The Year That (Almost!) Has Been...

With 2010 approaching in less than 2 hours, my reflection mode has gone to overdrive.

I have to say that 2009 has been a busy year, though to me personally, that business has revolved around one thing and one thing only; work. It has taken me... oh, just a decade to finally be able to proudly say that I LOVE my work; I am passionate about what I do; I believe that right now, this is exactly where I'm supposed to be and what I'm supposed to be doing.

I remember in my work prior to this, as Communications & Marketing Co-ordinator for an Engineering company, I organised A LOT of events, some for offices in other states. The bad thing about that was that because I wasn't a permanent employee, I never got to travel to any of these interstate events, even though I had practically bust my ass to ensure that no details, however small, was overlooked.

A realisation has hit me often, in the past few months, that I am currently in my dream job; the title (Secretary) might make you think immediately that I get all the shitty tasks, and some days, I think that there might be some truths to that. But most days, I can appreciate the bigger things, the perks that come from organising simultaneous Cluster meetings, or Golf Day; like the opportunity to call my darling husband up as I arrived in the hotel room and said: There are twenty-two floors in this hotel. I am on level 22; of being able to sit through a free buffet or three-course dinner and finding the less serious side of the Principals; of being able to trawl through the clothes aisle of Myer and snatched that little black dress, and didn't have to pay a cent of it because I had received a gift card of substantial amount for all the hard work I've done co-organising Golf Day; even the little things like the compliments my bosses, and other Secretaries' bosses, have thrown at me for all the initiatives I've taken and the help I've given them. I've figured that money isn't everything.

This year has been made more special from work perspective because I had the golden opportunity to work with someone who's not only a colleague, but also a good friend. We had a wonderful time together, bouncing off ideas, trusting each other to get some urgent stuff done when one was away, and for the first time in my life, I enjoy seeing someone I work with outside working hours.

The downside of being overly passionate about my work, is the fact that I kind of disconnected myself from just about almost every other aspects of my life, with the exception of my husband. I found myself struggling to find other conversation topics to talk about with my husband's family, and therefore retreated myself into the corner. I became rather possessive about my responsibilities, and became terribly upset with the two temps working there for the whole of this year because they didn't share the same work ethics my friend and I did (older generations and all). I found myself completely burnt out two weeks before Christmas I had to take a sickie more than absolutely necessary just to sort things through in my head, and to bloody avoid facing the two people who, in my opinion, pulled the rest of the team down.

This year also saw the utter deterioration of my relationship with every member of my in-laws. In essence, it did boil down to the 'China' girls outing my mother-in-law, sisters-in-law, a close family friend and a cousin organised without including me. I know that in light of people losing their homes in natural disaster, world hunger and poverty, this seemed absolutely miniscule and petty, but this year, I really struggled to care and show compassion to them. I almost lost faith in basic humanity traits, believing that putting others before you don't get you anywhere because it would never get reciprocated; that by association, being the backbone of a family means you get treated like a piece of shit; that at one point, you have to say to yourself enough is enough and as selfishly as it sounds, tell yourself that you come first and the hell with everyone else.

This year, not that my perfectionist mind would allow me to admit it, I made quite a big contribution to the Michael & Lizzy saga. I also revamped Eleanor I, the first novel I've ever written about 3 years ago, to the point that I can say to myself that I'm ready to take the next step and dwelve into the big, unknown world of publishing. This year proudly saw me as an accomplished, budding artist, and I couldn't be happier about the quality of writing I've produced, even if no one else, so far, has seen it.

The other thing I've managed to neglect this year, is my health. Not that I'm by any means ballooning, but I can feel myself getting... sluggish and heavier. I puff walking up from the bottom carpark to my workplace on Level 3, not used to exercise. I don't watch what I eat - more and more nights I opt for the simpler, more expensive option of getting take-away; anything to avoid cutting up vegetables, cooking, and stacking up dishes in the dishwasher; anything that would give me more time to write.

It's been a roller-coaster year, and one I don't think will slow down next year. But this year, more than ever, I've embarked on a most interesting journey of self-discovery, shaping myself to be the woman I want to be.

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways...

I absolutely LOVE holidays. My mind has enough blank space in them to be filled with new wonders, the stretch of days with minimal amount of obligations allows me to rediscover certain things long buried in my subconscious, piled with stack loads of responsibilities, tasks, troubles, sorrows.

Another thing I absolutely love about holidays is the freedom I can have; the ability to stay well past midnight, writing vigorously when my mind is at its freshest and most alive; the luxury of being able to wake up when I feel like it, not dictated by the buzz of alarm clock telling me I HAVE TO get up otherwise I'd be late for work; the TV shows I can catch up with and the music I can blast without breaking anyone else's concentration; the riveting novel I can read without having to put down at certain time so that I could get enough sleep.

Perhaps the best part I love about holidays, is no matter how brief, it seems to unblock my mind, unleash the inspirations I never knew was within me all along, the serenity I feel when I put the river of words into paper, cramp fingers notwithstanding.

Ahh.... I LOVE holidays...!

Progress... Part 2

1. Thanksgiving 2002 - DONE.

2. Christmas 2002 - picking Christmas tree - DONE.

3. Christmas 2002 - conversation by the fireplace - DONE.

4. Epilogue for Michael & Lizzy II - showing off Presidential Suite - DONE.

5. Prologue for Michael & Lizzy III - Lizzy choosing a place to live - put in a back burner as I have a huge storyline developing inside my head.

Progress...

Ahh... did I tell you I love holidays? My mind is set to writing overdrive, and the more I write, the more 'sections' become clear in my mind, the more holes in my novels are filled. I am so very happy to report that Michael & Lizzy IV is 100% complete, and Michael & Lizzy III is about 80% done - I think this will be my big focus for the next few weeks.

So, without further ado - here is where I'm at:

1. Thanksgiving 2002 - DONE.

2. Christmas 2002 - picking Christmas tree - DONE.

3. Christmas 2002 - conversation by the fireplace.

4. Epilogue for Michael & Lizzy II - showing off Presidential Suite - DONE.

5. Prologue for Michael & Lizzy III - Lizzy choosing a place to live.

In Honour of Christmas...

I love Christmas - perhaps equally, if not just a little bit more than my birthday; it is the one time of the year I look forward to, secretly singing along to the good ol' Christmas Carols, cheesy or not; everything around me are... blitzing - houses are alight with running lights, trees are decorated with all kinds of sparkly and pretty baubles and hanging ornaments; now if only there are snow in this part of the world at this time of the year, I would have branded every Christmas a perfect one, but eh... you can't have everything.

To me, Christmas symbolises harmony. No matter how rotten your year has been, no matter how much you've struggled, trying to balance work, relationship, family, social life, etc., at Christmas, you forget all that and focus on the one thing that's important in your life - those who are closest and dearest to you. Christmas is like a closing gate to the year that's been, a promise of better things to come, a reminder that there is peace in this crazy, hectic world we live in, a redemption of the wrongs you've made.

In honour of Christmas, I've written several Christmas passages throughout the 'Michael and Lizzy' saga, and this is one of them...

Still half-asleep, Lizzy rolls over, sitting up as her hand lightly brushes the crumpled sheet, blinking her eyes a few times to see the thick quilt on the spot beside her has been flung back and the person she had gone to bed with the night before is gone.

She rubs her eyes at the same time the door to the bedroom opens, her lips twitching as she sees Michael slowly approaching; his uncombed hair sticking out every which way and one hand is concealed behind the fold of his thick robe.

“Merry Christmas,” he greets, Lizzy slumping towards him as he puts all his weight on her side of the bed. Cupping her chin with his thumb and index finger, he tilts her head up and kisses her.

She breaks away to find a small square silver box balancing awkwardly on her lap, on top of the doona. Gently untying the organza white ribbon neatly wrapped around it, she opens the lid, jamming her fingers between the narrow gaps inside to fish out a black box.

“Oh, my God,” she exclaims, gasping as she opens the lid. “Michael…” Lizzy stares at him, speechless; inside, circled around a snug, dark navy velvet cushion, is a white gold, 3.13 carat Harry Winston Avenue mini watch; the countless diamond gems surrounding the clock and the chain perimeter glimmering against the shaft of morning sunlight penetrating through the bedroom window.

“There’s an engraving at the back,” Michael instructs further. Carefully, she peels the cushion from the confine of the box, peering over the inside of the watch.

With love, always. From Michael.

His grin freezes somewhat as Lizzy looks up, staring at him solemnly and somewhat askance.

“You don’t like it?” he asks uncertainly, knitting his brows close together; to his recollection, Lizzy has never been fuzzy on the gifts he has given her.

“I love it,” she replies quickly, weighing the watch on her palm, trying very hard not to think about the price tag. “It’s just…” She looks up again, meeting Michael’s eyes. “You know I really don’t need…”

“I know you don’t need a new watch,” Michael interrupts, putting a slight emphasis on the word need, “but… this is our first Christmas together. It’s a partner’s prerogative to spoil his fiancée, no?” he asks, his brow shooting up mischievously.

Penned Mission...

It's the best title I could come up with to describe the sections I need to write - hopefully writing this down means my inspiration could get a big jolt of reminder.

So... for the remainder of December, I'm planning to get the following sections done and dusted:

1. Thanksgiving 2002.

2. Christmas 2002 - picking Christmas tree.

3. Christmas 2002 - conversation by the fireplace.

4. Epilogue for Michael & Lizzy II - showing off Presidential Suite.

5. Prologue for Michael & Lizzy III - Lizzy choosing a place to live.

Call Me Anti-Social...

Or downright rude... but I LOVE my solitude.

Don't get me wrong, I love my husband. Very much. I love spending time with him. I love talking to him, joking around with him, laughing until my insides hurt with, or at him ;)

But there are something to be treasured in having my 'me' time, and once I've got 'a dose' of it, I really have a hard time in letting the idea go.

My husband had a work Christmas party in which partners were not invited. So off he went all by himself, and I had the house to myself for about 5.5 hours! It was... an absolute bliss, you know. I could watch some of the soapie stuff my husband isn't really into. I could write whilst listening to music without any other interruption. I could have a nap, sprawling on the bed.

I wrote, in excess of 6 pages on Saturday. I was hoping to repeat it the very next day. But Sunday rolled over (yes, I am loving the 'roll over' expression for the moment), and we had to do some grocery shopping. We called my husband's parents and they decided that they wanted to watch Avatar in Gold Class with us, so we had to book and offered to pick up their tickets. We hit the idea of having a swim at their house, and dinner, which meant buying some food for said dinner.

By 7:30, I was dead from swimming, feeling rather langurous from too much eating, and CRANKY because I haven't written a single page. By the time we got home, my husband demanded to watch something, together, and he hated it when I only half-watched stuff that he wanted us to watch together. So no writing. And my mood had become so rotten by then it took everything in my power not to bite my husband's head off.

I wish sometimes there was a deserted island I could visit whenever I want, dropping everything - housework, work, obligations, husband - at any given moment my brain received a surge of inspiration, without having to deal with the ramifications. I long for a day, a week, a month, of total solitude; of being able to lock myself away, or even have a hiatus somewhere, ALONE, and write from day to night, and do it all over again the next day.

To Quote One of My Favourite Authors...

Regarding the state of my brain lately....

Bwang.... Feeble... Feeble... Flop.

This is an analogy by Diana Gabaldon (http://voyagesoftheartemis.blogspot.com/) - the author of all the 'Outlander' series, liking the brain to that of a rubber band being stretched and released.

There is something to be said about the effect of weather on your productivity, and don't let anyone tell you differently. I function at a much slower rate during summer; I suffer more headaches; I become more of a monster than I usually do; my motivation seems to jump out of the window; my body rebels at the thought of doing anything remotely energetic, even if it is just to do such a simple thing as vaccuuming.

And so the inspiration comes also at a much, much slower pace. Not even that, whatever inspiration that has entered my brain seems to be melted away by the scorching heat almost immediately that I find myself, in rising frustration, having to sit back and thinks, "what was that sentence I just thought of?"

To this end, I think I'm going to steal the idea from Small Pleasures (http://thesmallpleasures.blogspot.com/) and list a few 'sections' I wish to get done this month (and you guessed it - I don't have it down pat this very moment because the words have, once again, up and left me).

But inspirations come at the most unusual times/places (this is where the rubber band is being released and making that bwang...! sound). I found myself sitting by the coffee table this morning, one hand holding a ham and egg jaffa for breakfast, the other vigorously writing for 20 minutes before I head off to work, oblivious to my surroundings and NOT feeling the heat (it's the first for me in how many weeks!).

So, not wanting to scare the inspirations away... I'll leave it at that. I'm not even getting excited about the fact... yet...

I Want to Go Home...

I've had one MASSIVE week - work wise. And as much as I love, and am passionate about my work, it has taken its toll.

It all started with two of my colleagues leaving me by myself to hold the fort on Tuesday. Not intentionally, of course. One of them came down with... tonsilitis/flu/viral thing. The other had to take her little daughter to the doctors because the girl has the same thing (tonsilitis). And that left me supporting 7 Area Supervisors, including my usual 3. I was supposed to finish at 4, but didn't leave until 4:30.

Wednesday rolled over and we had a full Secretarial meeting all morning, followed by team lunch straight after, followed by choir practice for End-of-liturgy. I didn't come back to my desk until 4, and by then was feeling so unmotivated to do any work.

Thursday came, and still no sight of the colleague who had come down with the tonsilitis/flu/viral infection thing - to be expected. I had to shop for the team's Secret Santa morning tea provisions, and it was lucky that I could drag my other colleague, also a very good friend of mine, to come along with me, cutting the 1.5 hours I usually did wandering along almost each aisle of the supermarket to about 40 minutes. Came back only to find the other person who's been minding the phones not wanting to take a phone call. Perhaps I should elaborate a little further (and digress, too) that one of my main responsibilities as Secretary to the Area Supervisors include taking complaint calls from sometimes irate parents, and with the end of school nearing, there are complaints and issues aplenty.

Friday rolled over and I had to move the morning tea half-an-hour forward, phones didn't stop ringing, which again, left me running back and forth from the kitchen to my pod, preparing and bringing food etc. All of which was polished, done and dusted in less than 40 minutes. And then off to the last choir practice at the Church prior to liturgy.

Perhaps it would have been better had I been able to write - writing is my escape from everything that's bothering/burdening me. But I guess I've been far too stressed to relax my mind and enter that 'space' to write productively, creatively, and coherently.

So I found myself dragging my feet to work today, wallowing in self-pity, wishing I was still lying in bed, still in my PJs, hoping that someone could say to me "you know, why don't you go home - I've got this!" But it's just... wishful... thinking...

The Art of Writing...

Not that I'm any expert or anything... and I've discovered since that, just like anything in life, what works for me might not have worked for others.

One of my favourite authors have said that to help one excel in writing, you must also read a lot; expose yourself to as many writing styles as possible; draw inspiration from the content of the millions of books out there.

They say, also, that when you get stuck, when the inspiration fails you, you should do something else; take a long walk; jog, if that's what takes your fancy; watch a movie; do anything that would empty and refresh your mind.

Some days, I can totally relate to that, and have no problem whatsoever in following these seemingly hundreds-year-old advice. Other days, like now, when I'm super-swamped at work sometimes taking an hour lunch break was a luxury I almost can't afford, when the demands of family life, albeit a small one, requires most of my attention, when I feel like every minute, no, every second, is so precious and can't be wasted, I struggle. Reading means less time in writing my own stories; it is sometimes a cruel reminder as to how good these authors are, and how I sometimes feel like I would never measure up. Watching a movie, with the lights dimmed if not completely off, required me using my eyes and fat chance of using my hands (unless I do want to go blind from trying to write in the dark, which I don't).

But today, I rediscovered certain things; things that may not necessarily get the inspirations flowing, but relax the mind nonetheless.

For the first time in about two weeks, I cooked dinner tonight. And I felt... calm; peaceful; I even enjoyed it. For that whole forty minutes, I thought about nothing but how to make the perfect dinner; I didn't chastise myself for not thinking about Michael & Lizzy.

I also rediscovered the joy of listening to music just for the sake of it. Music is, and has always been, a powerful oxygen for my writing; I could listen to music, and before long, I was absorbed into another world, my hands couldn't stop writing until I decided to finish that particular section, and felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Lately, I hadn't been able to do that, and I blamed (yes, irrational, I know) the music I've been listening.

So... I guess... here's to more cooking and other mind-numbing activities that would help me to just... relax and smell the roses.

For Those Who Had Ever Been Victimised... One Way or Another...

Perhaps, one theme I could pinpoint for the Lizzy & Michael saga part I was 'liberation'. I made the girl character vulnerable, just like I made all my female characters so far somewhat vulnerable.

But out of this seemingly helpless character, rose her inner strength; she might have fallen down when being beaten, her fair skin sporting various kind of bruises, but she was determined to show both the bully and the larger school community that the experience wouldn't deter her, wouldn't not get the better of her. Lizzy, in later years, was resilient, always fighting back, even if it wasn't necessarily with an iron fist.

It didn't mean, however, that someone hadn't suggested retaliating physically; it was, after all, the most natural, clear solution presenting itself to anyone who was provoked. So here's an excerpt about one path of 'fighting back'.

He saw her leaning against the lockers, head bent to study over something; something that, on closer inspection, turned out to be an A4 sunkissed yellow flyer, detailing the upcoming Senior Prom in black, bold letters.

“Didn’t they teach you anything in self-defence classes?” Neil asked teasingly as Lizzy jumped and shrieked upon his hand patting her shoulder from behind.

Lizzy felt a deep flush rose up from her neck to her skull, lips twitching, eyes cast down bashfully. As a matter of fact, she had been distracted, so absorbed she was in reading the information about the Prom that she abandoned that sense of total alertness.

“How’s that going, by the way?” Neil prodded further, leaning back against the hideous, mildly corroding bright orange lockers.

“Self-defence classes?” Lizzy clarified, shrugging diffidently. “Oh… alright, I guess,” she remarked, one hand flapping dismissively.

“Yeah? What have you been learning?” Neil demanded, leaning forward curiously.

Lizzy took a breath and opened her mouth, brows furrowed deeply together as if to question the basketball athlete as to why he wanted so badly to know about her self-defence classes when a realisation began relaxing every lines of her face. In addition to being one of the promising basketballer, Neil was also a black belt. Now that she remembered the tail of their last conversation about the subject, it was Neil who had given her the self-defence instructor contact.

“I think I know how to strike someone’s chin using the heel of your palm when he, or she, tries to grab you by the throat,” Lizzy elaborated. “I think I can topple someone on top of you off balance,” she added; a deep, cold shudder went through her as she remembered last week’s session, when she was singled out by the instructor Kyle to be his ‘partner’ in the demonstration; the skin of her fingers quickly clamming up as she told herself to remain completely still, though every fibre in her being wanted to struggle and claw the instructor as he circled his hands around her throat, the re-enactment was too close for comfort.

“I think this week we’re learning about ‘how to inflict the most pain to your attackers using the least part of your body,’” Lizzy informed him.

“You need a session for that?” Neil asked, meeting her blank stare incredulously. “Surely, you know the basic moves?” Neil continued, speaking passionately. “You can, in self-defense, poke someone’s eye out with your finger,” Neil explained, bringing the tips of two of his longest fingers within half-an-inch to his cornea without blinking. “You can stomp on soneone’s foot when grabbed from behind, or elbowed their gut. You can kick them by the nuts,” Neil said, cradling his member without a second thought Lizzy’s eyes almost popped out of its sockets, mortified.

“Remember that,” Neil growled somewhat fiercely.

I'm BAAAAAAACK...!

Well, no... not me per se, since I haven't really gone anywhere (except, work-home-work... oh... and did I mention work???).

But sparks of inspirations have started emerging to the forefront of my mind, after... about 2 months knee-deep in revamping Eleanor I and 1-week hiatus to spend some quality time with my darling husband...

It's strange, you know... they are just fictional characters, but... having Michael and Lizzy's voices back inside my head is like I've reconnected with a bunch of long-lost friends.

So yes... I'm back and on a roll!

As of 10:32PM Today...

The revamped, FINAL version of Eleanor I is done and dusted!!!!

Man, I feel like a big weight has been lifted off my shoulder! I will, of course, proof-read the thing at least one more time (and repeat to yourself - proof-read for grammatical errors only, proof-read for grammatical errors only...)

And after that, the journey of getting this novel published will begin. I will write query letters to agents, asking (no... begging is more like it, probably) them to consider my submission.

And I'm off to have the rest of the week off writing and spend some overdue quality time with my darling husband.

A Little Window Into Patrick's Soul

With the end of Eleanor I revamp drawing near to the end, I think it's best to take some time out and focus on the other, equally important character in this novel - none other than the leading man, Your Highness Prince Patrick. So this is a little excerpt giving us a glimpse of his personality from a letter he wrote to Eleanor during the two years he was studying abroad in Norway.

Eleanor, I wish I could tell you that there was someone I could rely on to ease the pain I felt when my Mother passed away. My Mother never failed to show me her unconditional love every day she was alive, whereas I had to seek high and low for even a hint of affection from my Father. She gave me encouragement to be the person that I was, whereby my Father tried to mould me into someone else; a person I wasn’t comfortable with. With her, I never had to hide my feelings, whereas my Father demanded formality and detachment at all times. She was gentle and compassionate, and I turned to her time and again for advice and reassurance.

When she passed away, my world came crashing down. I was inconsolable for a very long time. My Father channelled his grief from losing my Mother by seeking solace in the arms of countless maids and ladies-in-waiting, and spared very little of his time for me. For a long time, I was convinced that he hated me; I inherited so much of my Mother in me and perhaps very little of him. Every day that passed the distance between us grew bigger, and our relationship became more estranged than before.

If you ask me do I love my Father, then my answer would be yes; of course I do. But do I love him genuinely or out of obligation that every child should love his parent, I honestly don’t know. It is something I am still trying to determine for myself. Living with my Father after my Mother passed away had been filled with countless arguments, with him trying to instil his strict ways and me rebelling against it, trying to hold on to my beliefs. Throughout the years I felt a change gradually came over me, as I grew more stubborn and frustrated towards him. Dealing with my Father brought out a different side of my personality, Eleanor, one I do not want to harbour and one that I certainly never wish to show you.

I have never conveyed any of this to anyone, Eleanor. When my Mother was alive, my life seemed simpler, and the world I live in seemed so much brighter. Life after my Mother passed away was years of loneliness and yearning until I learnt to put aside my sadness, pick myself up from the ground and move on; I’m sure you can relate to this. The day I met you, a feeling I have buried deep inside my heart a long time ago began to climb out, struggling to see the light again. The day you returned my affection, that feeling intensified a thousand times, and the sun has finally able to shine brightly upon it. You, my dearest, have melted the ice around my heart, and I once again see the world in an entirely new light.

And the Shaft is Getting BIGGER!

As I wrote previously, I had 4 days off to make up some of the Sundays I've been working for one of my bosses running around taking photos and greet parents/potential parents of school alliances showcasing their arts and performances.

And whilst I had a busy 4 days, with a weekend in-between in which my husband required some attention, I was able to also fit in a lot of writing done!

So, lo and behold, there are only about 15 pages of Eleanor I left to be revamped, and then I can... do... something else!!!

Is That A Light?

I am *so* happy to report that Eleanor I revamp project is three-quarter done! I have a few days off up my sleeve for a super-long weekend coming up and I am hoping (if my brain would cooperate) to finish it. The light is just a speckle at the moment, but hopefully, by Friday night at least, I could see a shaft coming through.

In the meantime, I realised that I've been talking so much about Eleanor and not given a taste of who she is or what she's like. So this is an excerpt of the very first section of Eleanor I.

Eleanor lifted her skirt higher, took two steps back, cocked her head to one side to judge the distance, ran up and leapt, groaning inwardly as she felt the heel of her buckskin shoes sank onto the pot hole, splashing the murky, brown-coloured muddy water all around the bottom hem of the layers.
She slowed her pace almost to a halt, eyes bulging out to see the grandeur of the Palace standing majestically in front of her. She had seen it before, of course; both in passing, and from a much further distance, as she hurried to the neighbouring village market, as well as from fifty yards away, neck craned, eyes straining to catch a glimpse of the procession when the Queen passed to eternal life twelve years ago. But still, the sight of the light-grey cobblestone exterior, rumoured to be housing close to three-hundred rooms, made more impressive by the radiant mid-morning sunlight showering upon the building they shone almost white, reminded her of the vision she held in her mind of our Saviour’s Kingdom of Heaven.
She leapt to one side of the Main Gate like a trained cat upon hearing the sounds of rumbling wheels and the uniformed clocking hooves of several horses, in time to see the Royal carriage jostling through, her gaze following its movement until it turned round the bend and disappeared from her view.
The sharp edge of the envelope inside her pocket stabbing her outer thigh through the pocket of her skirt returned her attention to the reason she had ventured to the Palace in the first place. She weaved her way through the buzzing crowd toing and froing around the Main Courtyard, contemplating bolting out in the other direction with each reluctant step she took, feeling utterly out of place, even though she knew she had no choice; there was no one else currently available to do the task that has been entrusted to her.
She approached a group of ladies-in-waiting huddling together in one corner near the main entrance, momentarily admiring the rich, vibrant colours of silk and damask dresses they were wearing, with décolletage so low and corset so tight she was expecting some of their plump breasts to pop free at any given moment; the string of round, marble-white pearls, brilliant gold-chained necklaces with ruby, emerald and diamond gemstones, some of them half-the-size of her fist hanging in-between their bosoms winking against the sunlight, briefly blinding her eyes.
“Ah... excuse me,” she said, her voice small and frightful, sidling close to a friendly-looking oval-faced girl, no more than eighteen, her skin so pale it provided a stark contrast to her lovely curled chestnut hair.
The girl examined Eleanor from head to toe, noting, with a slight envy, the graceful appearance of the slender eighteen-year-old woman in front of her; her square face was framed by thick, wavy auburn hair that stretched to her waist; her pair of striking eyes the colour of deep blue sea it could search deep within your soul; her nose long-boned and delicate, inviting anyone who caught sight of it to pinch it lightly in-between index and middle fingers; her lips thin and small, a natural complexion of light pink peeping shyly from the mass of porcelain-coloured skin, a contrast to the set of high cheekbones which gave the air of confidence in her feature.
The girl’s toffee-coloured eyes popped out in horror upon casting a glance at her mud-stained skirt she whipped the billowing fold of her pale blue silk garment instinctively, shrinking away towards the others, glaring at Eleanor as if she was about to infect the pristine-looking girl with pox that Eleanor, adding disheartened to the already uncomfortable feeling, simply rolled her eyes upward and marched straight through the Main Entrance, not daring to approach another human being.
She was rooted to the spot two steps in, mouth agape, eyes darting from one side of the seemingly endless length corridor to the other. If the outer view of the Palace gave the aura of heavenly, the interior certainly embodied the word... ‘regal’; the royal family emblem bearing a red-furred, white-chested fox, its noose tilted up as if it was trying to greedily consume all the fresh air, the two front paws balancing on a golden celestial globe, printed on a midnight blue shimmery satin banner, stood proud and majestic near the top of the eighteen-foot Cathedral ceiling, adorning the white-and-brass-gilded columns.
She strolled along the corridor, aware of the swishing of her skirt, the soles of her shoes, with a cake of dried mud on one heel, sinking to the plush, thick velvet red carpet she was tempted to bend down and ran her palm over the soft, smooth material; the only thing preventing her from getting down on all fours was the constant reminder that it was the most undignified pose to be caught at in such a glamorous place.
That is, if anyone ever sets eyes on you, she thought, the total quietness of the place raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

Just... Chill Out... Will You?

The good news is, my inspiration is back. It was, little by little, unlike the downpour we had on Tuesday afternoon, but I would snatch anything rather than nothing at all.

There isn't a bad news, really, but... I am powering along with the revamping of Eleanor I. I do keep adding some sections into it, which meant the finishing line kept getting further and further away to reach. And I am still, not used to (and don't think I ever will) writing straight into the computer, so it is a much slower process, with me keep going over and over what I've just written and making adjustments. But at least I'm not writing in excess of 80,000 words manually and then transferring it to the computer.

With me being so much in the zone of Eleanor I, though, my characters of Elizabeth and Michael are being put on hold. And I know, they're just characters, but... I am feeling very guilty (and frustrated) that there is no inspiration for the completion of the 'Elizabeth and Michael' saga.

Hence the title of this post... really...

Hmmmm....

That is the sound of my brain... thinking.... and having nothing notable come up.

Just like everything else in life goes through a cycle, so does my brain functioning. Every month, I go through a cycle. All in all, I probably have two weeks of solid inspirations, coming in so fast I struggle to find enough time in a day/week to write down my thoughts.

And then, I usually have about... four days to a week when everything kind of 'simmer down'. I could write, but my mind constantly grapple for words, the flow of sentences/sections don't come as easily. It has its advantages of course, in that I am more willing to drop whatever it is I'm currently writing about and do other things, including spending some quality time with my darling husband.

And then, there are days like today, when my brain is fried and I can't think of anything to write. If I do think of something, if words try to push through the proverbial thick wall of my brain, I dismiss it, beacuase my 'evil' conscience believe that they aren't good enough to be put on a page.

I HATE trawling through days like these. Days like these, I feel like trashing the whole sections, or even the whole file, to the bin, and start all over again from scratch. Days like these, I want to bite someone's and everyone's heads off!

So here's time to breathe and perhaps go on that power walk once more to hopefully relax my brain.

And the Revamping Has Begun!

All of a sudden, I had this bouts of inspiration (perhaps the quietness at work during school holidays have something to do with that) to start the rework of Eleanor I.

It turned out that once I've started, I can't, or don't want to stop. And it turned out too, that as long as I could stay in the right frame of mind, and had enough white space between what I wanted to write and what I've written, I could write straight onto the computer.

So, 15 pages of Eleanor I has been revamped, and I must say, even though it is a much slower process than handwriting things, I'm happy with the result.

And I've also discovered that, since I don't work in a linear process, some of the sections I've written, even so early in the book, need not to be touched.

So here's to about 100 pages more!

Walking...

I know this isn’t strictly about writing, but... I’ve forgotten how lovely it is, how peaceful, how liberating.

I’ve been... super-lazy in the exercise/keeping fit department. Shockingly lazy. Well, not quite that lazy, maybe. I had been sick too, so I was getting over that. And once, just once, I have ridden around the block after work.

But today, at lunch time, I got changed, put my joggers on, plugged my ears with my iPod and power-walked for 30 minutes. And it was amazing!!! I’ve truly forgotten the idyllic scenery around the place, the nice soft breeze that prevented me from being cooked in the sun. And one more bonus, it did clear my mind, unblock all the haziness, and give me just that bit more inspiration to write tonight!

Paper vs Computer

I have been asked, and wondered about this myself, as to how I am unable to write what I thought of directly into the computer, saving double-handling of writing and then transposing what I've written into word processor.

It got me stumped for a long while, too. I've been able to create professional letters and flyers out of thin air, but when it comes to my novels... staring at the white screen would only block, or worse, empty my mind rather than fill it with words. Even if I had thought in my head exactly what I wanted to write, by the time I reached the computer and opened a blank word document, the string of sentences have completely deserted me.

Today, I think, I finally find the answer. I think it has something to do with the static form of the screen. To me, paper is more organic, but that's not all; there is something more than just... the composition of these two mediums. With paper, and pen, I am 'forced' to look down, I guess... look away from every other distractions, save music. When I struggle for words, that's when I put my head up, like inhaling breath after immersing under water, and around me are... sceneries, I guess; whether it is the sight of my husband, with headphones attached to his ears, bopping along to his own music he's listening on his computer, or my little doggie snoring peacefully by my feet, or, if I'm outside, the swaying of overgrown grass by the wind; they are all more organic stuff I can draw inspirations from.

I don't think I can do that with computer; the sheer point of staring at something, white and unmoving, for a long time; the confine of my fingers to the keyboard; the disruptions of... icons and colours; the additional glare from the light that after a while hurts my eyes; and, most of the time, the moving images of whatever it is currently on TV (more static, you see?).

Having said that, here comes the dilemma. I have, from time to time, whilst devoting all my thoughts to the Lizzy & Michael novels, had bouts of inspirations about Eleanor I; how to make it better, how to make sentences flow easily; how to describe particular objects, feelings and reasonings better (for a lack of a better word).

I *really* (perhaps I should really bold and underline that), REALLY, don't want to handwrite the whole Eleanor I; not when I already have version 13 of the rough draft. I tried this, yesterday, in fact, to just start amending the word document. I managed to do about 4 pages, all of which I ended up tossing this morning into the bin because... you guessed it... it's not the same with how I've pictured it in my head, and not the same with how I would have done it had I handwritten these improvements.

So I'm at a loss as to what to do...

Another Excerpt.

Granted, the harmonious stuff of any novel I'm working on, or those involving the main characters of the novel, are the ones I like to write better than the conflict.

Not that I don't like conflict - I think they form a necessary part of any novel, but the flow of those sections don't come as easily as the pleasant, non-conflict sections.

So... without further ado, this is another section I've written very early on in the creation of Lizzy & Michael saga, even though this appears very late in book III. It is one of the sections I am very proud of 'producing' because I had written this when the inspiration in my mind was at the strongest, when everything in my head was cleared, when I could devote my whole being to this section.


She finds the light to her open plan living room in her apartment has been dimmed, a mug of hot chocolate waiting on the coffee table, freshly made that the steam is still wafting through, the TV turned on with the sound mute and Michael is sitting on one end of the couch, holding his own mug.
She hands him one of the fluffy pillows, going straight to the back of his head as she sits down on the other end of the couch, propping the pillow on her lap before reaching for her cup, blowing the hot liquid inside softly before slurping the content carefully, relieved that it hasn’t burnt her tongue.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” she begins, showing her genuine gratitude to him; a trademark that is Elizabeth Hartley, part of her strict Asian upbringing, to always show respect and gratitude, never taking anything for granted.
“I would have come sooner, Liz.” She turns her attention away from him, watching the TV absent-mindedly as Michael turns up the volume little by little, listening half-heartedly to David Letterman interviewing someone from Ohio about his ability to hum through his nose.
“Liz, he doesn’t deserve it,” Michael comforts her as he sees two glistening clear jewels drop from her eyes, rolling down her cheek, one after another. She turns around and wipes the tears away, smiling sheepishly at him. Gingerly, she leans forward and pushes the mug away from the edge of the table, puffs up the pillow and slides herself further down the couch until her head hits the soft cushion. She watches Michael getting up, grabbing both her feet and stretching her legs to the spot he’s been sitting on, reaching for the wool-knitted blanket that has been carelessly slung across the back of the sofa, wrapping it delicately around her. Lowering himself on the floor, he rests one arm on her back, stroking her spine gently whilst she stretches a hand and captures his other free hand, cupping it in both hers, bringing it close to her chest.
“I thought… he might have been… we might have been…”
“I know, Liz… I know.” Michael has heard, more than once, her high hopes of settling down with Jason Chang; all met with a mask of indifference and a forced smile on his lips. His hand travels from her back to her cheek, stroking it tenderly as she blinks away the fresh tears welling up in her eyes.
He watches her slowly getting drowsy, her eyelids drooping heavily until she finally closes her eyes, his hand still tightly wrapped around both of hers, the other mechanically stroking her back. He tries to remember how many times he has seen her like this, asleep on the couch, from the day she was recovering at her parents’ house after the swimming pool incident to the night following the Downtown robbery. It moves him now as it always has been; a delicate, fragile thing he has always wanted to protect; a gesture that was always rejected by her, persistent to spare him from all the discrimination she has received on herself and also out of fear should their relationship fail and end up ruining their friendship.
“Goddamn it, Liz…” he sighs exasperatedly, though his voice also holds a tinge of tenderness, “why don’t you ever give me a chance?”

Ta-Da! First Excerpt.

“How was your trip?” Lizzy asked after they had given Michael and Aileen a quick, courteous farewell and walked towards the subway in the opposite direction. “Jase?” She called, one hand wriggling his arm lightly.

“Fine,” he replied shortly, still harbouring so much resentment in his voice; a fact that hadn’t escaped Lizzy’s radar.

She folded her arms in front of her and sighed, feeling wary and defeated even though the battle hadn’t technically begun.

‘Technically’ being the operative word, she thought sardonically.

Jason hadn’t had the grace to even attempt to conceal his crabbiness of finding Michael and Lizzy reaching across the square table, believing the gesture a bit too close for comfort that to her, he had been nothing but short and snappy, answering her questions with minimum amount of words, all her calming touches and pleading gestures remaining unreciprocated; to Michael, the guy had ignored him completely Lizzy had to dart repeated quick, apologetic smiles, all the while wanting to club her boyfriend’s head, drag him by the ear, and shake him real hard, hoping that she could also rattle off the five-year-old child that had taken over Jason’s twenty-five-year-old body.

“Did they feed you well on the way back?” Lizzy prodded; or rather, repeated, for she had asked the question sometime during their spur-of-the-moment double-date, receiving only a half-begrudging nod in response.

“They put me in business class. Of course they fed me well,” Jason snapped, using that patronising tone he knew damn well Lizzy loathed.

Unable to withstand his crabby mood any longer, Lizzy picked up her pace, hopping up the set of stairs leading to her apartment building’s main entrance and walked straight into the gaping elevator, pressing the white round button with bold black number ‘3’, her fingers tapping the side of her thigh impatiently.

The hell with waiting for you, Lizzy thought bitterly, not caring that wishing for the elevator door to close before Jason had a chance to catch up to her was utterly childish.

Still, she felt somewhat obliged to leave the door to their shared apartment ajar, purposely avoiding from taking another step, or even fixing her glance at the main bedroom.

“What… the hell… is the matter… with you?” Lizzy growled, hands settled on her hips, rounding him up as soon as Jason emerged through the door he involuntarily reared back before challenging her glare with a look that indicated he could ask the same thing from her.

“How could you be so rude to Michael?” She badgered him, voice raised it was getting dangerously close to being a high-pitched, supersonic screech. “Didn’t your Mother ever tell you about manners? About replying to someone when you were being spoken to, especially when you were in the company of others?”

“And didn’t his Mother ever tell him not to touch or be too frickin’ chummy with the girl who was already spoken for?” Jason hissed, body shaking with fury he clenched his teeth and hands lest he hurt the girl in front of him by reflex. “Did you ever stop and think how you two looked like from across the room? From across the street?” He said fiercely.

Perhaps, under any other circumstance, Lizzy would have backed away, a little; would have made more of an effort to diffuse the lit dynamite that was about to explode inside Jason. But tonight, after the night she had had previously…

She made a short gasping sound and rubbed her damp eyes with the back of one hand roughly, hating the fact that she was always so emotional when it came to an all-out argument; hating herself more that she seemed to be unable to keep the tears from streaming down.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jason said irritably, brows knitted close together as if he had reached his wit’s end dealing with her, a problemed child. “Using tears as a weapon won’t work on me!”

“I am not using tears as a weapon!” Lizzy roared so loudly her voice travelled straight through the still-opened door, reverberating throughout the dimmed hallway.

She whirled around so quickly and stomped her way across the open-plan living room, the hand that was about to push open the bedroom door halted as she turned to face him once more.

“Did you ever stop and think, for once, Jason, why I was so hell-bent in wanting to have company tonight? Did you ever wonder why your girlfriend, who has always cooked you a special dinner after each and every one of your overseas trip, this time wanted to dine out?” Lizzy prompted, and without waiting for his answer, took one step and disappeared into the bedroom.

Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!

No, I don't like writing fighting scenes. And precisely for this reason, my novel is going through a bit of a slow-pace movement.

But in every novel, a little conflict must happen to keep the readers interested (yes, that's my saying!), especially in a relationship when one or both parties *try* to mould one another to their perceptions, and at the moment, my inspiration is coming on so strong about the frictions of not-so-ideal relationships.

So let the growling begin, let the not-so-nice words (I try, as much as I can, to avoid using expletives) fly around the room, and hopefully these two people can play nicely afterwards.

Is There Anything Better?

Than having a free Saturday morning, with husband deciding that he has to study he will ignore me for the better part of the day, sitting on my designated couch, pen and paper in hand, music playing in the background, and so many inspirations swirling inside my mind they're coming out of my ears??

Perhaps the answer is yes, there is - having every morning as a free morning, when I can write to my content twenty-four seven.

But this opportunity is so hard to come by lately that I will savour every minute of it.

I'd better get back to it... I have lots of writing to do!

A Brief Synopsis (Part III)

Lizzy & Michael III: Title in Progress
From the moment he leaned forward, his nose and lips mere inches from her glowing, rosy cheek, re-enacting Romeo & Juliet’s death scene back in high school, Michael Bradford had wanted to date Elizabeth Hartley. Badly.

But, more than that, he wished for the somewhat melancholy, nothing-short-than-remarkable, intelligent, beautiful girl to be happy; to be at peace, both with herself and with the past that still haunted her. And if that meant that he needed to gracefully back away, giving up his own feelings than adding to her worries, so be it.

In the third instalment of the Lizzy & Michael’s saga, both of them quickly discovered the meaning of growing up, including finding their own feet to stand strong and tall against the tide of the intimidating world. They learnt that they might not like or enjoy their work, but still had to get up every day and 'do their time' simply to make up rent money. And most importantly, they struggled to balance the bond of friendship they have weaved through with the relationships they had to nurture with their respective partners; people who might not understand their special bond.

Lizzy & Michael IV: Title in Progress
Ten years have past since their first encounter on that fateful day in high school, and Michael Bradford, the son of the multi-billionaire, has finally gotten his one and fervent wish.

Now pursuing a relationship with the one girl he has always wanted to, Michael believes that he has achieved all that he has set out in life. And he will do everything in his power to keep Lizzy from ever having to frown. That is, until the ghost from Lizzy’s past threatens to claim her away from him once more.

In the fourth, and last instalment of this unique story of friendship and love, Lizzy and Michael can finally divide and conquer their greatest fear together; experience first-hand the testament of the phrase 'a problem shared is a problem halved'; that happiness can be found in the last place they look.

A Brief Synopsis (Part II)

If any of you have ideas as to what the titles of these novels might be, please leave a comment.

Lizzy & Michael I: Title in Progress
To Elizabeth Hartley, she believed that she looked like everyone else; she has two eyes, one nose, one set of lips.
To everyone around her, she looked downright strange. A product from a bi-racial marriage, she had inherited her Mother's squinty, cat-like Asian eyes and prominent high cheekbones; her Father's towering height and thin Caucasian lips; and a blend of her Mother's olive skin and her Father's fair complexion.
She was used to being stared at; to have fingers pointing at her peculiar appearance; to hear whispers behind her back. What she wasn't used to, was being the sole target of the high school bully, his sense of prejudice and discrimination run so deep within his vein he was determined to do anything and everything in his power to make her life downright miserable.
But Elizabeth, or Lizzy as those who were closest to her call her, wouldn't give up. Out of the shreds of strengths she had left, she rose above everything that had been thrown against her, finding her own solace, opportunities to shine, uncovering friends and comfort in the last places she thought she'd find them.

Lizzy & Michael II: Title in Progress
Having graduated from high school, eager to leave the traumatic past behind, both Lizzy and Michael enrolled in the prestigious NYU, at once captivated and mesmerised by the lure and blitz of the Big Apple.
Once two conscientious high school students, these two best friends will have to make some life-altering choices with their new-found freedom; whether they will continue to work their butts off to receive top marks in College; what Major they would take; whether taking another sip of that alcoholic beverage was a good idea; whether casual sex with your friend is acceptable...
Set interchangably between Boston, their home town, and New York city, span across continent to China and Europe, both Lizzy and Michael are on their roads to self-discovery, separately and together, united always by the bond of friendship they have forged, strengthened by that one unexpected event that changed the fate of America... forever.

A Brief Synopsis

Well, I guess it's time to just give a brief overview as to all the novels I've been/currently writing about. I am trying to use this also as a platform for what I should write in my future query letters when I'm ready to look for an agent/publisher, hence the formality.

Eleanor I
Eleanor Belford is content to lead a simple, quiet life. That is, until she accidentally stumbles upon Your Highness Prince Patrick - a dashing young man who would turn her world upside down.
She is drawn at once by his charm and compassion, as he is to her by her wit and intelligence. Against their sweet, budding romance is King Theodore II, Patrick's Father, who perhaps would rather be skinned alive rather than see his one and only son, the heir to his kingdom, marry a simple peasant; and the King's malevolent, most trusted advisor, Lord Jonathan Batthersby, who has lusted over her since the first time he laid eyes on her.
It is a story about love and betrayal; about discovering one's own strength; and about how one picks oneself's up and faces one's adversity, making the best of the life one has been given.

Eleanor II: The Queen
Rid of all the threats hanging over her head, finally allowed to marry King Patrick, Eleanor believes that the worst is over; that her most challenging task ahead of her is how to create and uphold a more just law for the Kingdom she now co-rules with her husband; how to appreciate the luxuries she has found surrounding her without ever forgetting her roots; how she could care better for the poor, the roots and backbones of the Kingdom.
But danger lurks from the darkness, unbeknownst to her, unnoticed to all; and he will strike at the most unexpected moment, jeopardising not only Eleanor, but those whom she holds dear to her heart.

A (Brief) History... Continuation

I was planning to take a long hiatus after I finished Eleanor II. I really thought that two novels were going to be it.

But... another dream visited me. And even though it wasn't as pivotal a dream as the one I had of Eleanor I (which really was, the turning point of the story), I decided to pursue it nonetheless.

The dream was quite simple. There was a girl (I think my story would always revolve around 'a girl') approaching a double floor-to-ceiling mahogany door, about to exit the house when a guy, standing on the third step of the spiraling marbled staircase, called her and casually asked her out.

Granted, when I actually wrote this scene, it turned out to be completely different from the dream. Whilst the guy did casually ask the girl out, they were actually sitting on one of the many benches at Central Park, sipping Starbucks coffee, enjoying the fall breeze against their skins.

It was the birth of two new characters. Elizabeth Hartley - a child from cross-racial marriage, whose appearance somehow, doesn't quite match her name. She has squinty Asian eyes, beige complexion (not quite as fair as many Caucasians but not as dark as many Asians). She's tall (I've made her to be five-foot-nine), inheriting her Father's Caucasian gene. And Michael Bradford, the sole heir of the multi-billionaire, totally infatuated by Elizabeth precisely because she was very peculiar.

The novel spanned over ten years of their lives (and a bit more), following from their first meeting on the first day of high school, the 'trials and tribulations' of surviving high school, with both trying to self-discover and build their characters against issues such as bullying, teenage rowdy parties, and (ahem!) sex; to college, where they agonised over specialisations they wanted to take, the joy of being twenty-one and discovering alcoholic drinks; to beyond, standing on their own two feet in the world, finding their passion in work and otherwise, balancing their relationships with respective partners and keeping their friendships alive.

At first, this started as one huge novel, with the word count mounting up to 433,000 and the pages reaching 1200! And then, on the 1289th page, the word document kept crashing I had to dissect this into 4 huge sections, and so began Elizabeth & Michael: Titles still in progress, I-IV.
Apart from the fourth and last novel, which is pretty much completed, the other three still have quite a few holes in it. And because my inspirations come in bouts, and in no particular order, I am working on the other three novels simultaneously (insert a big, long sigh here)...

I have (wishful thinking) set a deadline of end of this year, but I don't think I am going to meet that. For now, I am satisfied that in a span of 2 years, I have managed to complete about 2/3 of each novels.

A (Brief) History... Part 1

I put 'brief' in brackets because even though I won't dwell too much, I am going back about 2 years now, when it all started...

Believe it or not, it all started with a dream. One night I dreamt about this common, peasant girl who was brought to the Palace, doused with cold water for whatever reasons (that part wasn't disclosed in my dream), and was saved by the Prince just before she passed out.

Unlike other dreams that stayed with me and gone a few days later, this dream stayed with me for the course of a week. What made it even more vivid was the fact that I was able, not only to remember it so well, but also to add more to the plot.

And so, one Thursday, it began. I thought I'd better stick with this plot, see where it'd take me. I also knew that if I didn't put it down somewhere, I'd start forgetting about what I'd like to happen. So off I went in search of pen and paper, sat in front of TV with my husband, and started scribbling away.... and by Sunday of that week, I had somehow managed to transfer 15,000 of my scribbles to the word document. It was the birth of 'Eleanor'.

I worked on this religiously for about 8 months. I have a little confession here - I worked on this pretty much twenty-four seven... the work I was doing at that time wasn't generating as much tasks as I would like, with the project 'stalling', and those who knows me well know that there was only so much of 'twiddling my thumbs' I could take before I go stir-crazy. So in a way, I had work to thank for paying me to go to work eight hours a day and write my novel... *ssshhhhh*

Initially, there was only going to be 1 book of Eleanor. When I finished the first draft, I started reading section by section to my husband each night before we sleep. At the end of the book, he casually mentioned to me: "You could make a sequel out of that, you know."

I stared blankly at him, silently asking 'How?' when the villain was already dead. His response: "He could have a son, wanting revenge."

I adamantly refused the concept of a sequel... for about a week! After that, I found myself back where I started 8 months prior - with a pen and paper, writing the beginning of the sequel, where the villain had an illegitimate son trying to weave his way into the close-knit family-like members of Eleanor in hope to avenge his Father's death.

Whilst I begrudgingly pointed out this fact to my husband plenty of times, of robbing me of another... 6-7 months of 'free' time, I also had him to thank for. The birth of Eleanor II: The Queen, also marked the discovery of my writing style. So much so that I have had to go back to Eleanor I to make several adjustments, to make each sentence flows more fluently from the one before, and I still plan to go back and polish it, add a few more 'thrilling' verbs and scenes here and there just to create more of an impact.

Let's hope this one sticks...

Ok so this is literally the fifth blog/journal-type thing I've created throughout my entire life (now when I re-read that I make it sound like I'm so ancient, but really I'm not) and haven't been able to keep at it.

So let's hope this one is it... I think I'll keep this one strictly about my writing - how I love it when the inspirations are coming out of my ears, how I hate it when I can't find enough time during the day to madly scribble down, how frustrating it is when I get writer's block...

But at the end of the day, this has become such a big part of my identity I don't know how I've ever lived without writing prior....