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.

Of Sonnets and Sanity

Last weekend I wrote two sonnets on Facebook. I did not set out to write them, but I had the opening lines in my head. That's how poetry usually comes to me: an opening line or phrase. I don't sit down and think about the big picture that my poems should represent, or the imagery they should evoke. Most of the time, I don't even know where the poem leads, until I am midway writing it, and only then the message unfolds. In that sense, I will never be a real poet; I know that much is true.

The sonnets I wrote over the weekend are Shakespearean: abab cdcd efef gg. The Italian ones are more complicated. The first one is eight syllables per line, and the second one ten. The first three stanzas form the imagery, and the last brings the revelation. Something like that. I think. As I said, I'm not a poet.

For the first sonnet, I had the first line in my head for several nights before I wrote it down: "you hold a sparrow in your hands". Why a sparrow, and not a swallow or a lark or a raven? I'm not sure. Maybe one day, long after I'm gone, people will break apart these poems and write theories on what kind of person I was. The first line of the second sonnet comes from a weekly prompt for a closed group on Facebook: write a short prose/poem starting with "Go on, I dare you...".

Two sonnets over the weekend. I don't know if it's impressive or not, since each was written under ten minutes. The message for both, however....

Before anyone can psychoanalyze the sonnets, I will say that both are about not being worthy of being loved, of being in a relationship, yet at the same time unwilling to let go of the possibility of happiness even when it turns toxic.

Yeah my subconscious is yelling at me.

Because, at the end of the day, poetry, just like prose, is writing. And I only write stories to sort issues in my head. I've tried writing for the sake of writing or for competitions, and even though those stories are published, they somehow feel...off, like an important ingredient is missing.

And now, even more worrying, is that the people of my novels-work-in-progress are making a comeback. Two of them are chatting, bantering, while the one that I hold most dear and am afraid of the most is lurking at the corner, at the peripheries of my vision (no, he's not from a horror novel).

I've managed to write two short stories in December, each over five thousand words. Overnight works, about 10 hours per story. One has been accepted for publication, while the other is still waiting its verdict.

The last time I wrote was in February.

Close friends are rejoicing at the return of my red-headed muse, but she only comes to me when there is an imbalance in my being. I have an idea what the source of that imbalance is, but then again, it has haunted me all my life.

Writing doesn't bring me happiness. It doesn't give me a sense of relief. It's merely a way to channel my thoughts and emotions, to give form to the monsters within myself. Writing and drawing are the only things that I have of myself, for myself.

Maybe one night I'll finally sing to the monster.

 

Hands

You hold a sparrow in your hands
and feel the beating of its heart;
The bird spreads its wings in a dance
As it unfolds, and falls apart.
You plant a seed in your garden
and watch the sapling break its mound;
The tree grows from the sapling green,
then turns brown, and bows to the ground.
You clasp the hand of whom you love,
You hold her close, and don't let go;
You treat her as a fragile dove,
and hide her, lest the bruises show.
How can you nurture and bring joy
When your hands are made to destroy?

 

Go on, I dare you

Go on, I dare you to tear me apart
Take this beating heart of mine and break it;
That was what you wanted, right from the start
To trample me and crush me with you feet.
Go on, I dare you to utter the truth,
Go on, walk up that stage and speak your mind;
That was what you wanted, to be uncouth
It was me that you wanted to malign.
Go on, I dare you tell the whole world
how I was never there, and never cared;
Tell them I never let your wings unfurl
to escape this prison that we both shared.
Crush me, deny me, ignore me, hate me,
But please, love, please live, and don't die on me.

There is Anger in the Rain

There is anger in the rain
Each drop a pellet that
doesn't break the skin
But bruises deep

There is anger in the air
Each breath drawing particles
that cannot be seen
But burns the lungs

There is anger in my tears
Each rivulet too small
to be called a river
But breaks the heart

There is anger in my heart
Each beat too soft
to be heard
But deafens out the universe

There is anger everywhere
In the rain, in the air, in my tears and in my heart.
Each scream into the void is
a brush stroke that slaps
against the canvas
that is now more black
than shades of in-between

There is anger in my soul
and anger is all I have left.

I don't want to be angry anymore.

Book Review: "These Gentle Wounds" by Helene Dunbar

 

That feeling when your instinct urges you to buy a random book that you come across, and you end up falling in love...it's indescribable.

As usual, I was at Kinokuniya, looking for the final installment of the KL Noir series. Out of habit, I browsed the Young Adult section, and I came across this book. These Gentle Wounds. How can you not fall in love with the title alone? Perfect, perfect title for a brilliantly written book.

These Gentle Wounds (I can never grow tired writing and saying the book title) is a debut novel by Helene Dunbar, and I'll say right from the start, she's one to look out for. The book starts like this:

 

ONE

 

The last thing I saw before the car hit the water was an eagle pasted against the sky.

And what I remember is this: his tapered wings filled the width of the dirty window; the air held him up with the promise of magic; he looked free.

I used to dream about that bird.

But I don't have dreams anymore.

All I have are memories.

 

Bam! If the title is not enough to pull you in, the opening passages will do the work. The novel centers around Gordie "Ice" Allen, a fifteen-year-old boy who survived after his mother drove her car into a river five years back, with him and his three younger siblings in it. All he has left is his older half-brother Kevin who shared the same mother. His abusive father disappeared after the funeral, and now all Gordie wants is a semblance of normalcy.

But what is normal when you have to live with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) that looms over you every single day for the past five years? This is the basis for the story arc in These Gentle Wounds.

Far off in the distance, a yellow balloon rises in the sky. Some kid must have let go of it. I wish so badly I could catch the string in my hand and let it pull me away.

It's words like these that pull you in deeper. There's an understated brilliance in Ms Dunbar's writing. The words do not distract you by their beauty, but lends to the broken beauty that is Gordie. The words are not big, but they ring true. They make Gordie and his brother Kevin into flesh and bones, and you can't help but feel the urge to hug them close and tell them that everything's going to be okay, because they need to know that.

Because you need them to know that.

Because you need to know that.

Before the event that forever altered his life, Gordie's father wanted him to be a hockey star. Now that his father is out of the picture, ice hockey becomes his salvation. That is, until his father enters the picture and wants him back. Just when he's finally doing okay, with a potential love interest in the new girl Sarah Miller, his life starts to spin out of control again.

Kevin, equally broken, has always been Gordie's anchor, his strength. When Sarah enters the equation, he feels as though his role as the guardian is being replaced, and he lashes out. The darker side of him surfaces, but his character is so compelling that you feel for him.

Sarah, despite her being a troubled child, always in the shadows of her elder brother, and everything a rebellious teenager is, becomes perfection in comparison. I love how Ms Dunbar doesn' make her that unobtainable queen bee. I love how she is a just a regular girl who knows what she wants. And the romance between Sarah and Gordie is tentative, just hinted at. I love this.

The one criticism that I have is about Jordan who, when compared to the main characters, isn't fully fleshed out, becomes a plot device. For someone who plays a pivotal role in motivating Gordie's actions, he is sorely underdeveloped and underplayed.

In an umbrella-genre that's inundated with selfish, insecure teenagers whose only thoughts are how to make a guy/girl fall in love with them, a novel about a boy dealing with PTSD is a much-needed breath of fresh air.

May These Gentle Wounds help kids who need to know that they deserve to be loved, that they deserve to live.

May Ms Dunbar keep producing more important works like this.

Book Review: Isla and the Happily Ever After

Author Stephanie Perkins made her name with the first book of this series, Anna and the French Kiss. And it's a goooood book. When I went to Paris, I wanted to experience the Paris Anna and Etienne St. Clair did in their grand teenage romance.

When I bought the third book, Isla and the Happily Ever After--in hardcover--I bought the book based on the faith that the author would deliver.

Yeah, that didn't happen.

Isla (not Is-la, but Ai-la, like island minus the nd sound) is a senior at an American school in Paris, the kind of place where privileged children attend because schools back in the States are for commoners, y'all. She's had a crush with this lonely, troubled Senator's son, Josh, since forever (beginning of high school, but you know how alike teenage years and dog years are) but he's only recently back in the market. Turns out, he's had a crush on her like forever too, but he's always thought Isla and her best friend Kurt are an item.

Teenagers.

So, girl meets boy, boy meets girl, they fall in love, they go to Barcelona to have teenage sex, they get into trouble, things happen, and girl thinks boy doesn't love her as much as she loves him so she takes the preemptive strike and dumps him, and then she pines for her happily ever after.

There.  An entire book in a paragraph sentence.

Oops. Spoiler alert.

Of course, Ms Perkins is a talented enough writer to keep me engaged with good characterization and writing, but there is. No. Plot. Whatsoever. As I read on, annoyed by Isla's self-absorbed insecurities, I kept asking myself, "What's the freaking point?"

Because life, as messy and twisted as it can be, needs to have a point. Our lives need to have a point or nothing matters. Even if your life, my life, doesn't have a direction, we need for it to matter. That's why we tell stories in the first place. We want to make sense of everything around us.

Wait. I hear you telling me that the summary above is teenage life in a sentence. That's the point in this book, that it highlights teenage romance. So I'll reply, "Romeo and Juliet is teenage romance. But it also has a point, a point that makes the story everlasting: love triumphs. Love transcends generations-old enmity, love transcends death."

This book, however, is just about a petite but pretty girl who's also the top of her class, who acts anything but. To use the author's own words, Josh, who's the object of Isla's affection and obsession, is merely a placeholder. He becomes her universe and she becomes consumed by it, but at the same time it's never about him, but about how she is a blank canvas that's desperate to be painted upon.

Kinda like Twilight, but at least Twilight has a point.

Mothers who champion women empowerment, mothers who wholeheartedly approve of Frozen, they'll want to reconsider before buying this book for their children (daughters and sons alike).

Sure. There are cameos by characters from the first two books. Sure, there's a surprise ending for those cameo characters that's just awesome (and begs to be told in detail), and sure, the saving grace in this book is its ending, which is just adorable, which means you'll have to bear with the book to get to that excellent part, but come on.

What's the point?

Also, there is no sense of place. Places are named, some descriptions are thrown in, but there is absolutely no sense of place. Not like the first book.

2/5 stars for me. The writing is good. Above average, in fact, but for an author who brought Anna and Etienne to life, this one's a major disappointment. It feels like a sellout, something produced to fulfil a contract. Not a project of love.

Movie Review: Begin Again

 

Synopsis:

A chance encounter between a disgraced music-business executive and a young singer-songwriter new to Manhattan turns into a promising collaboration between the two talents.

 

I didn't know about this movie when it came out. I don't even know if it was released here in Malaysia. I was just browsing for new movies to watch some weeks ago, and my interest was piqued by the synopsis. I readily admit that I love movies about music. Not the High School Musical kind, but the Fame and Once kind.

I acquired this movie some weeks ago, but I only managed to watch it tonight. Man, what a mistake it was.

For waiting too long to watch it.

Begin Again is about a young singer/songwriter from England (Keira Knightley) who followed her boyfriend (Adam Levine), who has just singed a major record deal, to New York. He gets caught up in the newfound fame and attention, and she leaves him when he betrays her trust. Her friend forces her to play a song at a small bar, where a music executive who's just lost his job (Mark Ruffalo) discovers her.

There's a stark contrast between the treatment given by a major record lable and a music executive who only has his passion left. There's also a stark contrast between a musician who's caught up in a tide of a corporation that's bent on selling a label, and another musician who's adamant about staying true to herself.

This is where the magic happens. The contrasts, they aren't shoved into your face; they are elegently subtle that you don't notice them at first. And when the contrasts click, oh how they click.

The movie starts slow, and it only takes off at the tent pole, the middle of the movie. Just like Once, however, it's the brilliant music that keeps the viewers' attention. The brilliant acting as well, but it's the music that makes this particular movie.

Not the songs, though they are a part of it.

The music.

 

Also, just like Once, the chemistry between the two main characters is so strong that we root for them, that we want something to happen between them. I won't give any spoilers, but the ending cannot be anymore perfect than it is.

This movie is not for everyone. Definitely not for everyone. And I won't shove it in your face. I do, however, recommend it to family and friends who ride on the same wavelength (on occasions) as I do, musically and artistically. Most important, however, Begin Again moved me. It has inspired me to be great at my own pace, in my own way.

It's been a long while since I was instantly moved by a book or a movie. I should have watched this movie the instant I acquired it. I should have stolen some time instead of being too busy to take time off for myself.

May more brilliance like Begin Again be shared with the whole world. Thank you, Mr John Carney.

Bonne nuit (Goodnight)

It was love at first sight
(Not true. You hated me when we first met)
Well, it was love at first sight,
for me at least.
It was more than just the way you looked,
though I couldn’t take my eyes off you.
It was more than how you were strong,
without ever being mean.
It was the French accent that showed
more than just in the way you speak.

You cursed at me in French
(and in Tamil and Cantonese, and other languages
you collected along the way)
Oh, how I loved to hear the words
that I never understood.
We fought brilliantly.
Our arguments were epic.
At times they were pointless, but I would pick a fight
just to hear you curse at me
in French.

We kissed under the sun.
We kissed under the moon.
We kissed under the starless sky.
We kissed under the bridge
as our boat cruised along the river Rhine.
We kissed behind the walls of the surau
when no one was watching
(it’ll be our little secret)
We kissed as we
     drifted
               to sleep.

 

You went off to fight a war that was never yours.
You went off to a land that was never ours.
We don’t even speak their language,
though in our prayers we mutter their words.
You went off to fight in a strange land because
that’s the only form of protest you believe in.
I stayed behind and heal perfect strangers because
that’s the only form of protest I believe in.

 

The news kept pouring in
Of children dying as they attended school
Of mothers who were no longer mothers, sisters
or even wives.
Of fires falling from the sky, claiming the land
in a supernova.
Of deaths that will never make sense.
But I’m thankful the news always came from you.
And I laughed when you cursed at them
in a language you just picked up.
Because when the news came from you,
I could always hope.
That you would come back to me.

And you did come back.
Flown in with full honors.
But you didn’t come back to me.
You returned to a place I can never reach.
At least, not yet. Not while I have
breath in my lungs.
And even though you hated me at first sight
(Not true. You fell for me faster than I did for you)
I can never hate you for giving your life
for something you believed in.

And so I say this, as I kiss all that’s left
of you for the last time
The words that I could never get right
Because I wanted you to say them to me,
as we
        drifted
                to sleep...

Bonne nuit, mon amor.

Boxes

If one’s life can fit in boxes
1 trip, 2 trips,
3 trips down the corridor
and packed in a car to be shipped
(or flown, though it’ll be expensive)
to a place used to be called home
to a place where loved ones await
to a place far away from loved ones
Is there anything to keep one grounded?
Or will one’s life be shipped in boxes
(or flown, though it’ll be expensive)
1 ocean, 2 oceans,
3 oceans away
wherever the waves deem fit?

Book Review: Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell

I bought this book almost at random. I was looking for interesting YA books at Kinokuniya, and the cover intrigued me. Because of the headphones. And the redhead. So maybe I have a thing for redheads. It wasn't until after I bought the book that I found out how well-received it was. Not that it mattered; I always approach a new book ready to fall in love.

In essence, Eleanor & Park is about first love, about puppy love. In my language, we call it cinta monyet (monkey love). Unlike Romeo & Juliet, however, the protagonists do not fall in love at first sight. In fact, they are discomfited by each other's presence. And like all stories of first loves, this one hangs on to the promise of forever, though everyone knows the improbability of its very concept.

I don't really care about what other people say about a book when I'm reading it, but in certain cases, like this one, I checked out reviews on Eleanor & Park on Goodreads. Which brought about more conflicting emotions. There's nothing inherently wrong about the writing; the prose is clean if somewhat juvenile. There's a difference between using a teenage narrative voice and talking down to teenagers who read the book, and this one edges too close to the latter.

It's not about the writing, though. It's the story itself. Eleanor is what one would call a white trash. Flaming red & unruly hair, plus-sized (it's never clear if she's plump or fat), a stepfather who abuses her mother and a mother who is so trapped in an abusive marriage, she cannot even think about escaping, four younger siblings who all share the same room with Eleanor, weird sense of fashion because that's all she can afford. Park, on the other hand, is half Korean (his mom) and half Irish (his dad), but like his name, looks totally Asian. He has a younger brother named Josh, who, like his name, looks totally Caucasian.

Don't tell me you don't find anything wrong with that last statement.

Anyway. Park's mom, despite being Korean, comes off with a more Vietnamese vibe, but then again, Asian is Asian is Asian. Park doesn't really mix around with others but, the fact that his dad's family has deep roots in the community, he doesn't get teased or bullied. In 1986 America, where racial segregation was still an issue.

Let me backtrack. How the heck does a couple from different races produce children where one's fully Asian, and the other apparently fully Caucasian? Is it like eye or hair color or even blood type?

Hence, my first problem with this book.

Back to where I was. Park doesn't hang out with others other than his 'best friend' Cal (who the author forgot about from the middle of the book onward), listens to rock and punk music all the time, and loves comic books. For the record, I love how Ms Rowell uses comic books as a reference instead of the usual Catcher in the Rye or Charlotte's Web or Jane Eyre or other American classics that other American authors seem to love to mention to show how literate their protagonists are.

The stage is set. Two protagonists who are ripe to be social outcasts. The more gushing and eloquent reviews mention the inclusivity of diversity in this novel. Right now people are talking about diversity in YA, about how they want to see more protagonists who are persons of color (PoC) – I still consider PoC a derogatory term – and female protagonists who don't fit the typical cheerleader and/or bookworm-overachiever mold. To put it bluntly, this is what I think the author is capitalizing on. Her characters feel like props customized to fit the story. They don't feel…organic. Eleanor could have been a Goth or a gleek, and it would not have changed the story. Park could have been the whitest White kid, and it wouldn't have changed the story. The only reason he's Asian (other than his name) is because Eleanor keeps reminding us every couple of chapters or so – stupid Asian kid, grinning until his eyes disappears, straight black hair, skin like sunshine seen through honey (I love this reference, by the way).

The way the romance in this book unfolds, stealing the words from John Green (from his book The Fault in Our Stars), is like falling asleep: slowly at first, then all at once. Park gives up the aisle side of his seat in the bus because he pities the new girl, who is not welcomed to occupy any other seats. Eleanor thinks Park is weird. After a few rides, he notices she's stealing glances at the comics he's reading, but instead of offering to read together, he just opens the comics wider and keeps on the same pages longer. Then he leaves a stack of comics on her seat beside his for her to take home. Eventually they talk about music after he notices a song title on her book. Then he makes her a mix tape and supplies her with batteries for her Walkman at home. When Park realizes he likes Eleanor, he has reservations at first; he doesn't know how not to be embarrassed about it. And then he's completely in love and is willing to go to the ends of Earth for her. Park is a giver. He's definitely a giver.

Eleanor, on the other hand, takes, takes, takes. She doesn't like him at first because he's this weird Asian kid. Yes, I understand that she's afraid to open up to others because she doesn't want to know that her stepdad hits her mom and is angry all the time. She doesn't want to know that her family is dirt-poor and she wears Goodwill clothes. And when she's in love with Park, she doesn't want her family to poison that one pure thing she has, so she keeps him a secret from even her siblings. However, even at the end of the book, she only thinks about herself. Eleanor comes first. Eleanor comes second. Eleanor comes last. Me, me, me.

Park's family, despite his Korean mom, is as White American as it gets. Boring. Very blah. Eleanor's family. However, is a goldmine that, sadly, has been underplayed. Her mother is a gone case, that much is clear, but she's a loose end that should have been tied. Her younger siblings…well, if they never existed, the story would not have changed. Not even a bit. Which is a shame, as they would have added depth to Eleanor's shallowness if their characters had been employed properly.

As far as modern YA books go, Eleanor & Park plays it mild and safe. Lots of kisses and groping hands, one scene with alcohol and joint, but that's it. The main characters don't even smoke. The alternating perspectives between Eleanor and Park, albeit single-voiced, are well-played. The exchanges between the main characters are adorable, and sometimes brilliant. Other than that, however, I don't get why people are all gushy about this book. Maybe it's because the John Green gave it a glowing review, and that kinda clouded people's judgment. Maybe it's because there's an Asian and a plump outcast girl as main characters, reaching out to other outcast girls who want their own Park.

To me, this book doesn't reach its potential. Eleanor, at the end of the story, is the same as how she begins. She doesn't change. Park finds the courage to stand up for what he believes in, but this story is more about Eleanor than it is about Park. And there are too many loose ends. What happens to Eleanor's two Black friends? Or her mother and her younger siblings? We know what happens to their frienemies Tina and Steve, but other important named characters? Forgotten when the author devised an ending aimed to make readers cry. I love tear-jerker endings, but this one falls flat.

Oh. And the overuse of "practically"? Definitely did not appreciate that.

If you're looking for a book that has both diversity in YA and a much better read, check out Adorkable by Sara Manning. Even with the British humor, even with the elements that's more adult than YA, it's a much stronger book with similar protagonists.

Book Review: In Perfect Light by Benjamin Alire Saenz

I fell in love with Benjamin Alire Saenz's writing when I was reading Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. Not after. During. What I did after was look for more books from Mr Saenz. Unfortunately, Kinokuniya only carried another title, Last Night I Sang to the Monster. I had to buy other books through Amazon.com.

I love technology.

In Perfect Light arrived a little worse for wear, with dented and creased edges, brownish discoloration of the pages, and a black marker mark at the bottom. It's the first paperback edition, printed in 2008 (the hardcover was first published in 2005). I've had it for a couple of years now, I think, but only came around to reading it last Sunday. And I finished it in one night.

I love the book.

Specifically, I love the story. Mr Saenz is a brilliant storyteller. Having read several novels and a book of poem of his, I appreciate the recurring themes he employs in his writing. He conveys the harsh beauty of the desert and El Paso, Texas. He brings to light perspectives and characters that are inherently Mexican, the pain of life as harsh as the desert. The pain that only he can tell, the way he tells it.

In Perfect Light tells the story of twenty-six-year-old Andres Segovia who, because of his past (which unravels as the book progresses), has lost his drive to live. He's not suicidal, but living for him means getting through the day, pushing everyone away. The book also tells the stories of three main supporting characters, Dave Duncan, who is Andres's lawyer and guardian angel, Grace Delgado, a therapist who has helped Dave before, and now is recruited to help Andres, and Mister Delgado, Grace's son who, despite not having any direct contact with Andres, plays a pivotal role in helping the story reach its end.

In Perfect Light is, despite its name, far from perfect. There are short chapters, interludes, that are told in the present tense, that show a glimpse of all four main characters at that very same moment. These interludes take getting used to, and they distract readers (well, me at least) from the story. There are parts where we jump into one character's head for a short dialog-paragraph when the section is told in another's perspective. There are long-winded sentences that have no punctuation marks. There are conversations in Mexican that are not translated into English and at times can alienate readers who do not understand the language. The prose itself, when compared to the elegance that is Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, feels clumsy. The beat, the lyrical arrangement, the signature storytelling are all there, but less refined. Perhaps the reason is that In Perfect Light was written years before Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. Perhaps this book was written this way for an adult audience, and the other was made more minimalist for its target young adult audience. The magic that Mr Saenz offers in his works is still there, just not as brilliant as I expect of him.

That said, the story itself makes up for more than the clunky prose. There is pain in this book, pain that transcends written words, transcends fiction. Andres's pain, his past and his present, it feels real. It is real. Andres is not a character out of a book, but a young man who has been through so much hurt, it's a miracle he's still a whole person. Andres's character and past are similar to Zach's in Last Night I Sang to the Monster, and  like other main characters in Mr Saenz's other books, has an affinity toward poetry and the beauty of the desert. Despite his harsh upbringing, Andres has an unquenchable thirst for books and learning, and this thirst makes him stand out, and saves his life.

All four main characters in this book are fully fleshed out, and feel absolutely real, but it is Andres that pulls us in. It is his past that brings us to tears, and it is his pain that makes us want to reach out to him. Even though it has been several days since I finished reading the book, I still think about Andres. I want to buy him lunch and just hang out with him. I want to show him that I'm there for him, whenever he's ready to reach out to others. I want to sit beside him as he leans back against the wall, a lit cigarette in one hand, and a crumpled piece of paper with a poem he's written in the other. I want to hug him and tell him that everything will be all right. I don't know if anything will be, but I want to tell him that.

I wish I were half as good a writer as Mr Saenz is. I wish I can have that effect on others, that they want to hang out with the characters in my stories, that they want to hug them and tell them that everything will be all right.

For me, this book is not about the technique or the poetry in the prose or the storytelling. I can talk about the plot, but I want you to experience it yourself. This book is about evoking a raw urge to protect children from the ugliness in the world, and if that is too late, help them see the beauty the world still has to offer. It's about realizing the depth of a person's resilience, and the strength of one's spirit.

It's about Andres Segovia, who, despite being a fictional character, feels so real that I hope one day he'll read this, and know that there is still beauty in the world. There are still things that can be seen in perfect light.

To all the Andres Segovias out there, I don't know how, I don't know when, but things will be all right.

Never lose hope.