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.