Dreams of flying

In my dreams I take flight. The air is cold, biting. My body hovers in mid-air and always, always there is the fear I would fall. The wind rushes around me and seeps through my toes.

In a single motion I sweep into the air, my body weightless. It is a terrifying sort of freedom, flying. The city is a map of lights below, a web of twinkling gossamer, each pinprick a lonely beacon.

I drift higher. The air nips harder at my face and my breath departs as mist. Always, I wonder when I will fall.

it's all about people

That's the National Arts Council-Media Development Authority networking session at Singapore Writers Festival, for those unacquainted with the acronyms. It was the first of such things I've ever been invited to, so I didn't really know what to expect.

It was held at the TCC at the Singapore Management University (SMU), and there were 20 writers and 20 media representatives gathered there. There was a buffet dinner served throughout the 2-hour session, and it was cosy and people there already seemed to know each other well. But it wasn't as awkward as it should have been for me. Maybe because meeting people is a large part of my new job, so I'm already getting accustomed to it.

The well-known local writers like Verena Tay, Ovidia Yu, Josephine Chia and Jeremy Tiang were there, along with industry experts like literary agent Fran Lebowitz, Francesca Main (editorial director from Picador. Picador!!), Prem Anand (who wrote THE NOOSE, so he's the one responsible for making us laugh), Jean Yeo (director/film-maker who turned Catherine Lim's THE LEAP YEARS into a movie), and many others.

And then there are the first-time authors like me. There's also J, who's a stay-home mother and wrote a book called THE MAGIC MIXER, where a mother uses this, well, magic mixer to bring together all the traits she would like in her children. And then there's K, a Korean who used to live all over the world and nis now living in Singapore, managing a lithium mine in South America. No surprise that his book is an Indiana Jones type of young adult action-thriller that sees the protagonist leaping across the globe. I'm actually quite excited to read his book.

Verena Tay brought a seemingly inexhaustible supply of her latest book to distribute to those present, while Ovidia Yu was a ball of energy in her trainers and jogging tights, bounding about the room with her easy smile and wide eyes.

Then Fran Lebowitz hobbled in with a bad leg - some sort of accident she recently had, and Josephine Chia went over to help her settle into a chair. I sat around talking with Prem, Verena and Jean before we started proper at 7.45pm. The first three writers who were slated to go before me all couldn't make it that night, so I turned out to be the first speaker.

Yes, lucky me.

Not.

I totally had a speech prepared and all. But I decided to wing it and not show that I was nervous (because what spells nervous more than a prepared speech?), so I cut my speech shorter by more than half. Instead of reciting my blurb, I tossed a one-liner about my book and squeaked, "Thank you!" before scurrying back to my seat.

Oh yeah, I was so cool.

But the audience were nice about my being nervous, and after all the writers had finished pitching their stories and it was networking time Francesca and Fran told me I actually did okay with my pitch, though Francesca wished I could've talked more since it sounded pretty interesting. Fran Lebowitz*! I read her book, TALES FROM A BROAD, when I was in secondary school and it was so funny and entertaining. Plus, she's been an agent for 15 years and have met many authors and industry experts from the UK, US, attended and spoke at many conferences, seen many manuscripts, represented bestselling authors.

(*Let me clarify. This is not Frances Ann Lebowitz, the American author. It's another Fran.)

So to have her tell me how much she enjoyed my story, LAMBS FOR DINNER, was such a huge honour. She said it was "perfect YA" and it was "sexy, gritty, funny with a storyline that flows naturally and strong characters". Then she told me she was the one who voted for my story to be the top 2 out of all the entries they received for the Beyond Words: Young and Younger 2011 competition organised by NAC. I was completely blown away, but I didn't want to gush too much in case I came across too hysterical or fake. She said what she liked about my manuscript was that it wasn't set in just Singapore; it had a setting that was universal, so she could focus on the story rather than the setting, since the setting is supposed to bring out the story, not the other way around.

Also, she pointed out the contradiction that government grants set out with: they want local writers to go international with their stories, but they want their stories to be uniquely local. She said that she, as a reader, is sometimes unable to relate or even understand some of the references or dialogue in the stories.

I think you can retain the local flavour without losing your international audience, but it is true that locally-flavoured stories seem to be favoured by the guys doling out the arts grants and bursaries.

I'm not going to delve into that topic here, because it might open up a can of worms (or at least, spark some debate), and I'm a Libra; we're peace-loving creatures, so take your arguments somewhere else. I'm just here to relate the things that I've been through, and put some of my thoughts out there (because, trust me, you don't want to know ALL of them).

In all, it was a fruitful session, even if all we did was exchange contacts and sit around and talk. I got to meet nice people, and trade stories about the writing journey with other authors. I think meeting people for the first time is a lot like going for a run. You feel sort of reluctant to do it at first, you have to drag your feet and force yourself not to wimp out. But then you psych yourself up for it, and then you do it, and you're glad you did ultimately.

Writing itself, though, is like swimming. You just want want want to do it, and you're always glad you did, even on the days your strokes aren't as smooth or when your shoulders ache - the more you write, the longer you swim, as long as you keep going the going gets smoother and eventually you won't be able to stop.

Notes from Korea trip

Things note-worthy about the Korea trip:

 

1. Koreans dress well. Like, seriously. The entire street of Seoul is filled with good-looking, well-dressed, well made-up people. For ladies: stockings, cute boots, coats, scarves, sleek and shiny hair, combed lashes, porcelain complexion. And the guys look spiffy in their sweaters, vests, slim-cut jeans and loafers. Even our coach driver (who's sort of cute and is very polite and gentlemanly: see picture below) wears a suit to work. Koreans really do seem to put a lot of stock into their appearance, and that's not a bad thing. Better a whole street of immaculately-dressed people than sloppily-dressed ones, right?

 

 

 

2. Seoul is very much like Singapore, which isn't surprising, given how both are pretty metropolitan. The traffic in Seoul, however, is far worse than that in Singapore. The jams can last for hours, since the roads are too narrow and there are too many cars on the road.

 

3. Koreans don't seem to like Japanese a lot, given their history. Singaporean's might have been invaded by the Japanese before, but our older generation don't seem to detest them the way the older generation of Koreans seem to. They seem more receptive towards Chinese than Japanese.

 

4. Jeju is absolutely delightful. Period. It's not a UNESCO World Site for no reason. Fields of wildflowers, the expanse of sea and sky stretched out before you, cliffs of basaltic rock (Jeju is a volcanic island), the salty sea breeze in your hair. I enjoyed the four days in Jeju more than in Seoul, since we mostly just shopped in Seoul. And shopping in Seoul in the month of October yields practically nothing. The clothes they sell are winter wear that I can't possibly wear in sunny Singapore, so I only ended up with a wallet, a watch, some earrings and notebooks.

 

 

5. Koreans aren't really the most well-mannered people in the world. Not at all. They push, they shove, and the don't apologise for pushing and shoving; they cut queues, they talk loudly; they don't move out of the way even though they see you coming and they need to move. That said, though, their service staff are friendly and professional; it's just the people on the street who give them a bad name.

 

6. Koreans eat a lot of meat. Practically every meal we ate consisted of barbecued pork or chicken, along with seaweed, miso soup and of course, kimchi. Still, given that I'm a meat-lover (can't help it - it's just too good), I'm not complaining. Although sometimes it's nice to go a little light on meals. Good thing we had hotel breakfast on occasion, so I could load up on greens.

 

 

 

7. Koreans take pride in their heritage and identity. They are one of the three "pure blooded" ethnic groups in the world, like the Jews (I forget the last one) - no racial mixing - and they are deeply nationalistic partly because of that. There is discrimination of mixed-bloods, like my tour guide, who's Korean Chinese - he was passed up for a bank job in favour of a full-blooded Korean, before he went to become a tour guide.

 

8. Korea is cleaner than Singapore. Even the public toilets are clean, dry and stocked with toilet paper. No questionable grime on the door handle or footprints on the toilet or dirty water on the floor.

 

9. The cost of living in Korea is ridiculously high. An apple for S$2.50, a box of grapes (less than 500g) for S$5.00, and a typical meal costs at the very least S$7.00, even something from the roadside stalls. My dad and I spent about S$300 in a week on groceries alone.

 

10. The younger generation of Korean guys are pretty gentlemanly. The older generation might be reputed to be chauvinistic, but the younger guys I've come across are affectionate to their girlfriends (this teenage guy piggybacked his girlfriend at the amusement park when she was straining to catch a glimpse of the floats) and filial to their mothers (this guy who couldn't be older than 20 scrambled to open up his umbrella to shield his mother from the drizzle and put his arm around her to lead her across the road). They're big on family and responsibility.

 

I'm trying to upload all the 1000 over photos on Facebook, but 'tis an arduous task and I've just about exhausted all my patience after countless failed attempts. So I'm just going to try again tomorrow!

Post-graduation nostalgia

So it's the start of semester for some of my peers. I see their status updates on Twitter and Facebook about start-of-semester woes, and I feel a pang of envy.

I miss school. I miss going for lectures, tutorials, even those agonising three-hour seminars that I used to dread. I miss gossiping about lecturers, having breakfast in the canteen before class, those annoying preps promoting their bake sales or hall productions along the AS1 walkway. I miss the bustle along that common walkway, dodging past gaggles of people to get to class. I miss the start-of-semester anticipation of the content I'm about to learn, the assignments I'd have to do, the new people I'm going to meet and work with.

University was the best part of my academic life. I know I've moaned and bitched about the pointlessness of what I was learning, but compared to the curriculum of secondary school and junior college, university has exposed me to so many more trend of thoughts, ideas, theories, and encouraged me to think longer and deeper about the things I read, as well as approach it from different perspectives. I know I risk sounding like a nerd, but I truly enjoyed writing those (individual) papers for assignment. I remember scouring the library and Google books for references and links, and there was always, always room for independent thought and expression. The best lecturers I've had in NUS were those who encouraged in-class discussion and facilitated it well. Language and the Workplace, and Language Planning and Policy were the two modules I learned a lot from. Prof Wee is concise, eloquent (I swear, he talks like he's writing a thesis. If I transcribe his lecture, you'd understand. How does that mind of his spin so quickly!). Heavenly Mathematics was another module that I enjoyed thoroughly, because Prof Aslaksen (I really hope I got that spelling right) was so passionate about what he was teaching it practically radiates from him. It seems the role of the educator shouldn't be undermined in the process of learning.

Three years, over just like that. Part of me wishes I were back in school, while another part is happy where I am interning at Cosmo.

I'd like to stay on, if they have a position open. Pay aside, this is what I want. This internship allows me to attend events where I meet different people from different industries, get to know what they do; plus, I get to write about these events (tastings, product launches, etc). I've been to other interviews for other industries and jobs, and the working environment either seems too stale, or there is no corporate ladder to scale, or the job scope just bores me no end. After an interview last week, I returned to the Cosmo office and the difference in the working environment was so palpable. Here, it's bustling and humming with activity and voices. And the topics aren't about finance, the economy, politics and the like. Here, we talk about fluffy things: makeup, beauty products, scents, boys, fashion, food, travel. The only thing I can think of that's holding me back is the pay. But we can't have the best of both worlds, right?

I can't believe I'm ending this entry with a cliche. But it is what is it (and there's another cliche for you!).

the highs and lows of solitude

So, I had lunch with my colleagues on Wednesday. Major wow. Because, me, lunch, with colleagues. Me, a hermit who'd usually rather have lunch with a book and my mp3 for company. And you know, it was nerve-wracking, yes, but it wasn't half-bad. I managed to converse (occasionally) with the three of them without appearing like a weirdo or a fool. I looked almost normal.

And last night, my relatives came over and I actually sat in the living room (for a short while) and engaged in a conversation with them that wasn't half-awkward.

I like to think I'm able to handle social situations with grace and ease, and everyone I meet falls under my spell and adore my charming, endearing self - and even if they don't like me, that I don't care because I'm too comfortable in my skin to care about a few haters. But of course, that isn't true. The truth is, I worry  too much about how I'm perceived by people. Sure, it's easy to think that I'm beyond caring about what others think about me. But I'm always too worried about whether I'm too boring or weird or idiotic company, or whether people would rather hang out with someone other than me. And as a result, I clam up. I run a million conversation starters and topics through my head and gun down every one of them because they're too boring, weird or idiot (as above). And then my silence makes the people around me even more uncomfortable because, why is this strange girl not talking? Is she bored, tired, stuck-up, or just plain rude? The whole process of hanging out then becomes equally painful for every party.

People think I'm too standoffish, and I guess that's true. But it's not because I dislike them enough not to want to talk to them, but because I don't know what to say. It sometimes gets tiring, worrying so much about what others think. But I can't help it. I think too much. Everyone who knows me tells me that.

I find it easier to convey my thoughts (and personality) in words. You get to think through them (see, again with the thinking - which, in itself, isn't a bad thing, but nothing is ever in itself, is it?) before you put them out there to be carried by the wind, never to be retrieved again.

I used to be normal enough with company, back when I was in secondary school and junior college, and I saw so many people my age everyday. Making friends isn't difficult for me, but maintaining a friendship is the tricky bit. Because it's easy for people to decide you're too much trouble (more trouble than you're worth) and walk out of your life. Especially when they aren't even related to you. It's so easy for people not to make the effort to meet up or hang out and let the friendship fizzle out.

After junior college, when daily social interaction wasn't a must (and also because my closest friends were in polytechnic, and were still schooling while I was free of it), I had more me-time than I ever had in my life. I got used to the idea of walking around town alone, watching a movie alone, shopping alone, having lunch alone... You get the idea. That wasn't a bad thing, per se. Because I had things to do. Like writing the novel I had always wanted to write but was too busy with exams to do so. In those couple of months till the end of 2008, I completed my first standalone novel (that I don't feel the urge to burn upon reading) When the Lilies Turn Orange. Then, it just got easier and easier to be alone - I didn't feel like a loser hanging out with myself. In fact, it was liberating to be unencumbered by company. I could go wherever I liked at any time I pleased without having to consult my company or taking into account what anyone else wanted to do or go, and when.

And that was the start of my solitary lifestyle.

When I entered university, having a co-curricular activity wasn't mandatory, so I wasn't too active in school. And I didn't go for orientation activities, a decision I don't regret even now, because the idea of travelling all the way to school just to play pointless games for three whole days and cheer for your tribe or whatever still doesn't appeal to me. Also, given that everyone basically takes different modules every semester, it's hard to find (and keep) a solid group of friends in school or form friendships that will last for life. In my experience, that is. My closest group(s) of friends are still those I've made in secondary school and junior college.

Before you start thinking I'm a misanthrope, though, I'll state that I don't hate people or mankind, in general. They're mostly nice enough upon first encounter. It's just that they occasionally get tiring to be around, with their own judgements about you, their own value systems and opinions and preferences and expectations of you and their demands. Most of the time people are fine. Sometimes, it's just easier being alone. With a book and an mp3.

I could get used to this

It's my third day as an intern at Cosmopolitan Singapore, and I've pretty much figured out my daily routine.

5.30am: Wake up
6am: Travel to the swimming complex
6.30am: Swim
7.30am: Travel home
8am: Prepare to go to work
8.30am: Set off for the office
9am - 6pm: Work
6.30pm: Reach home
7pm: Dinner
10pm: Lights out

I know. It's the control freak in me. I need routine, I need structure, I need control. That feeling of letting go and cutting yourself some slack? Freaks me out. As long as I have a standard daily schedule, which involves (most importantly) my morning swim, I'm a happy girl ready to take on whatever faces me at work.

And work. Here we are, at last, one foot in the industry I've wanted to be a part of since I was 17 and was advised to start thinking about my future. And Cosmopolitan is one of my favourite magazines - along with Glamour and CLEO - so where better to work than here?

Day One of my internship was almost crushingly dull, since I was just expected to read past issues of the magazine as well as the Cosmo blog to familiarise myself with the writing style. But since I'm a regular reader of the magazine and the blog, I found myself re-reading old articles. Which was fine, I suppose, since I can't expect much of my first day. I'd just been building up all this anticipation in me. There are two other interns - W, who's been around for three weeks, and S, who started a day before me - as well as a new beauty writer C, who started a day before me too. Good thing I'm not the only newbie around because in this environment full of smart and beautiful go-getting women, it can seem a little daunting at times.

Day Two got better, since I was tasked to write the Cosmo Weekend Guide, a weekly section on the Cosmo blog that recommends places to eat, drink and play for the weekend. I was given a quick tutorial on editorials, advertorials and advertisements, too, and gained access to the interns' shared email, which I studied to understand the sort of events Cosmo gets invited to and the products she has access to and is asked to write about. There are hair product launches, wine and food tastings, Kenzo perfume testings, clothe-sourcings (for the fashion interns - sadly, I can't go along since I'm an editorial intern), and on and on. The fashion interns are out every afternoon to go sourcing for clothings that fit a theme the fashion editor sets. Then they come back (with bags and bags of borrowed clothings) and review the clothings, look for images of celebrities wearing a certain trend.

Since Cosmo's office is shared with other Singapore Press Holdings magazines like Harper's Bazaar, CLEO, Shape, and the like, I get to experience not just what it's like in Cosmo, but also these other magazines. Yeah, no earth-shattering revelations, since everyone's just busy at work in their cubby-holes, but I can hear the conversations amongst Harper's Bazaar writers (HB is right next to Cosmo), and boy are they an energetic bunch.

Tomorrow, I have to attend a hair product launch at Swissotel the Stamford at 10am, in place of the editorial assistant. I know this industry isn't all glitz and glamour - I mean, sure, they get beauty product samples and go for tastings and meet pretty people occasionally, but some of them work long hours and are always rushing everywhere for this event and that and sometimes have to eat lunch at their desks - but this is what I've always wanted (apart, of course, from being a full-time author) and this is what I signed up for, so I'd just like to say: this is the start of something good.

In other news, I've met up with my editor, Geraldine, who's going to work with me on my manuscript LAMBS FOR DINNER all the way till publication in December. It's planned to hit the shelves in January next year, if all goes well. I'll post more details about it as we go along! And a big thank you to those who've messaged me regarding this! I appreciate your support. Basically, for now, what might change is the title, since Geraldine thought the link between the story and the title is a little tenuous. I just need to clean up my manuscript and submit the draft by the end of this month, then send it to Straits Times Press for further editing. Given my packed schedule now, though, with driving lessons and the tuition lessons I'm giving on weekends, I can only squeeze in pockets of time for editing while I'm on the bus home or to and from the pool. Still, I can't complain. This is everything I've ever wanted.

Yesterday and today morning, I went for my morning swim earlier than I've ever been. I used to swim at 8am, but because of work I have to swim earlier (I don't like swimming in the evenings because the water's too warm for comfort and because the pool is packed). And between 6.30am and 7.30am, that's when day breaks. I start out when the stars are still hanging in the sky, and I can still see the full moon and Venus, the morning star, and Mercury, steady and constant - and by the time I'm done with my 40 laps, the sky is a gentle shade of pink and orange. The air is cool and crisp, and it's simple beautiful moments like these that make me so thankful I can enjoy all this.

Like I said, give me my morning swim and I'm a happy girl.

what's your name?

By the way, after almost ten years of sticking to the old blog name femme-moi-nin, I've decided to change it tentatively to downthesteps. I know, not as catchy, but I'll come up with something soon-ish.

Things that Vampire Diaries has taught me about writing

1. Every character has his or her own past that you can make full use of to drive the main plot. In other words, each character's history can serve as a subplot to the main plot. The result, if managed well, will be a multilayered yet focused story. In Vampire Diaries, the secret of Elena's parents' death is tied to her eventual meeting with the Salvatore brothers; the town's history with supernatural beings sets the backdrop for its current circumstance (i.e. Mystic Falls as the viewers see it now is a result of what went down decades and centuries ago); the vampires, who have lived through the ages, made countless nemeses and allies along the way, provide plentiful fodder for the show.

2. Every character has his or her own agenda. Everyone has wants, and everyone has one thing they want badly, and would go to all lengths to acquire. Thus transpires secret alliances, compromises and negotiations that may result in betrayals and shifting character dynamics. Damon is far from the straight and narrow, and his agenda is always questionable. You never really know (at least, at the beginning) if he's good or evil, the accomplice or antagonist to his brother Stefan. He makes secret deals just to get what he wants, and even the local sheriff bends the rules occasionally to keep her daughter's identity a secret. With constantly evolving morals and shifting definitions in the extent to which each character is willing to go to protect the thing/people they care about most, the story is given more fuel to run its course.

3. There is no resident hero. Stefan (see right) may be the male lead, but he's gone from the sweet and affectionate boyfriend/broody hero/reformed bad boy with a horrific past archetype in season 1 to the psychopathic serial murderer called the Ripper in season 3 (albeit under a stronger vampire's compulsion). He makes questionable choices, and you sometimes wonder if he's gone so far off the rails that he's never coming back. His love for Elena (and his brother Damon) is what brings him home eventually, and the only thing that grounds him to his humanity. While in season 3 Damon seems to swoop in to take Stefan's place as the hero - by trying to bring his brother back from the dark side and helping him keep his bloodlust in check - he eventually rejects being typecast as the hero, even though Elena strongly believes there is good in him that is simply dormant.

Case in point: season 3 episode 19.

Elena: Why don't you ever let anyone see the good in you?
Damon: When people see good, they expect good. And I don't want to live to anyone's expectations.

Elena makes for a pretty strong and relatable protagonist, though. She's not entirely Buffy the vampire slayer, but she's no Bella Swan either. She makes tough decisions, goes to all lengths to protect the people she loves but is not suicidal, doesn't live just for herself and Stefan, and isn't indomitable. When the audience first gets to know her, she's a regular high school student struggling to move on from her parents' untimely death and trying to stop blaming herself for it. That's when she meets Stefan and decides to begin a new chapter of her life by letting him in it. Over the course of three seasons, she's grown tougher but is still impulsive and often lets her humanity and compassion get in the way of things like, oh, killing vampires along with the Salvatore brothers in order to protect the town.

4. It never hurts to have pretty boys on the show. Just kidding. Well, not really. I just mean that the hero, while good-looking, needs to also be relatable. He needs to have a flaw - something that makes him human - as well as a redeeming quality. Stefan's flaw is his inability to move on from his past. It is what Klaus (big bad powerful vampire who compels Stefan to be his evil minion, hence forcing him to turn his back on Elena, going on a blood binge and turning into the Ripper) used against him to unleash his dark side. His redeeming quality is his pure and true love for Elena, which is what literally saves him from himself ultimately. Damon's flaw is his fear of caring. He cares, but he doesn't want to show his vulnerability. Elena brings out that side of him eventually, but he still behaves like a philandering, smart-mouthed jerk from time to time. But I guess that's just Damon (see below).

It's funny. I started out taking a shot on Vampire Diaries just to indulge in some eye candy a la Ian Somerhalder. But I became hooked after the first episode because of the swift introduction of the call to action, inciting incident (ha, terms learnt in EN2274: Intro to Screenwriting, a module I'm taking this term) and the foreshadowing of impending crises that kept me thoroughly intrigued. I'm just two episodes away from finishing season 3. After that is the interminable wait for season 4, which will only air in October. Oh, the agony! In the meantime, think I'll go rewatch Supernatural.

shy? introverted? arrogant?

I just read this article by Sally Brampton: SHY GIRL, and just thought maybe I'd weigh in on this issue. She said that shy people are more self-absorbed than they realise, because they're too busy worrying about how other perceive them to be involved in the conversation, and this in fact makes them arrogant because they put their needs before those of their interlocuters.

It seems a bit of a reach to say shy people are arrogant. Self-absorbed I can understand, but arrogant seems to suggests a degree of obnoxiousness. Shy people aren't obnoxious, they're just terrified of not being included as part of the group, part of normal, although normalcy remains an elusive concept.

I've been an introvert my whole life. It's just how I am. I don't like to talk about how I feel, especially if I'm upset. Any discussion regarding my mother makes me itch to hop on to another topic. If I think you're being a dick/bitch, I'd just walk away instead of laying out everything I feel. When I'm pissed, I shut down and look out the window in steely silence. Usually the other party would cave in before me, and fill up the silence with his or her own rants. I just draw the blinds while they're at it and let my mind drift to a happier place.

I don't know if it's an inherently Libra trait, peace-loving to the extent of being conflict-avoidant. But it seems easier to agree and eke out a smile than say no and fight for your way. Maybe it's just that I'm too timid to express myself. I'm too worried about what other people will think about me. But in group discussions and tutorial, I have no qualms about offering my opinion if I think it can stimulate a discussion or generate more ideas - even if I don't get points for participation. If your idea is unfeasible, I won't hesitate to point out the problems and offer a counter-solution. I seem to be able to compartmentalise my emotions and behaviour according to circumstance. Is that sociopathic of me?


See, I'm worrying too much about how I may be perceived again. That's self-involvement right there.

I want to think that I'm too used to being alone that I can't be bothered about what people think about me unless they're people I care about. But that's not true. Truth is, I do care. I care what my potential employer thinks about me, so I trip over my words and try desperately to please. I care about what my father thinks about me, so I do whatever I can to make him happy. I care about whether people think I'm boring or weird.

Investing emotions in something or someone is proof of me giving a shit. Social gatherings always reveal how social awkward and inept I really am, so I'd rather hide in my room and act busy just so I wouldn't be forced to make small talk about shit I don't care about and have to pretend I do. It just seems too farcical - what's the point?

No. Shyness is not arrogance. It's caring too much while arrogance is not giving a flying crap. Shyness the antithesis of arrogance. Does this make me arrogant or shy, then? Do you think shyness is narcissistic and arrogant?

Here's what I want to do: I want to be more bold, less inhibited in expressing my opinions. I want to stop caring what other people think about me. I want to look less like a creature that crawled out of its cave at every family gathering or social function, and interact like a normal human being. No, that's not subscribing to herd mentality or succumbing to social conventions. It's the desire to less doubtful of myself, to stop thinking about how I fare in others' eyes and just be.

Restless

I hate waiting.

There are very few things I can say I actually hate. Dislike, yes. But not hate.

But waiting is a whole form of torture all by itself. Just the thought of those seeming-insignificant seconds ticking away, your life slipping out of your grasp with each passing moment, the niggling thought that you should be doing something instead of sit around helplessly, sends pins and needles down my whole body. Jabbing, proding, provoking.

The most surefire way to get under my skin is to waste my time and me me WAIT. I feel like I'm at the mercy of the person(s)/thing(s) making me wait, like my life has to be put on hold and hinge precariously on knife-point until the wait is over.

Doesn't matter if it's family (though I seldom have a problem with that, seeing as how everyone in my family's pretty efficient), friends, cashiers who take their (and hence mine) time, potential employers who say they'll be in touch after an interview, or even the bus, the train, or traffic lights, for goodness' sake! Those minutes add up to a lifetime! Just the wait itself makes me antsy, and unable to focus on anything else but the fact that I AM STILL WAITING.

It's taken me a while, but I have finally figured out what I want most in terms of a career.

Well, okay, maybe not the ultimate MOST. My dream job is still a full-time novelist, but if I can't have that then the next best job is a magazine columnist.

It was something I've considered since junior college, but right then it was still a dream I didn't dare to expand on. Besides, I was too hellbent on writing fiction for a living. Yeah, I was living in a world of my own then. But with graduation looming and the pressure to FIND A JOB ALREADY, I've had to consider other options. A lot of those I could care a lot less about. It seems I'm either obsessed with something or I can't give a shit. Probably not the best attitude to have, but it is what it is.

But this is what I really want. A magazine columnist at CLEO, or Cosmopolitan. Attending events, reviewing beauty products, keeping up with fashion trends, networking, and then writing about them. Having a life, and writing about it.

It's still kinda rose-tinted at the moment. I know the job and industry aren't all glitz and glam, but I do know that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get a foot in the doorway. And then whatever else it takes to secure the job. THE job. The one I've set my sight on, after a long time of consideration and procrastination.

To say that I screwed up my internship interview last Friday is probably an understatement. I felt like such a socially inept, fumbling CHILD, even though my interviewer was only two years older than me. Her businesslike manner only made me even more nervous. I felt like a desperate, grovelling kid wanting in on the In Crowd in high school. Not cool.

Just let me get this. It's all I ever want.

an update! on ... tv?

Lately, I've been catching up on TV. And I'm not going to feel guilty about that. Because, no output without input, right? I've found that I get more ideas for my stories when I read or expose myself to as many narratives as I can.

So here's what I've been preoccupied with:



1. SHERLOCK:

It's a modern take on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's classics, with all the essential characters (Holmes and Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Irene Adler, Mrs Hudson, Moriarty and Officer Lestrade) and their idiosyncracies. Benedict Cumberbatch plays a convincing Sherlock Holmes, and Martin Freeman brings a new depth to the character of Dr John Watson. The nineteenth century narratives are re-adapted to relevancy in the twenty-first, while retaining their original keen wit and bringing greater urgency to the story. There've been two seasons so far - the third will only be out next year (ye gods!) - and each season only has three hour and a half-long episode. I need some SHERLOCK already!

2. GRIMM:

Grimm's another modern adaptation of the Grimm brothers' classic tales, this time with detectives Nick Burkhardt and Hank Griffin. Nick is a Grimm, one who descended from a long line of hunters who see monsters where normal people wouldn't. It's essentially a cop drama with supernatural elements, yanking out those monsters from under the bed and bringing the bad and the ugly to fairytales. So far (I'm at episode 16 of season 1), they're still churning out the monster-of-the-week type of storyline, but there's an overarching, more sinister (cue dramatic music), narrative thread. I was a little hesitant about this show initially, but boredom drove me to take another chance on it. And while it's no SUPERNATURAL (I still think that show is unparallelled in screenwriting), it makes for suitable entertainment.

(Oh, and just in case you need a reminder of how amazing SUPERNATURAL is, here you go:

)

3. VAMPIRE DIARIES:

Oops, I mean this:

But the main reason is really Ian Somerhalder. Well, you know me.

I know, I know. Yet another vampire story with two pretty boys and a damsel in distress. How is this contributing to the progress of women and our cultural landscape. I did swear I will never watch this show. TWILIGHT was enough, thank you very much. (To think I had been obsessed with that franchise.) But VAMPIRE DIARIES exceeded my expectations. I took a shot at it, intending to just feast my eyes on Ian Somerhalder even if everything else is going to be disappointing, but there are some bright moments in the three episodes I've watched so far. Sure, there were some cliched moments (the vampire element itself is a cliche, given these times of Stephenie Meyer) and cliched phrases:

Stefan: For over a century, I have lived in secret. Hiding in the shadows, alone in the world. Until now. I'm a vampire and this is my story.

Stefan: Everything I've kept buried inside came rushing to the surface.

But there are also some redeeming moments like this:

Elena: People are going to stop giving you breaks, Jeremy. They just don't care any more. They don't remember that our parents are dead; they have their own lives to deal with. The rest of the world has moved on. You should try to.

Jeremy: I've seen you in the cemetery writing in your diary. Is that supposed to be you moving on?

And:

Stefan: It's been 15 years, Damon.

Damon: Thank God! Couldn't take another day of the 90's. That horrible grunge look did not suit you. Remember, Stefan, it's important to stay away from fads.

And then there's a mix of cliches and redeeming moments:

Elena's diary:

Dear Diary, Today will be different. It has to be. I will smile, and it will be believable. My smile will say, "I'm fine, thank you. Yes, I feel much better." I will no longer be the sad little girl that lost her parents. I will start fresh, be someone new. It's the only way I'll make it through.

Dear Diary, I made it through the day. I must have said "I'm fine, thanks" at least 37 times. And I didn't mean it once. But no one noticed. When someone asks "How are you?", they really don't want an answer.

Plus, they've got a rocking soundtrack. Ross Copperman, Ternt Dabbs, Peter Bradley Adams... Need I say more?

So I guess you can say ... I'm hooked. On yet another vampire franchise. But I think it's safe to say VAMPIRE DIARIES is better than TWILIGHT.

4. AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL CYCLE 18: BRITISH INVASION

And can I just say that this cycle's winner is my absolute favourite so far! Sophie Sumner, from Britain's Next Top Model Cycle 5, was second runner-up to some girl called Mecia. But her loss led her to something even better, and winning ANTM she's gained so much more experience and the prizes are way better than those offered by BNTM.

Here's Sophie, by the way:

Here she is rocking pink hair, which she was really excited about during the makeover on the show:

And here's she with Emma Watson:

I've had several favourites on the show, like Raina Hein from cycle 14, Jane Randall from cycle 15 and Nicole Fox from cycle 13. But Sophie has to be my absolute favourite out of all the cycles I've watched so far. She's smart (she's from Oxford, which is probably how she met Emma, I'm guessing), funny and low-drama - generally a very bubbly, likeable and positive person. Like a little fairy with the spirit of a pixie. Plus, I absolutely ADORE her style. I mean, look at this dress she has on!

So that's it on my obsessions for now. Till next time!

Short Story - Meeting With The Trader

When I saw the sign that hung on the doorknob, it immediately struck me that I might actually get along with the person on the other side of the door. I dispensed with knocking and pushed the door open.

He seemed to be expecting me. From the leather high-backed chair behind a heavy-looking oak table where he sat, he stared at me through raisin-like eyes like he already knew every detail of my proposal without my laying it out before him. The rest of him didn’t seem as keen as his eyes. His chin was made up of layers of soft flesh, riddled with stubble that disappeared into the light-blue shirt he wore, while his nose was a roundish mass that perched above two thin slivers of lips.

“You’re the one they talk about,” were his first words to me.

I didn’t know what others were saying about me, and frankly I could care a whole lot less.

But I replied, “It depends on what they say.”

He straightened from the chair and leaned across the table, studying me through those tiny eyes like rabbit turds. “And I assume you have something I want.”

“It depends on what you want.”

“You want your brother back, you need a bargaining tool.”

I pulled my hands out of my jacket pockets and showed him how empty they were. He frowned.

“If you’re done wasting my time,” he said, “exit where you entered.”

“Didn’t you know? The best things are those you can’t see.”

He paused midway through reclining in his seat, then got up entirely. He approached me with deliberate steps, never once taking his eyes off me. I held it as steadfastly as I could, ignoring the ringing in my ears. There were a million ways this meeting could go wrong, especially for what I was about to do next, but I couldn’t let myself think about that now.

“Go on,” he said at last. “Explain yourself.”

I held out my palm, letting the pinprick of orange light grow into a pulsing tennis ball-sized orb, before curling my fingers into a fist and dropping it by my side again.

The Trader continued staring at my hand, his beady eyes widening enough for me to see the whites. “That’s … not possible.” He looked up. “You’re a changeling; you shouldn’t be able to glamour.”

“No,” I said easily. “But apparently I can.”

“How –”

“You’ve heard of Ixus’s assassination, I presume?”

He nodded, his eyes revealing a new slant of wariness and – dare I say it – awe. Even for the most ruthless Trader, it didn’t take much to impress him. The glam I had worked up was barely the tip of the iceberg.

In the space of the few seconds it took me to recall how I managed to cast my first glam, the Trader had formed his own conjecture. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“You don’t strike me as a murderer.” He didn’t seem too convinced by his statement.

“Of course not. I’m not the one who killed him. I’ve barely met him.” I cast another glam, just for kicks. Maybe I was showing off a little, but the opportunity to impress a Trader was hard to come by. “I merely absorbed his glam. Oh, and the fruits helped.”

“The fruits.” I didn’t see how it was possible, but his frown deepened.

“The ones you so zealously horde, even threatening to kill my brother for stealing from you.”

He shrugged. “He shouldn’t steal.”

“Neither did he have to, if he knew how easy it is to be one of them.”

“You mean murder.”

“I didn’t kill Ixus,” I repeated. “I just happened to be at the right place at the right time.”

“But you saw who killed him?”

I waved a hand, showing off my glamour some more. “That’s irrelevant. I’m not here to rat anyone out unless it means I can get my brother back. And now I want more than have him back.”

He gave me a semblance of a smile. “You learn fast, changeling. It’s too bad you’re not a Trader. We can put that brain to good use.”

“What better use is there,” I said, leaning back against his desk, “than to stop the fairies from rising again? Especially” – I bounced a crackling orange glam on my palm, watching his eyes narrow greedily at it – “with this.”

He managed to rearrange his expression into one of scorn. “You’re going to go up against the fairies alone with that puny little ball of glam?”

“Not alone of course. As delightful as this magic is, it’s hardly enough.” I folded my fingers again. “You’re going to help me. Gather all your Traders and we’ll divide the fairies. ”

“I serve the fairies.” His lips disappeared into one thin line.

Smiling, I said, “I’ve heard that one before. And believe me when I say I know for a fact that isn’t so. You serve yourselves, and you know it. You only serve them because of those measly little wish-stones they give you.”

“And if I help you defeat the fairies, I’ll get nothing. Not a fragment of a wish stone.”

“If you help me defeat the fairies," I said, "you'll be free." I knew he understood what I meant, just didn't dare to entertain the thought. Traders were bound to serve the fairies as long as they lived; there was no going back once you vowed to serve them.

I was almost through to him; I could just see it in his face.

“Give me one good reason why I should do this.”

"I'll make sure we succeed."

And so, with my assurance, the deal was sealed.

Short Story - Blood Promise

April:

These are the fruits of promises made. They bear the weight – so firm, feel it – of sworn oaths and crossed hearts.

At dusk they flourish, growing ripe and heavy and hot, like a new-born baby. They grow off spindly branches, half withered, amidst weeds and lone bushes, out of sight.  Come sunset, it would be easy to pluck them. Warm as skin and heavy as a pheasant, yet only the size of a human palm, they snap clean off the branches without so much as a rustle.

You would be surprised at how many there are. It often takes me the whole night to pick my fill, and then some. People make promises too easily. And not too many last, which I am happy with, seeing as how I have no use for the un-spoilt fruits.

The bad ones, you see, are the best kind. The kind that you can gorge on, all the pleasure minus the guilt. Just one fruit alone, as big as a persimmon, could fill you up so you could barely move.

The beginning of the year is the best time for harvest. New Year resolutions, fresh starts and blank slates, all of them waiting to be broken and sullied. Unfortunately, that is also the time when competition is the toughest.

We are scavengers. Parasites, if you must. Names don’t bother me; I see it as Darwinism. We do what we must to survive, though there are those who think we don’t deserve to exist.

Every broken promise costs you your blood, whether you notice it or not. Often, you don’t. You just feel a little light-headed at the thought of that little act of rebellion, of defying expectations. That is when the fruits grow swollen with blood, so heavy they bend the branches, staining the soil scarlet.

Tonight, the branches will sag, the fruits ripe and oozing, ready for our taking. Tonight we will race to harvest.

*

Sean:

My brother was late. And the weather was snappy. The first observation annoyed me more than the second. Wayne was late, when he specifically told me he wouldn’t be. He even promised.

I had just about worn out the pavement when I heard the sound of his sneakers scuffing towards me. In my hand-me-downs, he looked, as always, like a kid playing grown-up, but my little brother could never grow up, not when he was this absent-minded.

I folded my arms. “You’re late.”

He flicked his too-long hair out of his eyes and stared up at me. “I’m sorry. I got here as fast as I could.”

“If you don’t want to come, just say so.” I was being tougher on him than I had to, but he needed to know the importance of keeping promises or he’d end up like our parents.

His eyes widened. “I want to. Really. Come on, Sean.”

Wayne seemed different than the last time I’d seen him, even though it was only last week. He seemed to have grown more than I expected him to.

“Whatever.” I gave him a light shove and he punched me back.

The cemetery was deserted. Even the most valiant joggers had called it a day as the storm pressed closer down on us. But Wayne was bent on this. Ever since I showed him the fruit, the one stained with juice as sticky as blood, he had been eager to look for them himself.

“I don’t see it anywhere,” Wayne complained.

I took him down a dirt path flanked by untrimmed rows of hedges. “It’s not in plain sight.” Nothing was, on this island. Not tears or smiles or fruits. People here were a private bunch.

The clouds pressed down on us, making us quiet and breathless as we cut to the heart of the cemetery. My brother’s hair went wild in the wind, but his eyes were bright and focused.

It took me a while of squinting in the dark to finally locate the fruits. But there they were in the darkened bushes. Most of the leaves had fallen off, so the branches were bare and bent from the weight of the fruits. The fruits, though, with rivers of juice running down their sides, were fat and gleaming and red. There were a lot fewer than the last time I’d seen them, so I supposed I wasn’t the only who had discovered them.

“There.” I pointed. “See it?”

Wayne raced to the bush and pressed his face close to the fruit. The soil around his feet was damp and stained red. Wayne reached to pluck one off. It broke off from the branch easily.

He stared closely at it sitting on his palm.

“Is it edible?” he said.

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“We’d find them in the supermarket if it were.”

“Still, that doesn’t mean it’s inedible.”

“Are you going to risk it?”

Wayne ignored me. He flung the fruit to the ground, so that it burst open at our feet. Red juice splattered everywhere, staining our shoes and jeans, my t-shirt, Wayne’s face, and the soil around it. Wayne laughed, then plucked another fruit off the branch and smashed it against the floor. More juice splattered. His sneakers looked like it was vomiting blood.

“Cut it out, Wayne,” I said, leaping back. There was a strong metallic smell coming from my stained t-shirt.

It was a familiar smell. It reminded me of the last time Wayne and I had gone cycling and I had suffered a nasty cut from skidding past a thorny bush. The cut had been deep. It took ages for the bleeding to stop.

I joined my brother, who had gathered a pile of those strange fruits and was trying to stuff as many as he could into his backpack. His hands were stained like a murderer’s hands.

“I wonder if people will buy these blood fruits,” he said.

“Blood fruits?” I picked out a particularly large one from the pile. It was heavy and warm in my hand, almost like a live, breathing thing.

“I mean, doesn’t this look like blood to you?” He showed me his palms.

It looked too much like blood, and smelled like it too. I reached out to touch a glistening pool of it on the ground.

There was no doubt about it.

*

April:

The air is prickly tonight, a snarling creature with its hackles raised. I tread slowly but surely, my mind on the image of bloated fruits, my ears pricked for sounds of competition. My vision is useless here, so I focus on how the wind shifts around me, how the night creaks like a door loose on its hinges.

The cemetery may be quiet, but I know better than to trust the silence. Darkness breeds another world of monsters like us.

My brother has decided to gain a head-start and left before night settled in properly. As eager as I am to harvest, I am not as foolhardy. The best fruits are meant for the fiercest monsters.

I can spot their tracks in the soil, at least a one-metre radius beyond the roots. Sneakers. Boots. Regular footwear for creatures disguised as regular people.

A squeak. I still. Here, the ground is wet almost all year round because of the dense foliage. Apart from the noble kind, even the most fleet-footed find it hard to be stealthy.

Voices. Not one of my ilk, then. Scavengers would know to be quiet. They have to be Traders, the ones who think they have all the authority to be here picking fruit.

But most Traders will have gotten what they want by now. Few will linger to mingle amongst the likes of us.

I clutch the fruit in my hand. The weight of promises is comforting.

I am so hungry. The fruits are harder to come by these days, as Traders offer more of them to the noble kind. Soon, there will be nothing left for us.

From a distance comes a pair of voices - an older male and a boy. I keep within the shadows, where the air is musky and is unaffected by the imminent arrival of the storm.

"I can't promise you that, kid," the older one is saying.

My ears prick at the magic word.

"Why not?" the boy asks. "You're old enough to take me with you."

"It doesn't work that way. Dad's been given custody of you. There's nothing I can do."

"I hate it at Dad's. He's never around."

"I know, kid. I know."

"But we'll all be together again, right? Dad says we will. He promised."

The older boy snorts. "Unlike him, I don't make promises I can't keep."

My stomach growls, so loudly I fear they must have heard me. I tuck myself into the bushes and dive into the fruit.

Warm juice explodes in my mouth and smears all over my lips. I am seized with the familiar rush of power, one that makes my body tremble and my head spin.

The fruit tastes sharp and bittersweet, and I feel the prickle of all those promises people failed to keep, the bite of disappointment and guilt. It fills me up like no other food can.

At times like this, it almost comforts me that I am not quite human.

*

Sean:

When I saw the girl, crouched in the bushes, half-obscured by the branches, I thought I had to be running low on sleep. Ever since the relocation, there had just been so many things to do that sleep was a luxury.

But the girl wasn't a product of my exhausted mind. She was right there, fruit in hand and a couple of stray leaves tangled in her hair. For the most part, though, she looked like a normal girl my age. Except that her lips were stained with the juice of the fruit. She closed her eyes as she licked her lips. Juice trailed down her hands in rivulets, and dripped onto the soil and the front of her navy-blue blouse.

I felt like I had walked in on a private, naked moment.

She was about to dive in for another mouthful when her gaze caught mine. The evening air hung like a sword above our heads. I lost count of how long we stayed this way, her crouched on the ground and cradling her fruit, and me in an awkward stance that I didn't dare to shift out of. I couldn't look away. She looked almost inhuman, like those feral children I'd seen on TV. Except she wasn't a child - her eyes revealed that much.

We had both frozen in that long drawn out moment. Her hooded eyes on me, she seemed as incapable of movement as I was. She was waiting, just as I was. For what, I had no idea. But the air was still and buzzing, clear and foggy, all at once.

Then Wayne's voice cut through the muggy night, startling both me and the girl.

"Sean!"

The girl's gaze snapped towards my brother, but mine remained on her. She took one final look at me, then scurried away into the browned bushes just as Wayne appeared next to me.

"Sean." He trailed my gaze and peered into the bushes. "What are you looking at?"

I took a while to find my voice. "Nothing. Come on, let's go home." I took in his pregnant backpack, stuffed full with what we came to the cemetery for, and gave him a look. "Really?"

"Why not?"

I shook my head. There was so sense in rationalising the things my brother did.

*

April:

I know what it is like to be hunted.

But this does not remind me of one. There is no rush of wind at my feet, or the rustle of leaves or snap of twigs behind me. There is only my rapid, shallow breathing that takes up a space of its own.

I stop. Somewhere along the way, I have dropped the fruit. I am alone in the dark with my wild, thumping heart.

It feels almost disappointing, to be set up for a pursuit when none comes, until I remember I am the one being pursued. I always am.

A voice jolts me to attention. Michael says I startle too easily, and I suppose he's right.

The voice I heard to my left, it sounds like him. But that's impossible. The eastern corner of the cemetery is Traders' territory. My brother would be stupid to venture near there, no matter how hungry he is.

But another cry makes me crash through the wizened bushes.

Beyond the row of bushes is a clearing, an unkempt patch of land that is meant to deter trespassers and thieves.

If I take one step further, I shall be one of the trespassers.

After my feet crosses the line, I hold still for a long moment before taking the next step. Nothing has beset me. My heartbeat is a wild, rampant thing.

I press on.

There are fewer Traders than I expect. But that shouldn’t be surprising. They have greater means to conceal themselves than we do. The lone Trader I see is a lanky man with an equine nose and pebbly eyes that gleam in the dark.

My brother sprawls on the ground in the middle of the clearing. His long, messy hair is plastered against his clammy face. When he spots me, his eyes widen.

He makes to call my name, but winces as though stunned by an invisible rod.

It is too late to hide now.

"Another of your kind, I see," the Trader says. "I recognise the stench."

“Let him go.” I can’t imagine how my voice is not shaking, given how hard my entire body is. “Please.”

“No scavenger can be spared who trespasses on our territory.” He points a finger at me. “You included. What more of this thief.” His upper lip curls as he glances down at Michael. “A changeling, yet so brazen.” He raises his hand.

“Wait!” I cry. “Let him go. I’ll give you whatever you want. Please.”

Michael shoots me a look. “April. Shut up.”

But I can’t shut up. He is the only family I have left.

The Trader throws his head back and laughs. “I have no use for your meagre offerings.”

And he’s right. He is a Trader, one who serves the fairies. What can I possibly give him that the fairies have not already given him?

“A promise.”

“Again, what can you offer that I don’t already have?”

“A promise from someone who doesn’t make promises.” My heart drums hard and fast, though not as fast as the words are emerging from my mouth. “The fairies need never know.”

The Trader narrows his slit-like eyes at me. “I serve the fairies.”

“You serve yourself, and we all know that.”

Michael’s brows rise. I am just as surprised as he is at my audacity. The gloved hands of a Trader leave no room for second chances.

Finally he says, “One week.”

“One month.”

The Trader's lips thin. "Do not push your luck, Scavenger. Two weeks. Or he dies." He throws another look down at Michael.

I blink, and they are gone. The crook of the cemetary feels well and completely empty.