However you celebrate the holiday season, I truly hope you have had a peaceful, joyful and relaxing break.
Amidst the influx of celebrations and gatherings with relatives and friends, non-stop eating, and increased intake of alcoholic beverages, the creative part of my brain has seemingly adopted the two-week shutdown period most businesses observe during the Christmas-New Year period. Perhaps it was the subconscious mandating my mind, body and soul to fully surrender to the joyfulness of the festivities; to cherish and savour the company of those I have willingly chosen to surround myself with. Just like a car needing regular, major servicing once it reaches certain kilometrage, or a body needing plenty of rest to help get rid of a cold, perhaps, this was my mind’s way to slow down and recharge, preparing me for the year ahead.
Regardless of what the real reason might be, any semblance of writing – website-wise or progressing any of my WIPs – has come to a grinding halt. In-between watching the must-see Christmas movies and binge-watching episodes of TV series my husband and/or I need to catch up on, visions I had imagined so clearly become fuzzy as though seen through an unfocussed lens; the sophisticated-sounding words and flow-on sentences echoing inside my head vanishing soon as it had materialised much like a hypnotist could erase part of your memory simply by clicking his fingers. It is even fair to say that apart from writing the Christmas message (published on Christmas Eve), this was the first time I have fired up my computer and started anything resembling writing!
Unlike those businesses, however, there was no telling as to when my mind would resume the ‘business as usual’ mode. Apart from my own personal deadline, there is currently no other stakeholder mandating said part of my brain to open shop, for fear that indefinite closing period would mean losing a certain amount of profit. And whilst I could periodically hear (and entertain) a niggling voice at the back of my mind wondering whether, left idle for too long, my inspiration would ever return, I continue to remind myself that: a) Track record indicates that it has continually done so; and b) Like everything, this is nothing more than a phase, and ‘this, too, shall pass’.
Until such time said inspiration returns…
Magic lives in your creative mind, and flows best when you least expect it. ~ Ellen L. Buikema
Having grown up in a tropical country, I relished being able to experience the proper winter during my time in Brisbane. Not proficient in skiing, I longed to see and feel snow up-close without running the risk of falling flat on my face, breaking my leg, or both! Having watched endless movies and TV series depicting those fluffy-looking snow drizzling from the sky above, my husband and I trekked up to New York City at the end of 2019, hoping to tick this off our bucket list.
And the city that never sleeps (thankfully) delivered! On the night we had planned to line up and get last-minute tickets to watch the phenomenon that was Hamilton: Musical (this in itself deserves its own blog post), we were greeted by a snow blizzard as soon as we stepped out of our AirBnB, thick ice blanketing grounds and car windshields alike. And whilst the rest of native New Yorkers walking out of their office buildings around the same time exclaimed – in varying degrees of surprise and irritation, “Oh! It’s snowing!” and promptly ran back for cover, these two tourists happily braced the streets of midtown Manhattan. Despite feeling slight numbness on my face from the chilly temperature, I stretched my hands up in the air, lifted my face to feel those dropping snowflakes, spun a whole 360-degree, and squealed the same “It’s snowing…!” in utter delight, creating my own perfect New York moment.
Below are a collection of snow photos (and a video of said blizzard) during our time in NYC.
Have you experienced snow before? Leave a comment to share your story below.
Whilst I do have ideas for a synopsis for Price of Admission, being the last book of the series, about 97% of what I have in mind will contain major spoilers. To those whom had pointed out to me that showing a sequel before the origin story could work (just look at the whole of Star Wars’ franchise), I say, “thank you for the vote of confidence, but I ain’t George Lucas 😜.”
Suffice to say that whilst The Lion’s Den and Peeling Layers focus on Elizabeth (Lizzy) Hartley (being the main character), the latter books and – in particular – Price of Admission, is largely told from Michael Bradford’s POV (an equally important character as the main heroine).
This is the first ‘sprinkle’ of section I can share; the Prologue, setting the overall tone of the fourth and final book.
Actors and actresses become widely known for their talent to emulate any character; from a superhero originating from another planet to a grad student realizing she has the natural ability to be a double agent for the CIA; from a battered young mother struggling to provide for herself and her daughter after escaping an abusive relationship to a buffalo hunter-turned-lawman post the American Civil War era. Singers produce lyrics and music that could pluck at your heartstrings. Dancers impress their audience with intricate, body-twisting movements. Professional athletes gain die-hard fans either from their good looks or as they win state championships.
To a small number of individuals (like members of the Royal family, children of current and former head of states), fame and fortune are simply something they are born into; inherited, like your father’s red hair or your mother’s topaz-colored eyes.
Whether by choice or inheritance, you grow accustomed to living a life in the spotlight, much like walking unassisted or speaking fluently in your native tongue. Over time, what started as utmost annoyance when sighting paparazzi lurking around street corners no longer bother you. Hearing about yet another unsubstantiated story – a total intrusion to your privacy – becomes equivalent to a pesky bug you simply flick off your shoulder.
With so much of your life conducted under the magnifying glass of public scrutiny, any semblance of normalcy is a luxury. For the sake of blending in with the crowd, some celebrities travel incognito, hiding their faces behind oversized sunglasses, a baseball cap, a hoodie, or all three. Famous parents strive to give their children as normal an upbringing as they possibly could, from walking them to school to having a family outing at the park; their paternal instincts compelling them to protect their offspring’s privacy by imploring and bargaining with the paparazzi to refrain from taking photos.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, is more paramount than those you admit into your inner sanctum. You regard those cosying up to you with a greater dose of wariness. You screen them more carefully and rigorously, hoping to find a select few whose motives are genuine rather than superficial. Those who want to befriend you for who you truly are, disregarding the preconceived notions the media has depicted you as. Those who couldn’t care less about how the perks and prestige of your status would benefit them. When you are fortunate enough to find these special individuals, you treasure and protect them always, never taking them for granted; for they are gems, more precious than the rare Hope diamond…
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In the spirit of the Festive Season, this month’s blog posts will sprinkle excerpts from books other than The Lion’s Den.
I mentioned in my bio that what prompted me to grab that pen and paper and start scribbling was a dream; so vivid, the scene just kept building inside my head long after I had woken up.
The dream itself was brief; nothing more than a snippet, much like a scene you stumble upon whilst channel surfing. Standing on the third step of the spiralling marble staircase, a guy was asking a girl loitering at the bottom of the stairs to a dance.
Purely from a visual point of view, there was nothing too extraordinary about the dream. But, just as being chased by a machete-wielding crazed man or a hungry lion could send your heart racing, I woke up knowing there was a sense of casualness in the way the guy asked the girl out and the fact that the girl was hanging around the luxurious-looking interior of the house in the first place (as though she was dropping by to pick him up on their way to a movie); a deep sense of familiarity born out of long-term association, if not years of deep and meaningful friendship.
With only this rough idea to prompt me, I started to flesh out more of the scene. Much as I wanted to keep the fixture (because, let’s face it… who wouldn’t want to have a spiralling marble staircase as a backdrop?), in the end, it was more important to highlight the ease in which these characters conversed with one another. By the time this event took place, geographically speaking, spiralling marble staircase in a semi-private setting was on the scarce side, and having the characters stand around one simply for the sake of having said fixture present would scream forced, if not downright impractical and irrational.
“Anything exciting coming up in the Bradford’s social engagement calendar?” Lizzy asked once they had sipped half of their beverages, thus breaking the silence that had hung between them.
“The Cancer Research Benefit Ball is in three weeks,” Michael replied matter-of-factly.
“Black tie?” Lizzy guessed.
“What else?” Michael challenged her. He rolled his eyes upwards, though the slight tick on one corner of his lips betrayed the severity of his exasperation. Born into the most prestigious family, where attending a black-tie function was equivalent to devout Catholics putting on their Sunday’s best to attend mass, Michael had, over the years, grown tolerance to fulfilling said expectation.
Michael rested his own coffee cup to the empty spot beside him. He studied Lizzy’s features as she took small sips of her own white chocolate mocha; from her long, thin, curled up eyelashes to her almond-shaped, piercing pair of Oriental hazel eyes; from her light beige complexion to the dark brown hair spilling out to about five inches below her shoulders.
He retracted the arm he had stretched along the top of the wooden bench, aware that he could trace his fingertips along her back. Michael interlinked both his hands, the thumb of his right hand massaging the spot between his left thumb and index finger.
“Will you come with me?” Michael blurted out before he had a chance to change his mind.
“Michael James Bradford, are you asking me out on a date?” Lizzy asked in a slightly tremulous voice, raising her coffee cup to her lips.
“I’m asking my best friend to be my plus one for the most prestigious social function of the Bradford Empire,” Michael clarified, never taking his eyes off Lizzy’s slightly flushed cheek. “If by the end of the night, we end up kissing…” Michael trailed off as Lizzy met his gaze squarely, one eyebrow raised.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing that could ever happen.”
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I had originally planned a completely different blog post for this month’s ‘Throwback Thursday’, but to blatantly borrow the words Lucy Eleanor Moderatz’s (the main character in ‘While You Were Sleeping’) father had imparted to her, “Life doesn’t always turn out the way you plan.”
With the Festive Season fast approaching, my husband and I thought it was appropriate to begin our ritual of watching some of the Christmas movie classics (since it was quite a list to get through); from ‘Miracle on 34th Street’ to ‘Serendipity’, from ‘Love Actually’ to ‘The Holiday’. Periodically, we even sit through the ‘Home Alone’ series.
Based in Chicago, ‘While You Were Sleeping’ tells the story of Lucy (Sandra Bullock), a lonely fare token collector for the Chicago Transit Authority secretly in love with Peter Callaghan (Peter Gallagher), a handsome commuter she had never said a word to. When Peter is mugged and then pushed onto the train tracks on Christmas Day, Lucy saves and accompanies a now comatose Peter to the hospital. When Lucy isn’t allowed to visit him, a nurse overhearing her musing “I was going to marry him” ends up telling Peter’s family that Lucy is his fiancée. Caught up in the misunderstanding and finding comfort in her supposed fiancee’s quirky family, Lucy ends up spending a belated Christmas celebration with the Callaghans, where she meets Peter’s younger brother Jack (Bill Pullman). Synopsis adapted from Wikipedia.
If memory serves me correctly, this was probably one of the first Christmas movies my husband (then boyfriend, and subsequently fiancee) and I watched together in the lead-up to Christmas. And every year since, it has always been a strong contender to be the first Christmas movie we watched to put us in the Festive mood.
As far as storyline goes, it leans (those whom have watched the movie could probably notice the pun here) towards the cheesy side. But, to us, there is always something so refreshing about Sandra Bullock’s performance, projecting a relatable, sometimes clumsy girl-next-door who just wants to spend Christmas with someone other than her cat. The score is, hands down, one of the best soundtracks we have ever heard, dubbed by my husband as timeless. A few staccato notes could send you giggling, predicting that something quirky or comical is about to happen. The beginning of two long notes played in repetition could pluck at your heartstrings, make you swoon, or both.
Packed with memorable quotes – and the fact that we could recall and pre-empt some of them ahead of time didn’t diminish the movie’s allure whatsoever, here are some of our favourites.
“Okay, there are two things that I remember about my childhood – I just don’t remember it being this orange.”
“Oh, geez, I was talking to myself.” “Well, next time you talk to yourself, tell yourself you’re single and end the conversation.”
“Lucy, you are born into a family. You do not join them like you do the marines.”
“You know, you do remind me of someone. It’s probably you.”
“Oh! I don’t want any flowers from you, I am not wearing black underwear, and I definitely do not want to move in with you, Jo… Jack.“ “Well, I don’t have any flowers, I wouldn’t mind seeing the black underwear, but under the circumstances, I don’t think we should move in together.“
A bit more on the serious side – and one of the underlying messages of the movie, the following quote would, at the very least, make me catch my breath, if not downright bring a tear to my eye.
“Have you ever been so alone you spend the night confusing a man in a coma?”
What about you? What are some of your must-watch, favourite Christmas movies? What is/are your yearly Christmas ritual(s) (other than putting up the Christmas tree)?
Following last week’s blog post about Fattening the Seeds, I have managed to work out the rest of the section. Without further ado… below is the full-blown ‘Corn Cob’.
She had become increasingly exasperated by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs. Having thought of at least half-a-dozen excuses – from a vague malady to outright I-don’t-wanna, the scenario playing inside her head involved each one being put through a gamut of tests and scrutinized under a psychological microscope before being deemed inadequate and ineffective. No longer seeing the merit of feigning anything to gain attention, she had emitted one jaw-cracking yawn after another in a slightly exaggerated manner and rubbed her bleary eyes deliberately repeatedly all throughout breakfast. Whilst she had fully anticipated utter indifference from the parent she had occasionally likened to a drill sergeant, to have her usually doting father seemingly take no notice, let alone comment on her less-than-ideal state filled her with the overwhelming urge to revert to her five-year-old bratty tendencies; from gripping her father by the shoulder and screaming right at his face to chucking the biggest hissy fit, and everything in-between.
She ground her lower jaw and clenched her fisted hand tighter as she let out a slightly huffing breath for the seventeenth time – at least – since her father backed the Volvo out of the driveway.
“You couldn’t write me a note, could you?” Lizzy asked as her father swerved the car into the nearest parking bay, the terror that had gripped her from the moment she woke up churning her stomach and prickling the hairs on the back of her neck once more.
“Excusing me out of school?”
She pried her stare away from the window, feeling her father’s eyes on her even before she cast her imploring gaze at him.
“Just for today?” Lizzy added, her voice small and fearful.
Though her mind was already reciting the gentle reminder on standing her ground against injustice that had been instilled in her since a very young age, she stoked the small flicker of hope within as one corner of her father’s lips curled up to a lopsided smile, his look every bit sympathetic.
“I would, Lizzy, if I believe it would solve all of your problems.”
The hands tightly wringing her backpack and the breath she had subconsciously held failed to soften the blow. Still nursing the sucker punch of her father’s words, Lizzy schooled every muscle on her face from scowling as her father reached across the car console and tucked a small section of her hair behind her ear. With tears glazing her vision, her customary farewell kiss was nothing more than a barely there graze on her father’s cheek before she swiftly exited the Volvo.
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The author of the famous ‘Outlander’ series of books (and one of my favourite authors), Diana Gabaldon expanded on her writing process, and the reason why it would take her aaaages (say 3-4 years) before she publishes the next instalment.
She referenced the bits of the scene inside her head she could translate to written words as a ‘kernel’.
Sometimes, all I have is a seed. And when you’re a writer, even the smallest of seed is better than nothing.
Here was one such seed drumming inside my head recently.
“You couldn’t write me a note, could you?” She asked. “Excusing me out of school?”
“Just for today?” Lizzy continued as she risked a tiny sidelong glance at her father.
As seeds need water and fertiliser to grow, the above needs some fattening up to become a section.
But wait… As I re-read the above, my mind started conjuring up further ideas on how I could expand on the conversation. Like a camera zooming out, I could slowly make out the immediate surroundings the conversation took place; the feelings wrapped around the sentences. So, after toying with placing different words and sentences here and there and repeating the process a bunch of times (I may or may not have deleted and rewritten the sentences during the process!), the seed grew to become the following bud:
“You couldn’t write me a note, could you?” She asked as her father swerved the car into the nearest parking bay, the terror that had gripped her from the moment she woke up churning her stomach and prickling the hairs on her neck.
“Excusing me out of school?”
She pried her gaze from the window, feeling her father’s eyes on her even before she cast her imploring gaze at him.
“Just for today?” Lizzy added, her voice small and fearful.
Writing Out of Sequence
Unlike a landscaper methodically planting seed of flowers, vegetables or fruits, this particular seed – in addition to sprouting out all of a sudden – formed part of the end of the section.
Yet another common thing experienced by authors (Jodi Picoult and Michael Lewis have revealed how they often know the ending of their books, and have come up with the perfect concluding sentence before they even write a single word), now that I have some semblance of an ending, I need to incorporate the rest.
In addition to writing non-linearly (a topic worthy of its own blog post at a later stage), I also write out of sequence. Before I realise, the next string of sentences I have worked out was the actual end.
“I would, Lizzy, if I believe it would solve all of your problems.”
The hands tightly wringing her backpack and the breath she had subconsciously held failed to soften the blow. Still nursing the sucker punch of her father’s words, Lizzy schooled every muscle on her face from scowling as her father reached across the car console and tucked a small section of her hair behind her ear. With tears glazing her vision, her customary farewell kiss was nothing more than a barely there graze on her father’s cheek before she swiftly exited the Volvo.
To borrow Diana Gabaldon’s analogy, I now have a kernel, after all. Hopefully this will turn into a proper, full-blown cob, when the words for the beginning and the middle (not necessarily in that order) can flow; fluidly and coherently.
A lot of the times, what started as a scene playing so clearly inside my head becomes a process of ‘rinse and repeat’. A good opening sentence needs to be revised and rewritten. A word I first thought would be appropriate to use in a particular sentence might need to be re-arranged to appear later in the section.
Here’s an example, in which words started swirling inside my head I had to, first of all, typed onto my phone.
Scenario: Astonished that Lizzy has befriended the son-of-billionaire Michael Bradford in a short time since commencing at St. Andrew’s, Gordon Crane has asked Lizzy to put in a good word. This section reveals what happened after Lizzy told Gordon she wouldn’t be a go-between.
A rumble began to sound and grow louder inside him soon as Lizzy turned her back on him and walked away, dark spots slowly swarming his vision as she matched her pace with the son-of-billionaire. Re-reading the above sentence (quite a few times, I might add), I began to pick a number of problems:
‘A rumble began to sound and grow louder…’ Whilst I think the word ‘rumble’ was a good one to use, the opening sentence as a whole read like a mouthful. I wanted something ‘punchier’, but still shows Gordon’s internal turmoil to the reader.
Lizzy matching her pace with the son-of-billionaire insinuated that he was lurking around, patiently waiting until she finished chatting with Gordon. As a stand-alone section, there would be nothing wrong with this. However, in the previous section, I have written that Michael knew nothing about Gordon’s interaction with Lizzy, so him waiting for her around the corner would suggest he knew, and therefore changed the whole narrative altogether.
After a few tries, I condensed the original sentence to: Gordon began to shake as Lizzy turned her back on him and walked away, dark spots swarming his vision as she matched her pace with the student emerging from around the corner.
No one had ever denied him! Certainly not his parents, nor those whom had grovelled at him, either wishing desperately to join his exclusive little clique or promising to comply with his every wish and be spared from his further torment. Initially, I left the above sentence as is, but the more I revisited it, the more I thought there was a better way to show the reader why a) having to ask someone for a favour; and b) subsequently having his request denied, was an alien concept to Gordon.
I played around with rewriting the above paragraph, including: Gordon narrowed his eyes considerably at the girl whom had matched her pace to the son-of-billionaire’s, her melodious cackle as she turned her face slightly upwards towards Michael might as well be a slap in his face. No one denies me! His inner voice roared vehemently, both fury and humiliation compounding within.
Before finally settling on the below (the fact that I could incorporate ‘rumble/rumbling’ is an added bonus!): No one has ever denied me! His inner voice stated as thunderously as the boiling blood rumbling in his ears. Perhaps, the more exacting sentiment was that having had his stepmother shroud him with indulgences he wouldn’t otherwise aware of its existence, and others beg him to either desperately join his exclusive clique or be spared from further torment, Gordon had seldom had to request for anything in the first place.
Having given the reader a glimpse of flashback, I needed to bring the scene back to the present and progress the whole section forward. Gordon narrowed his eyes considerably at the girl whom had matched her pace to the son-of-billionaire’s, her melodious cackle as she turned her face slightly upwards towards Michael might as well be a slap in his face. It was humiliating enough that he had had to resort to some semblance of grovelling, the sting of Lizzy’s refusal to do his bidding fuelling his wrath further.
I could have left these two paragraphs well alone, but the below final version just made the whole thing more succinct whilst still conveying everything I had written above. He narrowed his eyes considerably as Lizzy revealed her beaming face to Michael, her melodious cackle might as well be a hard slap on his face. If resorting to some semblance of grovelling was humiliating enough, the sting of Lizzy’s refusal to do his bidding only fuelled his wrath further.
For not only had Elizabeth Hartley robbed him of fifty bucks – having wagered that her friendship with Michael Bradford wouldn’t last longer than a week before his fascination fizzled out and he returned to his usual loner-slash-floater tendencies, she had also robbed him of the most powerful alliance he could ever had; an alliance that was rightfully his more than it was hers! I struggled the most with this paragraph. I want to further show the reader as to why Gordon simply couldn’t let go of his grudge – that final nail on the coffin, but didn’t want to lose the potential reader’s attention span by writing long, convoluted sentences. I had written, and rewritten a number of versions, including:
Version 1 Staring at Lizzy as though he wished to lazer the back of her head, he began to concoct a devious plan to make the rest of her days at St Andrew’s utterly miserable. In his universe, the pairing of Michael Bradford’s status with someone whom a) had costed him fifty bucks, for he had initiated a wager that her friendship with Michael wouldn’t last longer than a week before the son-of-billionaire’s fascination fizzled out; b) usurped the alliance that was rightfully his; and c) ought to be scraping the bottom of the oil-greased barrel was simply… incomprehensible.
Version 2 Gordon stared at Lizzy as though he wished to lazer the back of her head, hell-bent in making the rest of her days at St. Andrew’s utterly miserable. For the girl had not only costed him fifty bucks… (see the reason above), but also robbed him of the most powerful alliance; an alliance that was rightfully his rather than hers!
Before finally settling on the below version: Gordon stared at Lizzy as though he wished to lazer the back of her head, hell-bent to make the rest of her days at St. Andrew’s utterly miserable. In addition to costing him fifty bucks for debunking his conviction that her friendship with Michael wouldn’t last longer than a week before the son-of-billionaire’s fascination fizzled out, she had also usurped the alliance that was rightfully his. And in his universe, the pairing of Michael Bradford’s status with someone whom ought to be scraping the bottom of the oil-greased barrel was simply… incomprehensible.
Click here to read the section in one fluid, flowing motion.
Shy of 250 words, to get to the stage where I am happy with it before moving on to another section, there were a number of delete, re-write, rinse and repeat processes involved. Time-wise – depending on how fluid the words flow in my brain, the topic, and which point of view I’m writing from (and let’s face it – the more antagonistic the character is, the more challenging the process), could be anywhere from a few hours to half-a-day.
Hope you enjoy this little glimpse into my creative process. Feel free to leave your comment and/or feedback below.
Gordon began to shake as Lizzy turned her back on him and walked away, dark spots swarming his vision as she matched her pace with the student emerging from around the corner.
No one has ever denied me! His inner voice stated as thunderously as the boiling blood rumbling in his ears.
Perhaps, the more exacting sentiment was that having had his stepmother shroud him with indulgences he wouldn’t otherwise aware of its existence, and others beg him to either desperately join his exclusive clique or be spared from further torment, Gordon had seldom had to request for anything in the first place.
He narrowed his eyes considerably as Lizzy revealed her beaming face to Michael, her melodious cackle might as well be a hard slap on his face. If resorting to some semblance of grovelling was humiliating enough, the sting of Lizzy’s refusal to do his bidding only fuelled his wrath further.
Gordon stared at Lizzy as though he wished to lazer the back of her head, hell-bent to make the rest of her days at St. Andrew’s utterly miserable. In addition to costing him fifty bucks for debunking his conviction that her friendship with Michael wouldn’t last longer than a week before the son-of-billionaire’s fascination fizzled out, she had also usurped the alliance that was rightfully his. And in his universe, the pairing of Michael Bradford’s status with someone whom ought to be scraping the bottom of the oil-greased barrel was simply… incomprehensible.
Should you wish to share my work-in-progress, please do so by copying the link (URL) to this webpage.
Once in a while, my husband and I visited his mother’s ancestral home in Balete, Kalibo, Aklan. Away from the hustle and bustle of the big city (about 1-hour flight from Manila and 30-minute drive from Kalibo International Airport), it is a chance to experience a truly different and – in a lot of ways – simpler lifestyle.
So here is a little taste of things we do and/or see during our visit to Balete that we don’t normally encounter in the big city.
Take part in Ati Atihan Festival Held annually to honour Santo Nino (Holy Child or Infant Jesus), this week-long festival climaxes in a street parade on the third Sunday of January in Kalibo town centre. Showcasing theme floats, dancing groups wearing colourful costumes, marching bands, people sporting face and body paints, they are a sight like no other!
Hala Bira!!!
Drinking coconut juice straight from the tree Squeezed between one of my husband’s many cousins and my husband on a motorbike (this in itself is an experience we aren’t dare to attempt in metro Manila), we trekked up to mother-in-law’s ancestral land, where coconuts are aplenty. Said cousin would simply climb one of the many coconut trees, chopped off a few coconuts, climbed down, opened them up, and voila! We get to enjoy fresh coconut juice and meat!
What… exactly… is this? Made out of plastic bottles and caps, we are yet to figure out what kind of apparatus this is. One could only predict it was for decoration purposes only…
Rice fields as far as the eyes can see Earlier this year, we were lucky enough to visit around the time they were harvesting rice.
Playing sport in the middle of the street With vehicular traffic nowhere near as dense as the major city, we could use the stretch of the street in front of the house as a makeshift badminton court. You just have to pause and move to the side to let incoming traffic through (which, given the heat, an occasional respite from exercising wasn’t such a bad idea…)
Trek up the mountains… barefoot! Yes, you read that right! Especially during the rainy season, when the soil turned to sloshy mud after continuous downpour, barefoot is one of the best methods to trek up to Lumaynay to visit my husband’s cousin’s place. Not only it will save your footwear from being ruined (not to mention unsalvageable), but you will also discover (very quickly!) the additional use of your toes when you have to make your way across a narrow bamboo bridge!
Unfortunately, photographic evidence of such time is scarce… After all, one needs both hands to hold on to everything you can (other people’s, tree trunks, sturdy-looking weeds) to keep your balance.
What about you? Where have you travelled that was so far out of your comfort zone? Share your story by commenting below.
I stumbled upon this clip of Swedish author Fredrik Backman from another website the other day, and found myself: a) Nodding vigorously to almost every word; b) In stitches; and c) Putting his book on my to-buy-and-read list.
Without further ado – here is a sneak peek of what it is like inside my head… most times…
A few memorable quotes/key take-aways from Fredrik’s speech:
I find myself locked inside a room with people I have made up.
My brain and I… are not friends; … we are classmates doing group assignments called ‘life’, and it’s not going great.
“Everyone around you suffer” (from creative anxiety)
I am, obviously, an idiot. I have no idea what I’m doing, and I became an author anyway.
So you can, too!
Whether you are a fellow writer or not, let me know in the comment below if any of Fredrik’s sentiment resonates with you.
With his father being one of the country’s most renowned neurosurgeons, Peter Crane’s wealth and status were almost on par with the billionaire James Bradford. It was, therefore, a matter of common sense that both parents had enrolled their respective offspring in arguably the best prep school in the state of Massachusetts; as sensical, Gordon supposed, as having bespoke Hugo Boss and Armani suits lined his father’s walk-in wardrobe.
Having treated this as a sign from the universe, Gordon had wholeheartedly believed that he and Michael Bradford should be closely acquainted; that together, they should roam the hallways of St. Andrew’s the like of two kings, their peers nothing more than inferior subjects existing solely to fulfill their every whim.
He had also been convinced that said alliance should take place organically, and almost instantly; all that had to transpire was for him to casually drop his father’s name and occupation into the conversation for Michael to instantly realize the benefits of joining forces with him.
Three months into their freshmen year and Gordon was no closer to attaining said goal. Beyond English and History, they had shared no other classes. Not PE, where ridiculing over dorks and nerds trying to do a high jump could have served as a perfect icebreaker. Nor Science, where inventing other means to memorize abbreviations on periodic table could have led to further conversations. Whereas he had chosen Geography and Physics, Michael had settled on Arts and French; electives Gordon would have outrightly shunned as ‘sissy subjects’ had it not for the fact that he was trying his darndest to befriend the guy.
He had entertained the idea of arriving into their shared English class ahead of everyone else to reserve the seat next to him for the son of billionaire; an idea he had abandoned precisely two seconds later. For one, arriving early to any class – something only nerds would do – would mar the cool, nonchalant persona he was currently building and striving to maintain. For another, reserving a seat for anyone was a task someone should do on his behalf, not the other way around.
He could, he supposed, try to initiate a conversation during assembly. Given the first letter of their respective surnames, he had, almost always, ended up sitting directly behind and one seat to the left of Michael.
Gordon had sat on his hands lest he had the irrepressible urge to tap on Michael’s shoulder. Close proximity notwithstanding, he had held on to the conviction that such alliance needed to be forged away from everybody else’s prying eyes, and ears.
By half-way through the fifth month, Gordon had become equal part exasperated and desperate. He had begun spending the better part of his recess tailing Michael from a safe distance the like of a trained spy, trying to identify patterns and pinpointing Michael’s regular hangout places; anything that could grant him an opportunity to have two minutes of Michael Bradford’s undivided attention.
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Barely recovering from the emotional roller-coaster two days after I finished reading ‘Babel’ by R.F. Kuang (book review published on 3 October), my niece commented so eloquently that “you can snap yourself out of Babel, but you can never snap Babel out of you.”
Whilst I have written the following section prior to ever knowing of the book’s existence, somehow, this has become even more impactful when viewed through the lens of Babel…
“When you look nothing like your parent,” Lizzy began, “something as simple as going to the grocery store could turn eventful.”
She first became aware of the slight irregularities when she was five years old. Skipping alongside her father and waggling his hand excitedly, her beaming smile had frozen somewhat as a mid-forty female onlooker frowned at her. Lizzy had looked down to examine her appearance, ensuring that she hadn’t left the house wearing a pair of mismatched socks.
She had noticed this more and more with every outing. When she was out with both parents, the looks lobbed at her father made her think of Jesus descending from Heaven. In contrast, the onlookers had regarded her mother as if she was a leper, contaminating everything from fresh produce to bags of chips she had retrieved from the shelves. Never straying far from either parent, some strangers had given her a look befitting for bratty kids running amok around the supermarket aisle and rudely bumping into other patrons.
“One day, this middle-aged woman stopped my dad and I in the middle of aisle seven.”
With her frail, wrinkled hand resting against her father’s arm, the woman had flashed a courteous enough smile. Too young to recognize that even the sweetest smile might contain hidden thorns, Lizzy had reciprocated with her own wide, toothy smile.
“I must say,” the middle-aged woman had said, “I think it’s very noble of you to have adopted this girl from China.”
“Fast forward about five-and-a-half years’ later,” Lizzy continued, “imagine my mum walking into the grocery store with five-year-old Megan.”
The sight of pure Chinese Sarah Hartley guiding a fair-skinned, round-eyed child had more than raised a few eyebrows. Drawing into a conclusion that Sarah Hartley was Megan’s nanny, strangers had often stopped them in their track and demanded Sarah Hartley to provide her credentials. Some onlookers had blatantly implied that her mother had kidnapped a Caucasian-looking child from her real parents.
“Once, an onlooker even reported my mother to the mall’s security guard,” Lizzy said, nose wrinkling at the memory.
Two weeks before her eleventh birthday, Dean Hartley had collected his eldest daughter from school two hours ahead of her usual finishing time. Usually stoic and mild-tempered, the parent Lizzy had sat next to were evidently struggling to gain mastery of his emotions. With his jaw set tight, her father had also wrung the steering wheel as though the object was someone’s neck; knuckles and joints alike turning ghastly white. And when her father finally spoke, the iciness in his voice had shot straight through her spine.
Having been alerted to a potential kidnapping, two security guards had intercepted her mother and younger sister. They had led them towards the back of the mall and placed them in separate office rooms for interrogation.
Five-year-old Megan had repeatedly screamed ‘MOMMY!’ on top of her lungs and bawled her eyes out, ignoring the sympathetic female guard’s valiant efforts to soothe and quieten her.
Distraught from not being able to comfort her own child, the usually unyielding Sarah Hartley had rattled in her seat, her voice wavering as she answered each question. When ten minutes had passed and the security guard remained staring dubiously at her, Sarah Hartley had begged for her to place a phone call.
Utterly disturbed by Sarah’s tone of voice, more distressed and panicked than when she had informed him she was in labor, Dean Hartley had rushed to the mall. By the time he was led to the interrogation room and able to reclaim what was rightfully his, he had been greeted by a new set of family members. Despite her sheer exhaustion, the hiccupping little girl latching on to him had scrunched up his shirt with all her might, her face as red as a ripe tomato. The woman sidling closer to him only bore an uncanny resemblance to his wife; her face pallid, her back as stiff and tightly strung as a lamp post, her light brown eyes considerably darkened by equal measure outrage and mortification.
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1828. Robin Swift, orphaned by cholera in Canton, is brought to London by the mysterious Professor Lovell. There, he trains for years in Latin, Ancient Greek, and Chinese, all in preparation for the day he’ll enroll in Oxford University’s prestigious Royal Institute of Translation—also known as Babel. The tower and its students are the world’s center for translation and, more importantly, magic. Silver-working—the art of manifesting the meaning lost in translation using enchanted silver bars—has made the British unparalleled in power, as the arcane craft serves the Empire’s quest for colonization. For Robin, Oxford is a utopia dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. But knowledge obeys power, and as a Chinese boy raised in Britain, Robin realizes serving Babel means betraying his motherland. As his studies progress, Robin finds himself caught between Babel and the shadowy Hermes Society, an organization dedicated to stopping imperial expansion. When Britain pursues an unjust war with China over silver and opium, Robin must decide . . . Can powerful institutions be changed from within, or does revolution always require violence? Synopsis and picture sourced from Goodreads
A hefty 542 pages and heavily sprinkled with footnotes, Babel reads like a mammoth research journal; something Kuang has copped some negative criticisms for. Initially reluctant to relive my university days, I gradually appreciated the supporting information provided in a way that wouldn’t convolute the main part of the story (besides, can you expect anything else from someone who has multiple Masters’ degrees?). The author could also be forgiven for the initial slow pace of the book as she set up the magnificent world-building that was the Royal Institute of Translation and the breadth of languages spoken by the students in it. Once you persevere through the history ‘slog’ making up the first third of the book, however, the rest of the book picks up and becomes un-putdown-able.
Told almost entirely from Robin’s perspective, Kuang takes the time to shine the spotlight on three of his fellow cohort. Ramiz Rafi “Ramy” Mirza, who quickly became Robin’s best friend, was a Muslim Indian student from Calcutta. Like Robin, his admission into Oxford was sponsored by a wealthy British man. Victoire Desgraves was a black Haitian whom had fled to France with her mother. She forged her letter of recommendation to Oxford from her mother’s late employer. Letitia “Letty” Price was the daughter of a British former admiral. Successfully gaining admission into Oxford after her brother died in an accident, she craved for approval and recognition.
Though I have dabbled, and enjoyed reading historical fiction before, at first glance, a speculative/historical fantasy isn’t a genre I’m familiar, or usually interested in. Highly recommended by my niece, there has been times throughout reading this book I wasn’t sure whether to thank her, curse her, or throttle her (endearingly, of course) 😜!
What constitutes a good book? To me, it’s the ability to elicit strong responses from the reader. An opening line that hooks you, perhaps; a few sentences or paragraphs describing heartbreak so precisely it brings a tear or two to your eyes; a whole section dedicated to detailing how a villain with no redeemable qualities you have hated all throughout the book is served justice, withering to a slow, torturous death administered by the main character you have been rooting for; anything but the overwhelming desire to snap shut the book and toss it to the other end of the room in sheer frustration because you’re half-way through and something is yet to take place.
Never before has words on a page affected me the way Babel did. As though imbued with some magical powers, the book possessed hands that were able to reach deep into my soul, yank it out of me and pull it apart. Just like one attempting to glue back the pieces of a broken cup, it had taken me several days post-finishing reading the book to fully recover from the enormity of the experience. Almost five months on since I read the very last word on the last page, attempting to write this review remains a highly daunting task, for fear that I might not give the book the justice it truly deserves.
As a POC immigrant, I could more than relate to the feeling of disassociation Robin had felt when he was plucked out of the only home he knew and expected to land on his own two feet soon after he was thrust into a foreign country. As a linguist enthusiast whom had to learn and eventually become proficient in the English language (how come ‘door’ rhyme with ‘bore’ despite the slightly different spelling, but different to the way you pronounce ‘book’ or ‘poor’ despite the same number of ‘o’s?), Robin, Ramy and Victoire’s constant struggle between mastering a language of a country you live in whilst also maintaining the fluency of your native tongue resonated oh-so-strongly. Reading the incident of Robin and Ramy’s casual-turned-hostile encounter with a group of fellow Caucasian students upon realising that Ramy was a man of colour whom shouldn’t be wearing Oxford scholar gown was an echo of the racism I had been subjected to during my childhood and early teenage years.
“I’ve always just tried to blend in,” said Robin. “But that’s impossible for me,” said Ramy. A sobering and painful reminder that racism has levels of severity, this was one of the very first heartbreaks I experienced, so early into the book. I was reminded, once again, of the fight-or-flight tendencies gripping every POC when faced with prejudice/discrimination/racism. Do you tone down your otherness, keep your head down and walk away from potential altercation like Robin and Victoire, for it increases the likelihood of your survival? What part of yourself (however miniscule) are you willing to sacrifice for the sake of assimilating to the majority? Or do you adopt Ramy’s philosophy of having “had no choice but to stand out… decided he might as well dazzle”?
The character with the least common ground, I could, to a certain extent, sympathise with Letty. Sure, compared to her fellow cohort, she came from a cushy, more privileged background. Just as Robin, Ramy and Victoire were discriminated based on their race, being one of the few women scholars in the whole of Babel, Letty (and Victoire) received discrimination purely because of her gender. Amongst her POC friends, she was the minority, failing to comprehend her friends’ struggles that consequently shape their actions.
Whilst giving away any spoiler is frowned upon when writing a book review, when Robin realises that “The university tells us we are special, chosen, selected, when really we are severed from our motherlands and raised within spitting distance of a class we can never truly become a part of…”, a revolt against the system that has exploited him and other students recruited into Babel in the first place is insinuated. With the alternate title of the book being ‘The Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators’ Revolution’, the ending is, literally, spelled out.
Not equipped to discuss the broader issues Kuang tries to address in the book – namely British imperialism, colonisation and capitalism – with the same amount of passion, I will just leave the following quote here, which perfectly sums up my thought on the subject. “Never, Robin thought, would he understand these men, who talked of the world and its movements like a grand chess game, where countries and peoples were pieces to be moved and manipulated at will.”
Jam-packed with memorable, thought-provoking quotes, here are a handful that continue to haunt me.
“The Oxford-to-Paddington railway line was not laid until 1844, but here it was constructed several years earlier for two reasons… because I needed to get my characters to London a bit faster.” “If you find any other inconsistencies, feel free to remind yourself this is a work of fiction.” ~R.F. Kuang on ‘bending’ the facts to accommodate for the set up of her book.
“They were men at Oxford; they were not Oxford men.”
“Later, when everything went sideways and the world broke in half, Robin would think back to this day, to this hour at this table, and wonder why they had been so quick, so carelessly eager to trust one another. Why had they refused to see the myriad ways they could hurt each other?” A foreshadowing paragraph at its best!
“But the answer was obvious – that they were all four of them drowning in the unfamiliar, and they saw in each other a raft, and clinging to one another was the only way to stay afloat.”
“English did not just borrow words from other languages; it was stuffed to the brim with foreign influences, a Frankenstein vernacular. And Robin found it incredible, how this country, whose citizens prided themselves so much on being better than the rest of the world, could not make it through an afternoon tea without borrowed goods.”
“Translation means doing violence upon the original, it means warping and distorting it for foreign, unintended eyes.”
“… an act of translation is always an act of betrayal.”
“Would you let someone come in and tell you what words in your own language mean?”
“A dangerous trap indeed, for a player to believe his own stories, to be blinded by the applause.”
“Anger was a chokehold. Anger did not empower you. It sat on your chest; it squeezed your ribs until you felt trapped, suffocated, out of options. Anger simmered, then exploded. Anger was constriction, and the consequent rage a desperate attempt to breathe.”
“Language was just difference. A thousand different ways of seeing, of moving through the world. No; a thousand worlds within one. And translation – a necessary endeavour, however futile, to move between them.”
“History isn’t a premade tapestry that we’ve got to suffer, a closed world with no exit. We can form it. Make it. We just have to choose to make it.”
And lastly… “You fly no one’s flag. You’re free to seek your own harbour.” Hands down the best two sentences I have ever come across to date. Uttered to further drill down the notion that gratitude, obligation and servitudes aren’t warranted when a saviour’s motive in providing you with a so-called better life is more about advancing his own agenda (and little to nothing to do with the goodness of his heart), I continue to unpack the full impact and power of this sentiment to this very day.
Throwback Thursday or #TBT is an internet trend used among social media platforms. Like many internet trends, it is hard to determine who or what exactly started the #TBT hashtag trend. The earliest usage on Instagram was by the user @bobbysander22. Sports Illustrated attributes the origin of the term to a sneaker-specific blog named Nice Kicks. According to SI, this blog began a practice of regular postings (on Thursdays) of photos of old basketball footwear in 2006, titling the series “Throwback Thursday”. Since then, the slogan has blown up to the point where #TBT has been used on Instagram over 500 million times. Source: Wikipedia
This month’s ‘Throwback Thursday’ is brought to you from the time we went to Bali as part of an extended celebration for my husband’s milestone birthday. Enjoying the sunset as we sat at one of the seaside restaurants at Jimbaran Bay, we cast our glance around and saw Travel and Lifestyle YouTuber Nelly’s Life… sitting two tables away from us!!!
Now… I could… ahem… take the credit and say I planned the whole thing; that I had stalked her YouTube channel, found out that she was going to the same country, and suggested to husband to dine at the same restaurant. Truthfully, though, this was pure coincidence; a case of being at the right place, at the right time.
Knowing this opportunity might never come again, we abandoned our table to strike a conversation with her. After a quick photo snap to commemorate the occasion (after all, this might be the closest we would ever get to brush shoulders with someone famous!), we headed back to our table in time to have our dinner served. And judging by the fact that there were more dishes on the table compared to our original order, perhaps, the establishment thought we were also fellow YouTubers!
Have you ever encountered a celebrity (of any kind)? Did you do the star-struck thing and approach them, or did you leave them be (or just take a snapshot of them as they walked past)? Share your stories by commenting below.
Whilst a large student population of St. Andrew’s were fixated on Elizabeth Hartley’s Oriental appearance – a total contrast to her Caucasian father, what intrigued Michael Bradford the most was the fact that she was seemingly unperturbed by it all. Instead of busily justifying her life story, the newest student seemed content to sit in a quiet corner in the library.
He swung one leg forward, approaching Elizabeth before fully realizing it.
“Hi.”
Still totally engrossed in her novel, Elizabeth ran the tip of her index finger along the last three words of the sentence she was reading; her gesture of acknowledgment was nothing more than a slight upward tilt of her chin.
“I’m…”
“Michael Bradford.”
Elizabeth didn’t regard him with an utterly shell-shocked, star-struck expression the way a group of freshmen girls had every time he walked past them; another thing he found utterly refreshing. She had simply inclined her head at a slight angle and given him a genial, slightly amused smile. Truly, the only thing remotely betraying her confidence was a slight lilt in her voice as she uttered his name.
“It’s impossible not to know who you are,” Elizabeth added, smiling gleefully at Michael’s widened eyes.
The sole heir to the advertising mogul James Patterson Bradford, both his parents had shielded him from the prying eyes of the press as much and as best as they possibly could. He, in turn, had avoided the media’s attention the way one skirted around the most direct way home to minimize potential encounter with bullies.
Despite their best efforts, the media had taken a growing interest at Michael James Bradford. What had started as a casual mention of his name during toddlerhood had gradually morphed into images soon after he reached seven years of age, showing him traipsing along the white sandy beach of Waikiki or skiing the slopes of Hakuba Valley with his parents during their annual vacation. Much as Michael had viewed his enrolment at St. Andrew’s as a way to blend in with students of other high-profile parents, the paparazzi had singled him out like a sore thumb, training their camera lenses on him as he emerged out of his father’s car on his first day of freshman year.
“Not that I understand the fascination, but the media do televize the wealthiest family in Massachusetts attending the Red Sox’s first home game at the opening of each season,” Elizabeth remarked dryly.
Michael lowered his gaze a fraction, trying hard to suppress the heat of embarrassment from creeping up past his neck. To the best of his recollection, with his own mother being the only exception, no member of the opposite sex has ever made him blush.
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Develop, and perfect your intuition Applying just the right intonation to her name, the girl who could be dead to the world a second ago would perk up and stare at us expectantly. The word ‘walk’ had to gradually be spelled out, then shortened to a single letter, and subsequently changed to ‘explore’. We think she’s slowly learning said substitute word, so we are slowly introducing yet another phrase to say without her understanding it.
Give 110% of your time and energy to things you’re passionate about, including: ‘Zoomies’ around the coffee table when we are all gearing up for our regular exploration outside, even at the expense of her own time because it delayed us from securing her harness and leash on, or placing her inside her stroller. Channel all of your focus towards your final destination, paying attention to nothing, and no one else. Hit that ‘Turbo’ button to reach your intended destination in the fastest time possible. Stop and smell the roses. No one lives out the literal meaning of this phrase , though in Nala’s case, it is more about stop and smell every. single. blade. of grass!
Know a good thing when you see/experience it, and keep doing it for as long as you possibly could For someone who couldn’t wait to reach the park or mall, she would, just as suddenly, dawdle slower than a bride walking down the aisle as we start to veer back home. Or, as a good friend of mine (whom had the pleasure of looking after Nala for a few months) testified, the girl would put the break on, simply refusing to take another step.
Beyond the obvious benefits such as soaking up fresh air (or as fresh as could be, depending where you live) and increasing blood flow to every pore of your body, there is something invigorating and freeing about walking and enjoying nature. Often times, it has given clarity to my muddled mind. It has occasionally unkinked the knots on a particular section I’ve been struggling with, or provided me with those ‘light bulb moments’; from substituting a word here and there for a more impactful one to reworking a particular sentence or paragraph for a better flow.
In his ‘3-2-1’ weekly newsletter, 21 March 2024 edition, James Clear (author of An Easy & Proven Way to Build Good Habits & Break Bad Ones) wrote:
The reason people get good ideas in the shower is because it’s the only time during the day when most people are away from screens long enough to think clearly. The lesson is not to take more showers, but rather to make more time to think.
What has worked for you that takes you away long enough from the screens to think clearly? I would love to hear from you. Share your story by commenting below.