Not only that, my inflections differ when I use Manglish with a Malay (normal but fast), an Indian (predominantly blunt and rolling) and a Chinese (sharper, with a singsong quality characteristic of the Chinese language). You have no idea how mangled my English is.
But.
The conversations in my head are predominantly in Standard English (not British or American. Just Standard). I don't really think in Malay, even though I am one. Maybe it's because of the English books Mama used to buy for me when I was little. Maybe it's because of the English shows we watched on RTM2 and TV3, and the English-language radio stations we listened to as my siblings and I grew up. Whatever it may be, when I converse in proper English, my friends snicker and mimick my rolling Rs. They tell me I have a weird slang, not British, not American, but not Malaysian either. My Australian cousins say I don't have a slang. So there.
Purists abhor Manglish. They claim that Manglish is a pidgin language, and adulterated English. To a certain extent, I agree with them. If a presenter uses Manglish in front of an international audience, it shows how poor our grasp of Standard English is. In a world where a nation's standing is partly based on its people's mastery of English, Manglish reflects poorly on Malaysia as a whole. Even in formal discussions and presentations among local colleagues, one has to choose a common language and use its standard form. It's only proper and civil to do so, don't you agree?
Do I go as far as purists, seeking to destroy Manglish altogether? I'm not an extremist, so my answer is no. Manglish has its charms. It's uniquely Malaysian, as Singlish is to Singapore. Westerners take a while to understand and adapt, but once they do, quite a number also use Manglish (and even Mangled Malay).
To illustrate the points I have above, watch these videos of Paku & Belacan:
Hilarious, right? To be fair, they're talking in Malay, but they use the prescribed 'lah' and 'kan' and they also inject English phrases in their Malay conversations. This is exactly how Manglish sounds. Broken, weird, and at the same time endearing. I think almost all Malaysians will collapse on the floor with stitches on their flanks watching Paku & Belacan.
Here's the catch: I don't know if English users from other parts of the globe will appreciate them the same way. There's bound to be amusement beside the "What the hell are these jokers talking about?". Manglish becomes an insider language, a type of slang that not everyone can understand. Sure, a story written wholly in Manglish is distinctly Malaysian. But can it be international? I haven't tried, truth be told. I install the Universal Translator in all my stories. My characters are Malay, Chinese and/or Indian, using Malaysian versions of the languages, but readers see them as Standard English.
I used to get weirded out if I tried writing about Malaysian characters in English. Most Malaysians don't speak proper English, and to have them do so in my stories felt wrong, somehow. Unnatural, even. But I had reservations about using Manglish -- still do, actually. I ended up writing stories with Caucasian characters set in Western places I experienced through the television. I think I have a few examples somewhere in this blog. Needless to say, my storytelling suffered from a lack of solid imagery, when one of my strengths is descriptive writing.
One day, a couple of years ago, I heaved a mighty puff and declared, "Screw it!" Indeed. Screw it all. What if my Malaysian characters are actually using Malaysian languages, but I give readers the illusion of Standard English? They can talk and think in a perfectly proper manner, like they would with their first language.
Here are some examples:
Alias walked home with the Imam beside him. They almost always read the Quran at Alias’s house every Thursday night. With a flashlight guiding them, Alias talked about Melur’s pregnancy, and their plans for the unborn child. The Imam listened to the excited expecting father, only interjecting once in a while to ask a few questions.
“When is the baby due?”
“In a couple of weeks, Insya-Allah.”
The Imam nodded. “That’s good. Is Melur planning to give birth at home or at the hospital in town?”
“We’re not sure yet. Mak Timah comes regularly to check up on Melur, and she offered to be Melur’s midwife should she choose to give birth at home.”
“Don’t be fooled by her age and small frame. Timah is a good and highly experienced midwife. She’s much better than the young doctors in town.”
Alias chuckled and nodded.
The house was in complete darkness when they arrived. Melur would always leave the porch light on whenever Alias was out at night. Alias fished out his set of keys from his pocket as the Imam aimed the flashlight at the doorknob.
A wave of overpowering smells assaulted them the moment Alias opened the door. He recognized the unmistakable smell of blood, as his repair shop was downwind from the local butcher’s, but it was only an undertone against something much stronger.
“Birth-water,” muttered the Imam, sending Alias into panic.
“Melur! Sayang, where are you?”
Without bothering to turn on the light, Alias bounded toward the bedroom, where the smell was strongest. He fumbled for the light switch, but he soon wished he had not turned the light on.
- Blood Debt
My parents’ house was old even by the village standard. The wooden walls and stilts were dark with age, and the woven nipah roof looked like it was due for a fresh change. The windows were closed except for the ones in the main hall at the front of the house. A woman in a plain white baju kurung stood at the base of the staircase leading to a small patio in front of the main entrance. Her long black hair whipped about with the strong wind, but her face was mostly covered. When I approached her, she walked away. I was too tired to care.
“Assalamualaikum,” I called out. “Abah? Are you in?”
The front doors creaked open and my father stepped out, squinting to see me. He looked much older than when I last saw him. The years without my mother had not been kind on Abah. He was gaunt, his hair more white than grey, and his white T-shirt hung limp on his body when it used to bulge at the abdomen. He had more wrinkles on his tanned brown face, but he still looked the same. Stern but kind. I felt a stab of guilt for not coming back to see him even during Eid holidays, for not picking up the phone to call him.
“Ana? Rohana, is that you?”
“I told you, you need to wear glasses, Abah.” I walked up the steep stairs and took his hand to kiss it.
For a while he stood perfectly still and unresponsive, but before I could stand straight again, he rested his left hand at the back of my head. “Welcome home, Ana. Welcome home.” His voice was deep, but a higher-pitched crack broke through.
I seldom provide English names to the Malay words I use in my stories. I let the descriptions or the dialogues explain themselves. My group-mates at Writing Dot Com seem to approve of this, and a majority of them are Americans who have never been to Malaysia. I trust my storytelling to give readers a taste of Malaysia, instead of generic stories set in an exotic place. I may not use Manglish, but I showcase Malaysian sensibilities and tastes.
But am I against Manglish? Here's an excerpt of a novel-in-progress:
A small lady with wrinkled skin clinging to her bones shuffled from the depths of the shop. “You want lanterns? Got big lantern, got small lantern, got square lantern. Round lantern like outside also have.” She pointed at the general direction of the ones hanging on the street. Her fingers, deformed with arthritis, shook with fine tremors.
“No lanterns, Auntie. I’m looking for Madam Tai.”
“Madam Tai not here. You buy lantern?”
“I know she is here, behind this shop, under the trapdoor.”
The old woman stopped smiling and folded her hands back close to her chest. “You no buy lantern, you go somewhere else. Madam Tai not here.”
“Auntie. I need to speak with the Stormcaller. It’s about Jin-Wei.”
- Stormcaller
You may think that one character is talking in English, while the other uses Manglish. But wait. My protagonist is actually using Malay, while the Auntie, a Chinese lady with poor command over the language, uses a broken version. When I use the Universal Translator, the fragmented words the Auntie uses remain...well, fragmented.
This is my primary concern over using Manglish in my writing: I'm afraid that by doing so, I will limit my readership to Malaysians, and that my works will become niche stories, novelties from a third-world country that should be given special attention but not taken seriously. I'm paralyzed by this fear that I cannot write a story using Manglish, even though I've had esteemed literary agents at #askagent telling me to write great stories no matter the label. Great stories sell.
I've had Malaysian reviewers at Writing Dot Com complaining that my stories aren't really Malaysian, just Mat Salleh stories clothed in Malaysian settings.
Hah! Those of you who don't know what Mat Salleh means feel excluded, right? Annoyed, even? This is one of my concerns as well. I don't want to exclude a potentially wider audience. Mat Salleh is a Malaysian term for Caucasians, by the way.
Anyway, publishers seem to like my Malaysian stories. This is what Damien Broderick (acclaimed Science Fiction author and ex-fiction-editor of COSMOS Magazine) told me: "I like your writing, and the touches of (for an Australian readership) exoticism."
Funny thing is, so far only Malaysian writers (or those who are used to Malaysians) want Malaysian stories in Manglish in order to make a story Malaysian. Others are satisfied with the foreign setting and cultures.
Here's an interesting exchange I've had with a Malaysian writer based in London: CLICK HERE. I didn't find Zen's blog by Googling my own name, honest!
As it is, Malaysian-English stories are too sparse to make a healthy comparison. For the time being, I have to settle for an author's individual preference.
So what do you think? Is a story only truly Malaysian if written in Manglish?
I part with this Korean videoclip that has been given a misheard Manglish subtitle treatment:
Sometime last month, Dash of Expanded Horizons approached me for an interview. Some of you may know that I literally sold my first story there, for USD30. Dash had given me the option of payment through PayPal or a physical check, and I opted for the check for obvious reasons. While some authors display their rejection slips, I intend to frame my first writing paycheck.
Anyway, Dash wanted to interview Arab/Muslim contributors for the December issue of Expanded Horizons. Of course I said "Yes!". I have to admit, being naturally long-winded, my responses were...how do I put it...elaborate. Throughout our exchanges, Dash was more than accomodating, and a gracious host. I don't care if the interview was a series of emails and not face-to-face. Let me have my 30 seconds of fame, okay? I'll call Dash a host and not interviewer, so get over it.
Ahem. So. Here's the link to the interview: CLICK HERE.
I haven't written a decent post in over a month, now. Same goes with my fiction writing. I'm in the middle of a novella project (between 20k and 30k words), and I have the complete story in my head. Unfortunately, I cannot seem to translate anything into writing. Not only that, I'm supposed to be studying and preparing for my Master's program admission interview. Instead, I've been downloading silly games into my iPad.
Yeah, tell me about it.
Here's the deal: I used to write as an outlet for my bottled-up emotions, frustrations, yearnings, and aspirations. Having spent a lifetime making sure whatever I do turns up good if not great, I never write for the sake of writing. Not that I'm saying my stories when I started this path were any good -- in my defense, I had thought they were good then. So I'm not a vanity writer. Glad we manage to establish that. Writing is just like figure drawing for me. I'm proficient if not amazing -- if I've instilled a sense of wonder, I'm not aware of it -- but most of all, I love both writing and drawing. They have always been just mine, things I've learned on my own, things I do for myself.
Even though almost everyone says practice makes perfect, that you have to keep at it and you'll gradually get better, I find that it doesn't work for me. Just like solutions in gaming problems, improvements come to me in revelations. Sounds wishy-washy, right? I think this comes with self-taught endeavors. With drawing, I turn to books and magazines, and I also check out other people's drawings online, at sites like Deviantart and GFXartist. I've always been able to draw since I was small, but I don't do it often. Usually when I'm bored. When I 'discover' a new technique, such as shading methods, I would have that 'aha' moment, try it out, get excited at my own improvement, and then stop for a while. Rinse and repeat.
When it comes to writing, I learned the rules from books on writing. I continually learn characterization and plot from watching movies/TV series and from reading novels/anthologies/stories. I take what works and apply it in my writing. I learn how to create problems and how to solve them from playing computer games. I also learn how to visualize my stories from playing games. I can't exactly gauge my improvement. I only know, from reading older works, what I did wrong, and what didn't work for the stories. I don't even know what my standard of writing is. All I know is that there are people who think my stories are well-written, while my trusted readers and reviewers see past that and point out the things that don't work. Personally, as long as I get rejection slips from premier venues, I'm still not great. Well, Cosmos Magazine has just published my story, "Act of Faith", and Poe Little Thing accepted my flash fiction written in 2009, both of them professional-paying venues (5cents/word). Apex Magazine is still holding on to my horror story (76 days and counting), and another story passed through to the third tier (luxurious slush, from which editors choose to publish) of Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine (ASIM), where it was then rejected. My writer friends say going as far as I did was an achievement in itself. To me, it was still rejected.
But I think this is where the source of my paralysis lies. Whenever I attempt writing, it is now aimed at publication at professional-paying markets. Token payment? Contributor's copy? 1cent per word? Eh. Not inspired. Maybe my lesser works, but not my best ones. Now that I've penetrated the professional market, I worry about what people think of my work(s). Am I a one-hit wonder, my professional sales a fluke, or can I repeat the feat? I also worry about finishing a novel and sending it to an agent/publisher before I start my Master's degree next June -- provided I get accepted into the program. Or should I write stories for an anthology I have planned, and send the collection to a local publisher first? I'm way over my head with worries and speculations that I'm stuck in the middle of this crossroad.
I need to go back to basics. I need a reminder why I love writing in the first place. I keep on going back to movies that used to inspire me, but that no longer does the trick. I should finish writing that novella because it's a commitment I have made with my friends. I will read 'Essential Neurosurgery' for at least an hour a day, no excuses. As for other stories? I don't think writing for the highest bidder equals selling out. THe higher the payment means bigger funding means larger readership. I still want to leave my mark in the world. I've found a way to do it.
Wish me luck.
In the meantime, I'll end this post with a couple of my figure drawings. You be the judge if I'm any good.
