Murky Clarity

A Writer's Integrity. Also, Interzone!

I should be sleeping right now, but here I am, writing this.

I am back in Kelantan for that final stretch of my journey as a Master’s degree candidate. But this is not about this particular facet of my life. Not yet, at least. I started a thread in a local writers’ group on Facebook, more or less to gauge how local writers approach their characters.

But I’m not even talking about that.

What has been bugging my mind since last night is a surprising reaction from one of the members who immediately blocked me on Facebook AND Twitter after a comment I made. When investigated, my friend and I discovered that said member was both pissed off and disappointed that I’m publishing a story about a prostitute, how in a typical male fashion, I am demeaning women. I am perpetuating misogyny.

One person’s opinion shouldn’t matter, especially when that opinion was formed based on a sliver of a whole. Other people’s opinion doesn’t make me or even break me. However, I keep thinking about said person’s reaction, and how things managed to blow out of proportion, and I am deeply saddened by it.

So let me tell my side of the story.

When Fixi Novo let out a call for submission for a Malaysian cyberpunk anthology, I was intrigued. I like cyberpunk well enough, but to be honest, I’m kinda miffed that when people say Malaysian English Science Fiction writers, I somehow fly under their radars. Probably because I tend to step on other people’s feet with my opinions and loud thoughts.

So. I wanted to write a story for that anthology, but life happened, and I had to concentrate on finishing and submitting my dissertation. Glad that’s out of the way (for the moment). Phew! At the same time, I stole time to do research on cyberpunk, and I was also waiting for a character to take shape in my head and tell me their story.

Also, like any other Fantasy/Science Fiction writer, I have an alternate multiverse of my own. It’s a world of Songstresses, spanning from near-future Science Fiction to space faring futuristic Science Fiction, to populated worlds that have forgotten Earth’s technological advancement so much that the stories become Secondary World Fantasy. I already have at least four half-formed stories in my head, bidding their time to be told.

Among them was a persistent image of a young lady singing in a dimly lit club, and her voice influenced the emotions of those who listened. I’ve had this image stuck in my mind for years, now. And one fine December night, that young lady came to life. She started singing her story to me, and she became fully formed.

Did I set out with a fixed plot in my head, using a girl who’s a prostitute?

I never write that way. I’m not a plotter; I’m a pantser. I am so character driven that even though I start a story knowing how it’ll end, sometimes when writing, the main character takes me places I didn’t think of, and I’ll adjust the flow of the story to fit the character.

You have no idea how loud my head can get.

For the longest time, my head has been devoid of these voices. Hearing my own voice can get lonely, especially when I’m a well-adjusted introvert. And now, since I started writing this particular story, the floodgate has been opened, and I can hear all those chatters again. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

Back to the story. It’s set in 2032 Kuala Lumpur, where giant corporations have the government by the balls, and zealots are overpowered and are dictating everyone’s life, and racial segregation can no longer be ignored or held back. Sounds familiar? The situation is like 2015 Kuala Lumpur, only intensified exponentially. The narrator is a 22-year-old Malay girl who cannot remember her past, and is held captive to produce emotion drugs. Our generation has screwed up royally when we became addicted to handheld devices, and condemned our brains and the brains of our children to stop producing neurotransmitters to modulate emotions.

In a way, this story is told in a new way for me, with its non-linear narration. The main character, Arya, slowly remembers her past. The question again is did I intend for her to be a prostitute? Absolutely not. Did I intend to paint women in an unsavory manner? Arya kicks ass. She’s noble. She’s a good person in a bad situation.

Despite writing about sex, writing this story didn’t feel like a compromise to my integrity as a person, as a writer like writing “Kiss from a Rose” did to me. I am proud of the finished product.

When I finished writing the story, I had over half a month to meet the deadline. I needed to validate my worth as a writer. I don’t think I’ll ever overcome that insecurity. So I submitted the story to Clarkesworld. It’s a pro-paying market with high visibility, and best of all, the response rate is usually between 2-5 days. As expected, I received a form rejection after 2 days.

Then I tried Interzone, the premiere Science Fiction venue in the United Kingdom. I still had a lot of time to spare, so I submitted the story.

It was a post-rain Saturday evening, on December 20. I was driving, with my friend Adlina at the passenger seat. My phone informed me of a new mail in the inbox. It was a red light at Jalan Sultan Ismail, so I opened the email and this is what I received:

Dear Fadzlishah Johanabas,

Thank you for sending us "Songbird". We love it and would like to publish it in Interzone. We'll be in touch shortly with more details.

Best wishes,

Andy
Interzone
TTA Press

I assumed it was another form rejection slip. Then I read it again.

And again.

And again.

INTERZONE HAS ACCEPTED MY STORY, YO!

What happened in the car was a lot of excitement and drama, which I will not elaborate. Suffice it to say that the story, Songbird, will come out in March, in Interzone #257. Also, cover art!

Since I was—and still am—miffed that Malaysians seem not to notice that I’m a Malaysian English Science Fiction writer, I needed to write a new story for Novo. I asked Breanna, and she said, “Why not write the story of Arya’s twin?”

EUREKA!

When I started writing Andri’s story, I did not set out for him to be a convicted gay Malay guy who’s a practicing Muslim. But he is. And if what my beta readers (Breanna, Rumaizah & Tita) said is true, the story is even stronger than Songbird.

So the question that’s been bugging me is what did I do wrong? Can I not write about women? Are my characters limited to men only, and if I were to write about women, it’s always in a positive light? If that’s the case, then I’ll be pandering to my potential audience, and not staying true to the people in my head who have given my their life stories.

Now that I’ve written this rant, I’m more at peace. Because, despite how badly one (or more) person now thinks of me, my integrity as a writer is still intact.

I am still telling stories that only I can tell, in a way that only I can tell them.

And I will keep writing.

Paris Dreamed of Me

This post is long overdue, I know. I can say that I wanted enough space between the trip and writing this to have a precise, objective view. I can also say that the experience was so magical, so personal, that putting it down in writing would smear the memory.

Truth is, as with everything else, I've been procrastinating. It's the one thing that I do with any passion at all.

However, it has come to mind that the longer I wait, the less vivid I can recall the sloping streets of Latin Quarter, or the stillness of chapel grounds despite the heavy traffic just outside the gates, or the cool autumn breeze atop Notre-Dame that carried with it the warm scent of freshly-baked pastries. So I write this now, for good or for ill, for better or for worse.

I write this now, in hopes that I will continue dreaming of Paris, city of artisans and dreamers, city of love eternal.

I had always dreamed of visiting Paris at one point in my life. It was high in my bucket list; if I were to travel anywhere, especially to Europe, Paris was always the first name that came to mind. Maybe it was because of the movies that featured this city of amazing architecture and art, maybe it was because the Paris I read in books like The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown, Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins and Just One Day by Gayle Forman. Maybe it's the language itself, perfect to be whispered just behind the earlobe, and perfect to be shouted from across the street. Maybe it was all of the above. For a helpless romantic like me, Paris was the perfect place to be.

My trip there, to be honest, was only a tentative plan. Had I cemented the decision earlier, I would have arranged to fly back home from Paris instead of Frankfurt, and I would have gained another full day there. As things turned out, I extended my stay in Europe for two days—I still owe Kasha RM150 for the ticket change. I used the ICE trains between Frankfurt and Paris, which took about four hours and 140E one way. Unfortunately, it was also a long weekend for the Germans celebrating the union of East and West Germany, so a lot of Germans decided to visit Paris the same dates I went there. Needless to say, tickets were limited and freaking expensive.

The trip itself was excellent. First class, with croissants and hot chocolate (I did mention expensive, didn't I?). Outside, I saw sloping hills of green fields and quaint villages with steep roofs and smoking chimneys as the train speed along its track at three-hundred-and-thirty kilometers an hour. There were no mountains, and there certainly was no snow.

Bummer.

In the four hours, I edited the photos I took in Germany—those I hadn't edited yet, of course—and before long, the city came into view. At first there were only railway stations and graffiti-adorned walls, and everything looked drab. Definitely not the Paris in my mind. Then the train stopped, and I disembarked, and—

"PARIS, I AM IN YOU!" I yelled (in my heart).

Well, to be honest, there were plenty of very tall, very blonde people all around me, all conversing in German. Not the gentle, rolling language of romance, but the clipped, wintry language of conquerors. Fine, if you want to get technical, Napoleon Bonaparte was the conquering French emperor, and he certainly used French as a military language. Bear with me for a minute here.

Anyway. There were plenty of Germans to make me feel like I was still in Frankfurt, but looking at the signboards, there was no doubt where I was. Even the station I was at, Gare de l'Est, sounded so French! Oh la la!

Ehem.

Since everything was so French and I was so over my head, I headed straight for the tourist information center. Best. Decision. Ever. There was a line, but it was okay. I snapped a picture of the mailbox because it was yellow, not like the red ones in Malaysia. Ours are red, right? The guys behind the counter were friendly and helpful, and they advised me to get a five-day Metro ticket that could be used for the trains and buses, and a four-day museum pass. The two passes cost me 54E. Or was it 75E? Can't exactly remember, and Evernote ate my expenses list. The info counter guys offered me a Disneyland Paris pass, but I wasn't about to visit Disneyland without my family. No, sir. They also supplied me with a Metro map, and showed me which train to take, and which station to disembark at.

Of course I took the wrong train.

Technically, they gave me the wrong direction, and I still have proof of it. The guy whose English was decorated with French connotations marked the station Jussieu, so I took the number 5 (orange). But as I stood in the train, doing my best not to ogle at pretty French people—both the women and men were more than pleasant to look at, these French—I checked my hotel reservation email, and it said the hotel was near Notre-Dame, and where I was going, the cathedral was nowhere near. Well, on the map it looked near, but hey. I called up the hotel and they instructed me to take the number 4 (purple) to St-Michel. So I went back to Gare de l'Est and took the number 4 to St-Michel as instructed. In retrospect, I could have just taken the number 10 (mustard) to Cluny-La Sorbonne and then walked along the tunnels to St-Michel. Yes, French people, I KNOW, RIGHT?! Such a tourist.

Once I disembarked at St-Michel, lugging along my freaking heavy bags (yes. Plural), clunking each step of the endless staircases, I got a little intimidated by all the people rushing about. It was something like the LRT stations in KL, and people didn't wait for others to disembark before going in (unlike in Germany, where people actually waited out of the way), but the people there were generally bigger. And had way more fashion sense. Then, out of the underground station and into—

PARIS!

Rue St-Michel was as French as it would ever get in my head. Even the air was different, supercharged with this lively energy. People were everywhere: sitting outside cafes facing the street, gathering around fire-eaters in front of the statue of St-Michel, walking along the riverbanks lined by stalls that sold artworks, entering and exiting shop lots and boutiques. I was breathless, but I breathed deep regardless. The air was damp from the rain that had just settled, with an undercurrent of pigeon dropping, but over this was the scents of baked goods. Also, I noticed that it was much warmer than Germany. By warm, I meant twenty Celsius, which was cold by my native standard. However, having acclimated to the cold German air, I felt warm enough in Paris to take off my jacket and walk around in my short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. The beanie and neck scarf I bought in Mainz were just a fashion statement. Ehem. My stomach was grumbling already, but I needed to store my bags first. I booked a room at Hotel Europe Saint Severin through http://www.agoda.com for the price of USD240 per night. Again, in retrospect, I could have saved on hotel, but I wanted someplace safe for me to leave my things for extended periods. The hotel was tricky to look for, but the staff were friendly and accommodating, and there was this big fat cat who had his own chair in the lobby. Plus, the hotel offered free WiFi. Schwing!

The room was small but quaint, and the bed was oh-so-comfortable that I could just lie down and….

No way.

I immediately got up, took out my camera and map, and made sure I had my Metro ticket and museum pass in my wallet. I was ready to walk about. The receptionist recommended me to visit Notre-Dame, which was within walking distance.

"Merci beaucoup!" I say with a smile. So French! Full disclosure: I almost said danke schoen.

I stopped in at St-Michel square to snap pictures of the statue. I would come to know in the days that followed that statues like this adorned the city. Works of art were not restricted in museums or special spots, but everywhere. Then I crossed the busy street and walked along the riverbank. Oil paintings, retro posters, noir artworks and of course, touristy souvenirs were displayed at the stalls. I wanted to get something for my family, but decided to take my time to look for something meaningful and not just touristy. And Notre-Dame, tall and imposing on its own island, got ever bigger as I approached it. Even from a distance I could appreciate the intricate details of the carvings and statues populating the cathedral. There was a long line to get into the cathedral, but I was not about to spend the evening lining up. Or so I thought.

After snapping pictures of the arched doors, which, I came to know, were carved to depict the Bible for commoners who were illiterate back then. When I walked to the side, intrigued by the scents of cinnamon and vanilla and chocolate coming from bakeries beside Notre-Dame, I spotted a shorter line along the side of the cathedral. It was for the top-level walkways where the gargoyles were. So I lined up, which ate up fifteen, twenty minutes. I showed my museum pass when it was my turn to walk up, and the unsmiling guy waved me in. We tourists walked in one file up the narrow staircase and into a very modern shop, another tourist trap. I browsed around, eyeing possible purchases, but then I just headed for the real goods: the view from above.

The spiral staircase were narrow and lit by slit windows that I imagined were for archers in medieval times. The rock walls were cool to the touch, and I could feel their age. I wondered what stories the walls were willing to share, and I imagined monks shuffling in their habit up and down the staircases, silent and devoted. I imagined the hunchback slinking in the shadows, looking out the windows where the world that could not accept his deformity went about without him. I imagined generations of builders and artisans working toward building one of the grandest, most intricate architectural wonders of an age long gone. Notre-Dame was celebrating its eight-hundred-and-fiftieth birthday when I visited Paris. Nearly a thousand years in existence, and it still stood strong.

Despite the crowded walkways atop the cathedral, there was this hushed, awed silence. I could hear the wail of breezes over the steep roof and between the stern gargoyles. I could hear the city below and I could see the entirety of Paris splayed as far as I could see. The Eiffel tower looked small but still majestic in the late-evening light, and so did Basilique du Sacré Caeur to the north. The imposing rectangle of La Défense stood among skyscrapers in the far distance. To the south, the white walls and dome of the Pantheon reflected the golden light of the sun. The gargoyles had been witnessing the rise of Paris, from ancient times to modern ones, for hundreds of years. The city below moved forward with time, but up there, I did not feel a part of it. Instead, I was part of something much older, something hallowed, something indescribably beautiful. I could feel God's presence for the first time in a long time. Masya Allah. God is Great.

For someone who was experiencing an existential crisis, the sudden welcoming presence almost brought me to tears.

So I stood there and existed.

I existed.

Once out of the cathedral, I crossed the bridge back to the 6^th arrondissement. By then, my camera battery was almost out, and I was charging the spare one back at the hotel. I made my way back, snapping pictures of fountains and streets, and I also bought a kebab for dinner. 5.50E, but try converting it into ringgit with an exchange rate of 4.41. Almost RM25 for a freaking kebab. It was good, but hey. I went up my room, finished the kebab, changed camera batteries, and then stepped out with no particular direction in mind. I just wanted to walk and breathe in Paris. I went into a comic store to look for graphic novels for Aunty Fa (didn't find them, sorry), and stopped by a pastry shop in Latin Quarter because I could no longer resist the warm scents of bread and chocolate. A cup of hot chocolate and a slice of lemon meringue cake cost me slightly over 10E (yeah. RM45 for a freaking slice of cake!) but it was worth it. My mouth still gets watery thinking about the dessert on the pavement beside a quiet street, and it's already four months since I ate it.

I walked up sloping streets and along old buildings. I stepped into chapel grounds and snapped pictures of busts and flowers. I had no direction, but the Pantheon loomed ever larger, so I used the dome as my compass. It was closed, but bathed in the light of the setting sun, the Pantheon and the Roman buildings around it lit up with a fire of their own. It was breathtaking. And I have pictures to prove it.

The Pantheon was closed for the day, so I walked downhill toward a congregation of trees, which turned out to be the park of Luxembourg palace. Here I finally experienced autumn for the first time. The trees flared red and orange and yellow and green, more often than not all these colors on the same tree. Dry leaves littered the walkways and grass, and the white statues with age stains seemed alive among these brilliant colors. I took in the scents of trees and wet grass, and I watched people cycling, jogging, sitting at the clearing in front of palace grounds and picnicking on the grass. I studied statues after statues. I was doing all I could not to get overwhelmed by it all.

At six, security guards started herding people out of the park, and I snapped more pictures as I made my way out. I had spotted a Metro entrance earlier, so I headed toward it. I wanted to go to the Louvre. Hells yeah.

With the map as my guide, I took the Line B (blue) train to Châtelet-Les-Halles, and then the number 1 (yellow) train to Louvre-Rivoli. I should have stepped out one station farther, Palais-Royal Musée du Louvre, but I didn't know any better. By then, the sun had set and streetlights were on, giving the city a different air, making it even more intriguing. The museum itself was closed, but people still gathered around the glass pyramids, and more than one couple in wedding attire were having outdoor photo sessions.

Louvre. What a sight to behold.

The main pyramid was lit from inside as well as out, and the illumination contrasted brilliantly with the indigo twilight. The centerpiece within the pyramid was a shrouded statue. I could not wait to get inside. I was already thinking about spending at least half a day there. Once I was satisfied with the amount of pictures I took, I strolled further west, along boutiques with expensive wares on display, past hotels with smartly-dressed doormen. Surprisingly, with the distance I had walked, I did not feel tired at all. Not a whit. Maybe it was the comfortable half-boots. Maybe it was the sights. Maybe it was the mild temperature. Maybe it was Paris itself.

Yeah. It definitely was Paris.

I made a stop at L'Obelisque, but I was more interested in the fountains flanking the Egyptian obelisk. Statues of water gods and goddesses glowed green. The details were exquisite, the faces expressive. Using a slow shutter speed was a fruitful endeavor, though I wished I had a tripod or a monopod with me. I made do with the outer basin of the fountains.

I wanted to walk farther up, where Arc de Triomphe stood majestic beyond the heavy traffic going uphill. Yeah, you Parisians are rolling your eyes at me. Crazy guy, planning to walk from Concorde to Arc. The drizzle stopped me. Or saved me, come to think of it. For all its wonders in capturing amazing photos, my E-P5 had no weatherproofing, so braving the rain was definitely not a good idea. I rushed back to the Metro entrance I saw just before the obelisk, and then took the trains back to St-Michel. I took a wrong train or two, of course.

The exhaustion did not overwhelm me until after I took a hot shower back in my hotel room. As I lay on my plush bed editing photos from the day, my eyes became heavier, and I surrendered to sleep.

That night, not only did I dream of Paris, I was also one of the dreamers in Paris.

That night, Paris dreamed of me.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Photos were taken using the Olympus E-P5, with the 17mm f1.8 lens, and edited on the iPad 3 using the Snapseed app.

Book Review: Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

It is the beginning of summer in 1987 and Aristotle Mendoza--Ari, as he calls himself--is a jaded, disillusioned 15-year-old who lives in the shadow of a much older brother who's not even there, who's not even spoken of by his parents. Ari only knows his brother is in prison for something he did when he was Ari's age.

Then he meets Dante Quintana, the boy who teaches Ari how to swim.

Dante is everything Ari is not. He is fair-skinned, much too American to be a Mexican-American in El Paso, outspoken, loves as openly as he is loved, and above all, hates wearing shoes. He loves to read. He loves poetry. He especially loves works by William Carlos Williams. He adores his parents, and they are fierce when it comes to loving and protecting him.

When I woke, Dante was gone.

He hadn't left any of the sketches that he'd done of me. But he did leave a sketch of my rocking chair. It was perfect. A rocking chair against the bare walls of my room. He'd captured the afternoon light streaming into the room, the way the shadows fell on the chair and gave it depth and made it appear as if it was something more than an intimate object. There was something sad and solitary about the sketch and I wondered if that's the way he saw the world or if that's the way he saw my world.

I stared at the sketch for a long time. It scared me. Because there was something true about it.

Ari, on the other hand, loves being alone. He has this anger inside him, and he's constantly afraid that he'll end up like his brother. He longs to connect with his war-haunted father, but at the same time is frustrated by how distant, how disconnected his father is. His mother is the only one who gets him, but he has a sinking feeling she is afraid he will end up like his brother, too.

And then there was this whole thing with my name. Angel Aristotle Mendoza. I hated the name Angel and I'd never let anybody call me that. Every guy I knew who was named Angel was a real asshole. I didn't care for Aristotle either. And even though I knew I was named after my grandfather, I also knew I had inherited the name of the world's most famous philosopher. I hated that. Everyone expected something from me. Something I just couldn't give.

So I renamed myself Ari.

If I switched the letter, my name was Air.

I thought it might be a great thing to be the air.

I could be something and nothing at the same time. I could be necessary and also invisible. Everyone would need me and no one would be able to see me.

In the span of two summers, the boys grow. They grow apart, yet at the same time they grow ever closer. Dante is the only one who gets Ari, even though he knows he may never get Ari. Because Ari doesn't even get himself. He is desperate to get to know his father, to get to know his brother, that he doesn't realize that the person he is searching for is himself.

My father was still there, sitting on my rocking chair.

We studied each other for a moment as I lay in bed.

"You were looking for me," he said.

I looked at him.

"In your dream. You were looking for me."

"I'm always looking for you," I whispered.

I picked this book up at random almost a year ago when I browsed the Young Adult shelves at Kinokuniya. Something about the cover grabbed my attention. In a sense, books are still judged by their covers regardless what people may say. I seldom look for books based on reviews or recommendations. Sometimes I hit rocks and sometimes I hit gold. With this book, however, I hit the mother lode. The Arkenstone, if we want to get all geeky about it.

For that almost-one-year, I've bought the hardcover, four copies of the ebook (1 for myself & 3 for my friends), and an unabridged audiobook. I've read the hardcover three times, read the ebook twice, and listened to the audiobook twice. I've also written to the author to personally thank him for sharing the book with the world, and he's written back.

It's that beautiful.

Benjamin Alire Saenz has a way with words. Since I read Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, I bought other books he's published. 1 I bought at Kinokuniya, the rest I had to order online from Amazon. They are all beautifully written, but this book is his best to date. The prose is lyrical, but it is also an effortless read. You don't sense the author's voice. You only hear Ari. And you feel for him. And you want to hug him and tell him that everything will be all right.

Because Ari lives. Dante lives. Their parents live. You want to get to know them more. You want to have dinner with them. You want to protect the boys from the harsh world while they discover the secrets of the universe and change the world with that discovery.

I read novels for pleasure, but with this book.... I want to achieve even half of what Mr Saenz has achieved with his prose. Reading this makes me want to be a better writer. It makes me look out for other books as beautiful as it is, because if one person is able to write something this brilliant, then perhaps there are similar writers, similar books out there.

Forget your aversion toward two boys loving each other. Forget your bigotry, forget your prejudice. Get lost in this book, and fall in love with the boys.

And maybe one day the world will be a beautiful, wonderful place for all children who play by different rules.

Pride: be the noun, not the verb

 

I wrote to The Star sometime ago, but since they haven't responded, I'll go ahead and post what I wrote here. Oh, well.

--@--

 

Pride. One beautiful word that has two polar opposite connotations; both have deep significance in the medical world.

Eight years haven’t been that long since I started my career, but that first day at work feels like a lifetime away. We had Facebook then, but our interactions were limited to our circle of friends. We didn’t have Twitter, and our personal blogs did not generate much traffic. Not like today, where everything is out in the open. I still can’t tell which is better, though.

I consider myself luckier than most because my first days as a house officer were gentle. I had supportive medical officers and senior house officers to ease me into the real world. Their first advice, which I still pass on to junior doctors: do not hesitate to call for help if a patient collapses. That was my biggest fear. How should I, how would I, react should a patient collapse.

My first few days were decent, if somewhat scary. However, within the same week, a specialist humiliated me without reserve in front of patients and medical students. I wanted to shrink within myself. I wanted to hide. I didn’t feel angry or spiteful. What I did feel was a sense of inadequacy. Even in that numbed condition, I knew the specialist was right, that a patient’s well-being should not be in incompetent hands.

That was my first lesson in humility.

My second week as a house officer, my fear came to pass. A patient collapsed and had stopped breathing, her heart had stopped beating. I did not hesitate to proceed with CPR, but I did not know what else to do. I called for help. The nurses, cool and collected, helped me with the CPR and instructed me on further acute management steps. They knew I knew what to do. They also knew my nerves needed calming down. They were much more experienced in dealing with dying patients, and I followed their advice. By the time the medical officer arrived, the patient was stabilized. After that day, the nurses were warmer toward me, friendlier.

That was my second lesson in humility.

No, I did not have a breezy experience as a house officer. Lessons in humility kept coming in various forms: a mother of three toddlers asking me why, of all people, she had to be the one with breast cancer; medical officers and specialists reprimanding me (quite loudly) for not being fast enough, knowledgeable enough; nurses teaching me the best ways to get intravenous access without hurting patients much; other house officers teaching me how to get things done smoothly. My colleagues and I worked extra hours, and we had to do 24-hour calls between three to four times a week because we didn’t have enough house officers. We weren’t saints. We did complain with one another, with our family members, with university friends we still kept in touch with. We kept going, knowing that each hit we received was meant to make us stronger, better, safer.

I am neither the brightest nor the best, but I’ve learned a lot along the way.

I’m still learning.

Reading all the letters of complaint to newspapers, rants on Facebook, Twitter and personal blogs, and watching videos posted on YouTube, I think I know what is causing these new house officers much grief. To be a doctor, you ought to have a brilliant mind. Let’s be honest. Almost all of us doctors were overachievers back at school. We were among the top in our classes. When we were in medical school, we competed with people as bright as us--if not brighter than us. Naturally, when working life jolts us into reality, when we are reminded again and again--by doctors, nurses, even attendants--that we are worse than scum, that we are merely bottom feeders, the one thing that gets hit the most is our pride. To be publicly humiliated for not being good enough, that’s something new.

This brings us back to my opening paragraph. Pride, as a noun, is an ugly thing. If you leave medical school naively thinking that you are the best, that everybody else is beneath you, the first hit will knock you down into the muck. It doesn’t matter if you’re made of titanium. You’ll keep getting hits until resentment builds and all you can think of is the hours you spend at the hospital instead of elsewhere, all you can see is the nurses at the counter passing over cases between shifts instead of helping you doing a procedure, and all you can concentrate on is getting the job done.

Take a few steps back and observe your surroundings. Maybe you’ll notice your specialists and medical officers worrying about patients who aren’t doing as well as they should. Maybe you’ll notice heavily pregnant nurses leaning toward an unconscious patient, feeding that patient on time. Maybe you’ll notice an attendant running late when summoned because he has to walk a great distance to retrieve lab results.

Most of all, I hope you’ll notice the fear, the anxiety in the eyes of patients and their relatives. For us, coming to the hospital is a routine; for them, it is a big event that may lead to either celebration or devastation. Patients trust us with their life. We have to respect that trust.

Please remember that respect is not freely given. It is earned. If you want your colleagues to respect you, to treat you better, earn it. Once you earn that respect, everything will fall into place, insyaAllah.

Take pride in what you do, and you’ll derive joy from it. Let pride consume you, and you’ll end up bitter and resentful. When that happens, no amount of pay, no amount of lenient working hours will ever be enough.

Live. Work. Learn. Have fun while you’re at it.

What Nurses Do Best

 

 

The internet is a beautiful thing, and, like all things, it is neither good nor bad. We make the internet good. We make the internet bad.

We, the people.

There is a post circulating in Facebook about a nurse in Hospital Kota Bharu who allegedly abused a newborn child. A picture is attached, showing a baby lying sideways toward one side of a cot, with blood splatters in an arch across the lower half of the cot. I shall not post the picture here, so you either have to search for the post yourself--shouldn't be hard, as the post is ALMOST viral--or you just have to visualize based on my scanty description. The description that comes with the picture alone is bad enough (toward the nurse). The comments, however, get worse with each share button. Not just nurses, but all public hospital staff are bad and dangerous.

There is a good reason why we forbid people from snapping pictures in the wards, you see. Not to hide what we do, but to prevent misunderstandings.

Of course I'd say this, you say. I'm a public hospital staff myself. Of course I want to defend myself and my work.

Not this time. If you're convinced I'm a jerk, there's no dissuading you. I can't be bothered, anyway. I do, however, want to protect the nurses. They are my colleagues, my friends, my family. And I'd do anything to protect my family.

First off, about the picture: I don't know the whole story myself, but judging from the baby's position and the pattern of the blood splatter, an intravenous line (branula) must have been dislodged due to movements and blood seeped out from the open wound. Happens to little children, happens to adults. Because, you see, this usually happens when the patients have no control over themselves. Precautions are taken, and sometimes they need restraining, but branulas get dislodged because we don't tie them onto the skin. We slide the branula in and then secure it with plasters that are gentle to the skin. Any alleged exchanges between the nurse and the person who took the picture...well, that's between them. That is their truth.

Let me tell you a different story (not fiction). This is my truth. Some years ago, some random visitor accidentally started a fire in our old elevator shaft. We didn't see any actual fire, but the smoke filled our half of the building. It was a weekend. I was oncall. I only realized there was a fire when smoke filled up my on-call room. I ran out to see the commotion, and my consultant, Dr Ramesh, was leading the nurses to evacuate the patients. Come to think of it, I don't recall any fire alarm. Huh.

Anyway. We couldn't find the source of the fire, but we opened up all the emergency exits and evacuated the patients. But you have to understand that we are the Neurosurgery department. Half of our patients were in no condition to even get out of the bed.

In the excitement, I belatedly realized that there were no screams. No one was panicking. The nurses carried the pediatric patients, supported the adult patients who could walk, and returned to their wards up to the second floor to repeat the process. No one was panicking.

But we also had a major problem: the patients in our ICU, HDW and the acute cubicle in the male ward were all ventilated. Some of them were in critical condition. They could not be moved. So the nurses taking care of them continued what they did best.

They took care of their patients.

Not one of them left their patients. Not a single person.

The nurses I work with often have to work double shifts because there aren't enough people. Some of them are well into their pregnancy, and they have to waddle. Not walk. Waddle. They expose their unborn child, they expose their loved ones at home, to airborne hospital superbugs, but still they take care of their patients. They bathe patients who cannot bathe themselves. They feed patients who cannot feed themselves. They comfort patients when their families are not around. They comfort families of patients who are dying and who have passed on.

They go home tired and trodden, yet still they make time for their family.

We sometimes forget this. In our anxiety having a family member in the hospital, we forget that nurses are also people, people who are overworked, overwhelmed, underpaid, and under-appreciated.

Despite everything, in spite of everything, they do what they do best: take care of patients.

I know I don't show my appreciation enough. I know that saying 'thank you' and 'great job' may not be anything more than a temporary high, but I will say it anyway.

Thank you.

Great job.

Keep up the excellent work.

 

Love always,
Fadz.

 

Neurosurgery Intensive Care Unit

 

N6B - Pediatric Ward

 

N6A - Female Ward

 

Neurosurgery High Dependency Ward

 

N4A - Male Ward

 

Neurosurgery Clinic

 

Neurosurgery Operating Theater

#KLNoir

noir     noun   /ˈnwär/
1. crime fiction featuring hard-boiled cynical characters and bleak sleazy settings.

 

--@--

Asian Angel was the name they gave him.

They didn't know his age. They didn't know his story. They only knew he looked like a teenager.

He didn't know his age. He didn't know his own story. He only knew he didn't feel like a teenager.

He was as Asian as any other Chinaman roaming the streets of KL, but he was also different. His skin was white with a brush of pink at all the right places. His face was much too beautiful to be a boy's, but when they stripped him naked, there was no denying he was a man.

They found him wandering the dank alleys of Chow Kit. They scrubbed the grime off his skin and threw away his tattered, blood-stained clothes. They gave him angel wings and shoved him into dimly-lit rooms that reeked of sin and sex.

The men were much older. And most of them had cocks buried in layers of fat. Gwailos, hajis (Arabs, Egyptians, he couldn't tell the difference), and the occasional Mamak with serious money. They were rough, they were gentle, they wanted to be on top, they wanted him to be on top. The people who found him gave him blue pills that kept him up for hours. Sometimes it still stood up when he was flat on his back, asleep.

Every night when he was done, he returned to his room with broken wings.

Every night before he started, they gave him new wings.

He couldn't remember his past no matter how he tried.

He couldn't forget his present no matter how he tried.

He was sixteen. That much he knew.

He was an angel with broken wings.

--@--

No. That wasn't an excerpt of the story I have in the anthology, but an entry I submitted for the KL Noir flash fiction competition. That didn't get selected. Bummer.

Anyway.

The flash fic above, it's one of my grittier, dirtier pieces, and I don't do gritty and dirty. Did I hope to win? Sure. I don't win anything much, and I need a break. More than winning, however, I was immensely grateful that I was able to write some fiction, even if the piece was less than 300 words. I've hit a dry spell, these last few months. Ultimately, this feels like a story worth exploring and expanding.

The story that I have in KL Noir: Red is titled "Kiss from a Rose". It originally existed as a flash fiction of about 800 words, tentatively accepted for publication at Esquire Malaysia. Until they decided it was too risque. You should see the illustration meant to accompany the story.

Amir Muhammad wanted me to write something dirty, which would suit the magazine's readership. As I said, I don't do gritty and dirty, and in writing the story, I explored uncharted territory. The exploration left me feeling tainted. When they decided not to publish it, I was partly relieved, to be honest. I was prepared to shelf it, let it hide in the depths of my storage, collecting cyber-dust.

Until Amir Muhammad SMSed me, inquiring whether I'd sold the story elsewhere. When I said I had not, he asked whether I could expand the story for an anthology he was planning to publish. I guess he must have loved "Kiss from a Rose", and did not want for it to be left forgotten. He wanted the story within one week, but he caught me at a wrong time. Calls were bad, and work was hectic. I only managed to actually sit down and write the story slightly past the deadline (sorry, Amir).

The original story made me feel dirty because the protagonist was a jerk. I knew that. So I took what was inherently wrong and made it right, even though the final product is far from "right". I studied the protagonist deeper, let him ramble in my head. My characters tend to do that, and I encourage them. Then I discovered what was wrong with him.

He's a sociopath. Not simply neurotic, like most of my characters, like me, but actually psychotic, without a shread of insight. The story unravelled from there, and within one night the current incarnation of the story was written. It was a good thing that America was half a world away, because I got to bug Breanna to beta read the story at 4 in the morning (my time) without feeling guilty. And without having to wait long. Breanna agreed that the she hated the protagonist in the first version, but in the second version, he became compelling. I emailed the edited version and promptly fell asleep, tired but satisfied.

Fast forward a few months. Amir gave me the edited version. I hated it. All the bits that brought out the protagonist's voice were cut off. No. Butchered. All the bits that made him...well...him. Gone. I kept on typing "Suggest to keep the original", my fingers jabbing at the keyboard with increasing ferocity.

Alhamdulillah, Amir Muhammad proves he's the kind of editor who respects his writers. The proof he sent me had the protagonist's voice intact. He was again a sociopath, and not just another jerk.

I don't know if you'll love the story, or even tolerate it, but I can safely say that I am proud of "Kiss from a Rose". However, I won't be surprised if my Facebook and email will be spammed by two groups: one imploring that I repent and to be a respectful and dutiful little Muslim, and the other gnawing my head off for not being a respectful and dutiful little Muslim.

Oh well.

I can't wait to read all the stories in the anthology. The lineup is amazing. I am honored to be in the presence of wonderful writers such as Dina Zaman, Kow Shih-Li, Lee Eeleen, Dayang Noor, Megat Ishak and others.

The book launch will be later today at Kinokuniya KLCC.

DRAT I CANNOT ATTEND AS I AM AT KOTA BHARU BEING A DUTIFUL MASTER STUDENT!

Ehem. The book launch, reading session by the writers, as well as autographing and photographing will take place between 20:00 and 21:15 (which can extend further if you offer to buy them dinner. Maybe). I won't be there, but you should.

I don't know if you'll love my story or hate it. I don't know if you'll find it blah.

I just hope you'll read it.

And the rest of the book, of course.

Tender Moments: The Alphabet I Propose

A is for the things I’m about to say
B is the book you pretend to read, but you’re listening anyway.

C is for the comfort I feel in your embrace
D is the dreams we share across time and space

E is for the emotions that I feel
F is for feeling those emotions for real

G is the gratitude I have inside
H is the honor of having you by my side

I is for inviting me into your heart
J is the joy you bring me, right from the start.

K is for all the kisses we will share
L is for later, in some room, somewhere.

M is the midnight drives for a cup of coffee
N is “No, I love you, but I will not drink coffee!”

O is for omitting all my flaws
when describing me to your Parents, my future in-laws.

Q is the Question I’m about to ask
R is a reminder that I’m saving it for last.

S is the secrets we hide from each other
T is the trust regardless, it feels me with wonder.

U is for understanding things will never be perfect
V is the vices you have learned to accept.

W is the wobbling of my knees when you are near
X is the XXX things we will indulge in, my dear.

Y is for you, always you, my love
Z is the zero that I am, but you carry me with the wings of a dove.

Now you know my ABC,
Please, dear heart, will you marry me?

A Cultured Life: Reading at Kinokuniya

If we categorize ourselves by social status, then I would say that I was born into a middle-class (or working class) family. Mama worked her ass off to make sure we had everything we needed, but some of the things we wanted (who am I kidding? MOST of the things I wanted) were luxuries we could not afford.

Now that Kasha, Ayis and I pool our income, we've bumped our family to middle-upper. I may splurge like I don't plan to live beyond 40 (that's the plan, actually), but I don't kid myself. I don't belong in the upper class stratum.

One of the things Mama made sure my siblings and I learned is culture. How to carry ourselves in public. How to eat in sequence during buffet: salad & soup, then cold dishes, then main dishes, and finally dessert. How to appreciate and properly use the dry and wet toilet sections. How to say "excuse me". How to open doors for others and give up our seats to someone else without hesitation. The proper manners and bearings she taught us, they're not considered Malaysian culture. Our people, though undoubtedly congenial and somewhat demure, are less refined.

One thing we never dreamed of was art-culture. My siblings and I are naturally talented in the arts, and I guess my parents are too, in their own way. However, we were never prepared to be at home among artsy people and how to behave in an artsy manner.

Imagine my fear when I first did my public reading at Seksan. Luckily I had my whole family with me to be my strength, my safety net. But all those lovely artsy people I had interacted with online, they honestly intimidated me. I didn't feel like I belonged.

Then again, I've never belonged anywhere, have I?

Fast forward to this year. When I found out about the call for submission for "Readings from Readings 2", I threatened my muse to inspire me with an amazing story. I've been running dry, especially since the accident. Now, I'll be honest and admit that I'm a snob when it comes to story submissions. I know that my stories are good and publishable, so I no longer submit to non-paying markets. Getting books instead of monetary payment is not considered payment. Not to Duotrope, at any rate. My submission process is this: professional-paying markets (>USD 0.05 per word) first, then to semi-professional-paying markets (USD 0.01-0.49 per word), and lastly to token-paying markets (<USD 0.01 per word). I sometimes donate the payment back, but I like knowing my stories are good enough for paying markets.

"Readings from Readings 2", however, did not give monetary payment, but 3 copies of the book instead. I ended up buying one at Kinokuniya as I was too excited to read all the pieces to wait for my free copies, but hey. To me, the submission was truly a "for-the-love" process. The two people in the Malaysian-English scene who have been passionately encouraging my efforts are Sharon Bakar and Amir Muhammad. So of course I will always submit my best stories to them regardless the payment.

"Picking Up the Pieces", the second story in the book, started off as one of my Tender Moments. One thing I've learned from this is that expanding a story that has already existed is not a good idea. In the second draft, Sharon and Breanna helped me remove the whole Tender Moments piece and come up with something much stronger.

Why am I confident it's a good story? The piece is meant to be the title story of my (intended) anthology.

Anyway. Culture.

On December 4 we had a KL launch event for the book at Dopple Kafe, Central Market. It was a brilliant experience, but all the artsy people still scared me witless. Last Friday, however, was the one experience I will not trade for anything else: I read an excerpt at Kinokuniya KLCC.

I've haunted Kinokuniya since KLCC opened. It's the best bookshop in Malaysia, bar none. The collection is ginormous, and you're welcomed to sit and read the books and magazines they have to offer. I've always been a reader, but I secretly harbored a dream of joining the ranks of authors on the shelves.

Yeah, now I have two stories at the Malaysian Literature section ("Black and Whites and Other New Short Stories from Malaysia" and "Readings from Readings 2"), but my actual dream is having a book of my own. Baby steps.

When last Friday evening Sharon introduced me as one of the contributing writers, and I saw the recognition in some of the staff members, the euphoria was almost transcendent.

We set up shop in front of the elevator between the "Chick Lit" and the "Fantasy" aisles. At first the audience comprised of other writers and friends, but our presence attracted book-browsers and fellow bibliophiles. Needless to say, I was a nervous wreck. All those strangers stopping by to listen. I cannot begin to describe the deluge of feelings I had at that time.

Well, I can. It was awesomesauce. It was airwolf.

And I felt cultured.

The one thing I had not seen coming was the guy who came up to me after my reading stint, shook my hand, introduced himself, and said, "I love your story. It's amazing. The images it brings in my head...it's amazing."

I was humbled. I am humbled. No monetary payment in the world can ever top that.

Well, maybe it can, especially if said payment can help me buy an apartment in cash. But since at the moment it can't, let's not talk about it.

 

Cynthia Reed reads "Crimson Starlet", a beautiful story about how family can build you up and break you down. She's also a classy lady with plenty of knowledge and writing experience to share. I love how she acts out some parts when she reads.

 

(Uncle) Dato' Shanmughalingam reads "Rani Taxis Away". He's the most expressive and engaging reader I've come across (both live and online). I hope to one day be able to publicly read as beautifully as he does.

 

Lee Eeleen reads "Artificial Rock Aquarium". I love her swagger, her easy confidence, both when she reads and when she interacts face-to-face. Oh yeah. I love her accent, too.

 

Saras Manickam (author of "Will You Let Him Drink the Wind?"--and turns out to be one of my colleague's aunt) reads Thato Ntshabele's "Asphyxia". Her own story is a beautiful little piece about a man who can never be more than a toddler and how it affects everyone around him. A definite must-read.

 

Megat Ishak reads "I Can Only See You at Night". He specializes in Horror, but the piece, despite having a ghost, is really a hauntingly beautiful love story (forgive the pun).

 

Ted Mahsun reads "Pak Sudin's Bicycle". We were kinda excited to have finally met each other during the book launch after years of online interaction. He's more of a geek than I am (I say it in the best of ways, Ted), but you can tell he's at home among artsy people. He's one cool guy I want to chill with & trade gaming stories.

 

Eileen Lian reads "Staying Alive". The ending is not my cup of tea, but I love how she reads with confidence and character immersion.

 

Chee Siew Hoong reads "Red Dates". She's one soft-spoken, humble lady, and I love how she gets into character, using "Aunty" voices for the dialogs. This story makes you think, in a good way. I don't fancy stories that end with a question, but if you want to know how to do it right, this piece is a good example.

 

 

And this is me, reading "Picking Up the Pieces". You can definitely tell how nervous I was. Hah!

 

So. I got to hang out with some of the writers, and finally met another published author, Rumaizah Abu Bakar. Her anthology, "The Female Cell", is sold at Kinokuniya. All of them (myself included) are working on a novel or two. And I do hope that our Malaysian-English scene will flourish, will prosper, and that our books are not only contained within the "Malaysian Literature" segment, but among other books of the same genre.

My life as a doctor is vastly different from the one I live as a writer. Alhamdulillah, Allah has blessed me with both lives, and that my family and I can experience culture, be part of the wonderful artsy community.

If you want to meet up with some of the authors, there will be another reading session at Borders The Curve on January 5. Not sure about the time, though. They are all wonderful people. I'm a snob. Then again, I'm a well-adjusted introvert, but an introvert nonetheless. So forgive my apparent inapproachability.

Please support Malaysian-English. "Readings from Readings (1 and 2)" are sold at Kinokuniya, MPH, and Popular has ordered several hundred copies.

Storytelling: the promise

When I met up with Sharon Bakar last Sunday for our "Readings from Readings 2" promotional slot at Art for Grabs, we chatted a little. She said that I have paid my dues in terms of publishing short stories in magazines and anthologies. Now I have to concentrate on having a book published, be it an anthology of short stories or a novel. A whole book to myself.

Well, I do have several projects running. I've even received the green light for a proposal on an anthology of novellas. I have at least 2 novels in the process of getting written. Somehow, however, I have a difficult time finishing those stories. I am an impulsive writer, you see. I write in spurts, and then stop for long periods. I pour my soul into writing, and the process drains me. I'm not being a writerly snob. Ask Breanna. She knows this is true. That's why I excel at short stories. It only takes that single sprint to come up with 5,000 words.

I have those stories to write, but what am I inspired to do today? Write about writing. I have not garnered accolades, nor have I made a significant mark in the publishing world. I have science fiction, horror and fantasy stories published professionally, but the good people of Malaysia and the SEA region do not even acknowledge my existence as a speculative fiction writer. However, fame and fortune from writing are not the things I seek. If I can reach out to even one person, and make a difference at the time my stories are read, I feel accomplished. Honest.

So. It doesn't matter if you don't really care about what I have to say about fiction writing, but I know there is at least one reader for whom my advice will be useful. So for that one reader, I give my all.

Here it goes.

 

The Promise

Storytelling has played an important role since the time of cavemen, as evidenced by the paintings on walls they have left behind. More often than not, those paintings tell stories of the Hunt, of how a group of warriors felled a great beast, of how some of them had fallen during the hunt. Storytelling is a way to help us remember, to help us learn, to help us make sense of the world around us.

Can anyone be a writer? Surely in school we have written essays and stories. Even a kindergarten child learns how to make proper sentences. Do we have stories to tell? The longer we live, the more experiences we gather, and the more stories we have within us.

The question is, are you a storyteller?

Let's take a newspaper article. I know stories about children being abused and killed are rampant right now, but let's not be insensitive jerks, now shall we? We'll use an article about a foiled robbery attempt instead (the article is taken from The Star Online). In the article, a young man, believed to be a policeman's son, was gunned down by police officers when he and his accomplice tried to rob a convenience store.

Juicy, isn't it? A policeman's son, a robber, shot down by police officer. I am sorry to hear the news, especially how devastating it is for the family members, and I do feel guilty using the article as an example. Still, no identities were released, so I hope it's okay. Is this a story?

It's an article, it's news, but no way in hell does it a story make.

Other writers may disagree with me, but I have traditional values when it comes to storytelling. I have not received a formal education in creative writing--wait. I did attend a semester-worth of creative writing course during my university years. But I am an avid reader, for as long as I can remember. Sharon Bakar also says that I can see the patterns in stories, that I can tell which part works, and which part doesn't. I also bought and read plenty of books on writing when I re-launched my writing career in earnest.

So. Traditional values. A story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. In the newspaper article, we learn that the robber was 19, that he robbed a convenience store using a machete (God, people, when will you learn to use 'machete' instead of 'parang' in an ENGLISH context?!), and that he and his accomplice panicked when they saw a patrol car outside the store. We learn that he brandied his machete and got gunned down in the process. We also learn an important detail: he was the son of a policeman. We have all this information, but at best we have a scene. We do not have a beginning, a middle, or an end.

So what can we do to make this article a story? Well, it depends on how long you intend the story to be. For a short story, you have one scene, three at most, to create an impact, to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Publishers and editors like it when a story starts in media res--in the middle of an action/scene.

Here's my take on a possible story:

The beginning

Khairul (we have to give the character a name) runs his finger along the edge of the worn machete. He's listening to his friend Samad coaxing him to rob just one more convenience store. They've done it three times, and they've made almost RM1,000 from those robberies. A small amount, but it was easy money. And they haven't been caught. It's not the money he's after, but robbing is a way he rebels against his stand-up but abusive father. His father is a law enforcer; how ironic it is that his son robs convenience stores. Khairul agrees to rob just one more store.

The middle

It's late at night, and only one sleepy-looking guy barely out of his teens (the same age as Khairul and Samad) mans the counter. There are a few people walking about, but the convenience store is empty save for the cashier. Khairul keeps his machete safe under his jacket. He's done this before; the rush has taken over any signs of nervousness. Samad walks to the end of the store to make sure no one else is around. Then Samad comes back and asks for a pack of cigarette. The guy behind the counter doesn't even ask for an ID, but reaches up toward the top shelf to get the pack of 20s. When he turns back, Khairul already has his machete poised near the cashier's neck. The cashier fumbles and stammers, and Khairul loses his patience. He nicks the shaking guy's neck, drawing blood. Samad demands for all the money in the cash register. What they don't know is that the cashier activates a silent alarm.

They've hit it big this time. A thick wad of RM50 bills gets shoved into a plastic bag. There are several RM100 notes too, along with smaller change. Samad grabs the full bag from the cashier and Khairul uses the back of the machete to club the guy's temple. He crumples, unconscious. Khairul and Samad elbow each other as they exit the store; they can't wait to count the loot.

A patrol car waits for them outside the store (in the article, it might have been a coincidence that the police car was outside. In fiction, there are no such things as coincidences, hence the alarm trigger). Two policemen are behind opened doors, guns pointed at the boys. Samad panics and runs away, but Khairul brandishes his machete at the policemen.

Ending

One shot. Two shots. Three shots are released, puncturing Khairul's lung and abdomen. The distraction he's created has enabled Samad to escape. That's not Khairul's intention, but maybe it's better this way. He gurgles out blood. Suddenly it's difficult to breathe. It's painful. His vision is blurring. He doesn't recognize the policemen, only the familiar dark-blue uniform. The same uniform that he hates the most. He hears his name called. One of the policemen knows him. Knows his father.

As he suffocates on his own blood, Khairul can't help but smile. His father's reputation will be tarnished forever. His revenge is complete.

Note: well, one of the police officers can be his father, but it's predictable and I have to say, overly used.

 

In the beginning of the story, we promised a young man's rebellion against his abusive father. That becomes his motivation to rob convenience stores. That is the promise we give readers, that by the end of the story, Khairul will either get his revenge or he doesn't. Either way, we get a complete character arc. Boy seeks revenge, boy acts on it the way he knows how, and boy finds his revenge in an unexpected way. If your story is plot-driven, you concentrate more on the actions and less on the character arc. It still exists, but not prioritized. If your story is character-driven, you concentrate on Khairul, of his fears and motivations, of his need to rebel against his father.

What's important here is fulfilling the promise. You've promised the reader at the beginning of the story that Khairul wants to rob a convenience store to get back at his father. If your story ends at them exiting the store with the loot, you don't show readers how the robbery affects his father. It's also unexciting. If your story ends at the police officers pointing the gun at them, you'll leave readers hanging, and NO ONE likes to be left hanging. You'll only create anger and people don't want to read your stories anymore.

Somehow, this is a trend with a lot of Malaysian short stories. Letting people think and figure out what happens next. The writer thinks himself as brilliant for doing this, but believe me, he's delusional. NO ONE LIKES TO BE LEFT HANGING.

If you end the story with them successfully robbing the shop, but suddenly Khairul gets hit by lightning (divine intervention) or gets run down a drunken driver, WHAT THE HELL?! This is called deus ex machina--god of the machines, which is a fancy term for shitting on your readers. Trick endings that come unexpectedly and out of nowhere is one of the greatest sins a storyteller can commit.

Somehow, this is also a trend among Malaysian (and Singaporean) writers. Again, WHAT THE HELL?!

So.

First rule as a storyteller: always fulfil your promise to your readers. ALWAYS.

I don't know if this will be a regular thing. I don't dare make any promises. Heh.

Tell me what you think.

When the service is no longer personal, it gets personal

People who know me know that I'm a masochist. No, I don't derive sexual pleasure from pain--I wouldn't know, but eh. I'm open to new experiences--nor do I take pleasure from getting humiliated. But I am willing to subject myself to unpleasant and trying situations. I wouldn't be where I am today if I wasn't one.

But that's not what I want to talk about. Focus. What I do want to talk about is waiting in line for HOURS just to get something. I did that to buy "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" at Kinokuniya the day the book was released. 3 hours. I did that to buy Faiz the iPad 2 on its release day. 4 hours. Those are the ones I can vividly recall. I must have waited in line for lots of things.

But you know what, those experiences gave me amusing, pleasant memories. People look at me like I'm crazier than usual whenever I tell them the stories of the wait, but honestly, it was fun to witness the quirks and excitement of people ahead of and behind me. Wish I could say the same for my experience getting the iPhone 5.

I'll be honest. I don't really need a newer iPhone. My iPhone 4 works just fine. Except for the battery drain when using the internet (and WhatsApp), the phone still functions well as a phone, a (convenient) camera, and an internet browser. I play games on the phone sometimes, but not the fancy ones. I have my Alienware for it.

But I do like my toys. As a boy, with Mama as the sole bread-winner, I couldn't get most of the toys I wanted, toys my neighbors and friends had lying around in their houses, collecting dust. Mama did buy me toys like Condor from Mask, Lego, and Tamiya build-it-yourself race cars. Nothing fancy and expensive, though. I drained her enough money buying story books every once in a while. Now that I can afford shelves of books and gadgets worth thousands of ringgit, the boy in me simply takes control.

So. Don't ask me why I need a new iPhone. I just do. Let's leave it at that, shall we?

When Maxis finally released the email to register my interest to buy the iPhone 5 about a week ago, I did not hesitate to give my reply. 2 days later, a follow-up email came to confirm the model and pick-up time. I chose the white 64GB, and the pick-up time was between 00:00 and 04:00 yesterday. I figured, since I was on-call, I could just hop over to Pikom ICT Mall, which is a road away from the hospital, and get my phone from the counter instead of having to wait in line for hours. Faizul had agreed to cover my call while I was gone, which was totally awesome of him.

When I got there 10 minutes before midnight, a winding line of somewhere between 300 and 500 people had already formed. When I asked one of the crew members, she said that all those people had also pre-booked and that I had to wait in line. I pulled the "I'm a doctor on standby and I may have a case coming" card, but the girl shrugged and said she couldn't help me. When I tried my luck again with a middle-aged staff who looked like a person in charge, he only smirked at me and said, "then you'd better go do your surgery."

Valid point, but he didn't have to be so curt, now, did he?

Maxis: -1

I called up Faizul and he said that all was quiet so far. I said, "I'll wait in line, but to call me the moment an emergency case is posted." I was already there in the middle of the night like all those crazy people, wasn't I? So I waited. I should have brought the storybook I left in the car, or at least my iPad--another grief as I bought it 3 weeks before the surprise release of iPad 4. Good thing my phone was fully charged, and that my Bose QC15 active noise-cancellation headphones had arrived earlier in the day.

I did come clean about loving expensive gadgets, didn't I?

Armed with good music and access to Facebook and Twitter, I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Maxis: -2

I kept checking the battery life on my phone. I was draining it fast, and I needed the phone to be alive. I couldn't exactly enjoy people-watching and the wait with the thought of abandoning everything should an emergency surgery get posted. Maxis crew came at regular intervals to offer us donuts, water and apples. Oh God. I just realized the significance of handing out apples. I was wondering why that night. Duh.

I didn't take anything. My stomach was already in knots with agitation and guilt. My body was just a placeholder waiting in line while my mind kept returning to the hospital and praying the night would remain quiet. The line lurched, trickled, halted. When some of the crew came asking whether we had all pre-booked (as the event was for pre-bookers only), the line didn't dwindle. AT ALL. I was one kiasu KLite among HUNDREDS of kiasu KLites.

3 hours in, and I finally reached the "ENTRANCE" tent (middle left edge on the photo). I had printed out the confirmation and invitation forms, and I had photocopied my identification card. They didn't have to do much for me, so my time at the registration booth was less than a minute. They pointed me to another queue. Yes. Another queue. A chirpy staff armed with an iPad approached me and offered to help register my confirmation and purchase, so I provided her with all the necessary information. That was when things went downhill.

Another girl walked by and told the one attending me that they only had the black 16BG model left.

What?!

The first girl asked me again which model I opted for, and I firmly said, "White, 64GB. There'd better not be any problems."

The second girl looked at me and said, "I'm sorry sir, we're out of stock. You can buy the 16GB model or you can come back tomorrow."

"But I waited three hours. THREE HOURS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT."

"I'm sorry. This line is first come, first served basis."

"You're telling me that I pre-booked my phone, was promised to get my phone, waited in line for 3 hours, and I won't even get the phone I want?"

"Yes, sir. You can come back--"

"That's bullshit. I don't care how you do it, but you'll procure the phone I was promised."

"That's not possible."

"Call your supervisor or your manager. Now."

"But sir--"

"NOW!"

Maxis: -3

Maxis: -4

Maxis: -5

Maxis: -6 

The girl, who was looking anywhere but at my eyes, bolted off. The first girl, who was now clutching her iPad tightly to her chest, and was now two shades paler, gave me a nervous smile. She didn't deserve it, but I directed my anger and indignation at her.

"You tell me. Is this right? You guys should have saved all the pre-booked phones and only let people buy additional phones from the extra stock."

Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that in addition to the pre-booked phones, one was allowed to purchase another phone at retail price. I saw plenty of customers leaving with at least 2 paper bags.

"I know. It's unfair."

"It's not just unfair. It's not right. If I had lined up without booking ahead, I'd have been okay with it. But I've been promised, in writing, and you guys are giving me lame excuses."

"I know. It's not right."

Fadz: -1 (for scaring her. I had every right to throw a hissy fit. I didn't go all-out bitch mode, but just used my laser eyes, amped my arrogance to palpable levels, and spoke in the most fluent, non-Malaysian English in a clear and loud voice. It's more of a contained rage, but I'll call it a hissy fit because I can. Bugger off.)

The second girl came back and said, "I'm sorry sir. I can't help you."

"Manager. Now. Before I take action." I forced myself not to shout. I was already shaking, the paper in my hand crumpled.

She scampered off, and the girl beside me edged away. The people around me were stealing nervous glances at me. I didn't care what anyone said.

She came back with a big guy who looked like a club bouncer, and promptly left us.

"Boleh saya tolong encik?" he said. To his credit, he was calm and collected, and polite.

"Nak saya cakap kuat ke cakap perlahan?"

"Cakap perlahan la encik," he said, glancing around. Other customers were getting restless. "Saya nak tolong encik ni."

I think he saw the anger in my eyes, in the way I stand, because before I could answer, he beckoned me to the side, and led me to the front of the line. He instructed the crew guarding the makeshift gate to let me through.

"Encik tunggu sini kejap," he said, pointing at a bench just outside the main tent. After a minute or so, he came back and led me in. He pulled a much younger staff aside and said, "assist customer ni. Make sure he gets the white 64GB."

"Ada lagi ke?" the worker ant asked.

"Last. Make sure dia dapat."

Maxis: -5 (I don't know if I should give the +1 to the guy or to Maxis, but we were getting somewhere).

"OK ye encik?" the guy said.

I smiled at him even though I was still shaking. "Terima kasih banyak-banyak."

 The worker ant filled up a form for me and got me my queue number (yes, another queue), but this time there were comfortable sofas. And I was number 84, and they were serving number 82. It was already 03:40, and I was still indignant. People at the counter were all buying at least 2 iPhones, and there were boxes on unopened boxes of phones. I waited for almost 5 minutes before I was called, and the girl behind the counter was polite, even though she was visibly tired. To my left and right, customers were treated with congeniality by additional staff on top of those serving them. When the girl stifled a yawn, I asked, "You're continuing work this morning or someone will take over the shift?"

"The VIP section is opened during this slot only."

Wait. VIP section?

Senior staff at the back were asking around if people were going to buy any more phones or they would start packing.

I asked the girl, "Do you still have the 32GB black model to buy at retail price?"

"Sure. We have lots more."

Backtrack. The staff outside was informing everyone that they only had the black 16GB left, and nothing else, despite customers having pre-booked different models.

So. What did I do? I bought the black 32GB at retail price.

Fadz: -2

I felt bad because I scolded the staff outside for selling extra iPhones to customers and in the process robbing others of their pre-booked models. So I was being a hypocrite by getting an extra phone for myself. The guys had all the models in stock and were packing them up. I was already pissed of for having to wait over 3 hours and almost didn't get the phone I wanted. I wouldn't have gotten what I came for if I hadn't thrown a hissy fit. Judge me all you want, but I felt that I deserved to buy that second phone.

During the purchasing process, I overheard the staff talking about closing shop at 04:00 sharp, as the schedule stated. Another staff said all those people waiting outside would not be able to purchase their phones despite having pre-booked for that slot. I knew for a fact that the last person to have queued up did so around 02:00.

It didn't matter. They were going to close shop anyway.

Maxis: -6

When I completed the transaction and walked off with a paper bag filled with 2 iPhones and several thousand ringgit poorer, I noticed that people were still in line within the tent area, and at the registration booths at the entrance, people were grouped up, hands raised. My best bet: they were just informed that only the black 16GB was available, and that Maxis was closing shop, so who were the last few customers willing to buy that model. Behind them, at least 40 to 50 people were still lined up outside in the cold, dark night, oblivious to the disappointment that awaited them.

People were willing to pay good money to be handed scraps. They were more than willing; they were desperate. Scraps. This is what our society has been reduced to.

Maxis: -7

When I got back to the hospital at 04:20, I was still shaking. Part of it was anger. A larger part was disbelief. If I hadn't created a scene, I would not have received the phone that was promised me in advance. If I hadn't created a scene, I would not have been bumped up the queue, straight into the VIP section. I have no illusions that I deserved to be in the VIP section; I did not belong there. It took bold indignation on my part, asserting my rights as a customer, to be treated like an actual person.

I activated my new phone to make sure I was contactable (my old sim was already deactivated), and went promptly to sleep. I was dead tired. Anger had drained everything from me, and I hate being angry. I didn't get the satisfaction of owning a new toy like I did before. I didn't even get the gratification of accomplishment. The procurement felt tainted.

Alhamdulillah, at least there were no emergency cases throughout the night. I still woke up tired, spent, though.

The story doesn't stop here. After Friday prayers, Shiraz and I stopped by the Maxis center in KLCC. Needless to say, it was full. We approached a promoter and I asked if there were any iPhones left.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "We're totally out of stock."

"Dang."

"You can register your name and come back early tomorrow morning."

Shiraz and I looked at each other. "Wait," I said. "You said you're totally out of stock."

"Yes, but just come back tomorrow morning. We open at 08:30."

"Do you have a daily sales quota that you've reached?"

"No. We're out of stock. Honest."

"So you should still be out of stock if we come back tomorrow morning, right?"

Silence.

Shiraz smirked and walked over to get a brochure. The promoters didn't even entertain him.

Maxis: -8

We left Maxis center and looked for the Celcom outlet, as they were also selling the iPhone 5. The promoter lady was very friendly. Good start. Unfortunately, the iPhone 5 plan package was sold out. Bummer.

But wait. "You can still purchase the iPhone 5 without the package."

"So you still have the phones?" Shiraz asked.

"Yes. But the package is sold out. We have the white 16GB and 64GB right now if you want. The 16GB is RM2499."

A bit more? "The 32GB retail price is RM2499," I said. "The 16GB is only RM2199."

The promoter nodded. "Apple only sent 1000 units to Malaysia. We had to get the phones from a different dealer, so it's a bit more expensive. So do you want to purchase one?"

Celcom: -10 for trying to con us.

It's no longer about serving customers and doing right by them. It's all about the money. Maxis didn't care if people were disappointed despite having to wait in line for 4 hours. Their product was selling, and that's the bottom line. They didn't care if they lost customers; there were always more consumers desperate to gather the scraps thrown at them.

I posted this question on Facebook, though for a different context: "I don't know which is worse: leading an impoverished life because that's all you've ever known and you may never experience anything better, or knowing life can be better because you've experienced it, but the system forces you to deal with an impoverished life, and you can't do anything about it."

As consumers, we are paying good money for a disappointment. We complain and bitch about it, but when the vendor provides the bare minimum of service, we still raise out hands the highest, we still push others out of the way, just to receive less than what we deserve. This doesn't apply just to Maxis. If you read between the lines, this post is applicable for a far greater picture.

As a nation, we haven't been exposed to anything better despite our rights. If we have been exposed to a better life, and demand it, we are told to either shut up or get out. Gratitude for past actions is forced on us, and we are made to remember the past, always remember.

But not dream for a better future.

Quoting a brilliant book made into a beautiful movie, "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky,

We accept the love we think we deserve.

We deserve more.

Think about it.