I spent yesterday listening and sharing information about cultural awareness. Whilst the talk focussed heavily on the Indigenous Australian community and the injustice that had been done to some of the generations, it had spurred my thinking further to look at where I've come from.
I was born in Jakarta, Indonesia, from a Chinese background. Living as a Catholic Chinese in a Muslim-oriented country was, to say the least, interesting. I had been subjected to subtle racial discrimination - one couldn't walk down the street without a native Indonesian yelling at you that you're a bloody Chinese (yes, thank you, I am aware where I've come from) and to "go back to your own country!" (which, as far as I was concerned, is Indonesia, where I was born in).
I have also been subjected to the prejudice associated with Catholic Chinese, both from the native Indonesian and from fellow Chinese community, my parents notwithstanding. I remembered distinctly coming home from my first day of primary school and being asked how my day was. My reply was, "good. I made a few friends." Which then proceeded to the question of who they were.
Little did I know that what they meant by 'who' didn't require the usual answer one would associate with the question. I innocently told my parents my friends' names, and they drilled me further, asking "what type of people are they?" At this point, I was ready to give them the smart-ass remark of "same like us - you know, one head, two eyes, etc. etc." What they were truly getting at was whether my friends were of native Indonesian origin, or Chinese origin.
Asking this to a six-year-old, my first reaction was: I haven't got a bloody clue. Surely, that wasn't the most pertinent question one would ask to befriend someone else. Secondly: what does it matter?
I was, I realised, at that time, ignorant of the history of what the Catholic Chinese community had gone through in Indonesia; my parents were included in this generation. For as long as they could remember, there had been this underlying tension between the Chinese community (most of them Catholic, most of them well-off) and the native Indonesian community (most of them Muslim, most of them living below poverty line). This tension erupted after the coup d'etat attempt on 30 September 1965, with the aftermath being that every single Chinese living in Indonesia being further ostracised, hunted down, and living in fear.
Stemming from this experience, I can understand (let me stress here that I don't agree with the view, but I can sympathise and understand where this view is coming from) how my parents felt that there are safety in numbers, and stressed each and every single one of their daughters to befriend those who are not of Chinese origin carefully and stick with people of the same race whenever possible.
This view, however, didn't sit well with me, either as a six-year-old, or when I was growing up. I ended up going to a Catholic school. Again, this was where most Catholic Chinese kids went to school, because if you went to the state school (where most native Indonesian were enrolled), some was that bad that the Chinese might not come out in one piece. But, just like any other denominational school, they did take non-Catholic, non-Chinese students, and I made a point of befriending everyone regardless of their race, skin colour, and/or beliefs.
One of the questions in our sharing session yesterday asked what we see as important to 'bridge/close this gap'. To me, it's tolerance; I think you need to accept people for who they are, disregarding where they came from, what they look like, and what their beliefs are. We are all people; all unique; and all of importance. But more than that, I also think that bridging the gap means you need to have the courage to... break the cycle, I guess; to challenge the status quo. Just because this is how a culture has been living for the past how many decades, doesn't necessarily mean that it's the right thing to do. I think there need to be, in each of us, this drive and motivation to extend a hand to those from the opposing sides, those who don't look the same as us, and get to know them for who they really are. Only then we can truly be united.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
All Kinds of Butterflies in My Stomach...
In a much earlier post this year, I wrote about finally taking that dip and joining the Queensland Writers' Centre, a Queensland-wide writing association providing all kinds of resources to all types of writers.
One of these resources is writing competitions, and they are currently running one called 'The TWC/Hachett Manuscript Development Program for Emerging Writers'. It's a competition in which you pay $50, give them a one-page synopsis of your book, along with the first 50 pages of your story. If you're one of ten manuscripts selected, you get to go on this four-day retreat in November and meet the big name publishers/editors who will dissect every aspect of your manuscript!
So I have spent... oh I don't know, about 3 to 4 solid weekends condensing my 120,000-odd word of Michael & Lizzy I to a one-page synopsis. I have proof-read my first 50 pages of the book that is now titled as 'Peeling Layers'. I have re-written the Prologue to be just that; a Prologue - a few sharp paragraphs that set the tone of the whole book.
I feel like... I'm about to go on a super-duper important, prestigious job interview. Tomorrow, I will print all these, insert my manuscript and application form into an Express Post envelope, and send it off to QWC. And then, the waiting game begins. I know it is by no means conclusive whatsoever, but this will be my first ever... most forward step in getting my book read by someone other than those I count as friends, and my stomach is all knotted, my anticipation level is on an all-time high I can hardly sit still.
To say I'm nervous is a bit of an understatement; to say that the whole prospect is daunting barely scratches the surface. I want, of course, to be one of the ten applicants selected (and heck, it's such a small number considering that this competition is open Australia-wide). I just hope... that the feedback I'm getting will be more positive than "um... this is all utter crap!" (yes, I know that they won't ever say it that bluntly, but still...)
So, without further ado, this is the Prologue I've retyped last night - the beginning of all beginnings; the overall tone of 'Peeling Layers'.
On paper, my name looks and sounds just like every other female in this Western-dominated country. When one comes across it, you would immediately conjure up an image of a fair-skinned, blonde-haired, blue-eyed bombshell; with thick, luscious eyelashes; long, hooked nose; and small, delicate thin lips.
This image is further heightened when one talks to me over the phone. I sound like every other Caucasian out there, having no accent or difficulty in conversing in perfect English, with a speed as fast as a speeding bullet.
I remember going to the dentist with my Mother at the age of five, being stared at by the nurse as if my Mother and I were sporting spots all over our skins and tails behind our backs. It was my first taste to racial discrimination, but certainly not my last.
One of these resources is writing competitions, and they are currently running one called 'The TWC/Hachett Manuscript Development Program for Emerging Writers'. It's a competition in which you pay $50, give them a one-page synopsis of your book, along with the first 50 pages of your story. If you're one of ten manuscripts selected, you get to go on this four-day retreat in November and meet the big name publishers/editors who will dissect every aspect of your manuscript!
So I have spent... oh I don't know, about 3 to 4 solid weekends condensing my 120,000-odd word of Michael & Lizzy I to a one-page synopsis. I have proof-read my first 50 pages of the book that is now titled as 'Peeling Layers'. I have re-written the Prologue to be just that; a Prologue - a few sharp paragraphs that set the tone of the whole book.
I feel like... I'm about to go on a super-duper important, prestigious job interview. Tomorrow, I will print all these, insert my manuscript and application form into an Express Post envelope, and send it off to QWC. And then, the waiting game begins. I know it is by no means conclusive whatsoever, but this will be my first ever... most forward step in getting my book read by someone other than those I count as friends, and my stomach is all knotted, my anticipation level is on an all-time high I can hardly sit still.
To say I'm nervous is a bit of an understatement; to say that the whole prospect is daunting barely scratches the surface. I want, of course, to be one of the ten applicants selected (and heck, it's such a small number considering that this competition is open Australia-wide). I just hope... that the feedback I'm getting will be more positive than "um... this is all utter crap!" (yes, I know that they won't ever say it that bluntly, but still...)
So, without further ado, this is the Prologue I've retyped last night - the beginning of all beginnings; the overall tone of 'Peeling Layers'.
On paper, my name looks and sounds just like every other female in this Western-dominated country. When one comes across it, you would immediately conjure up an image of a fair-skinned, blonde-haired, blue-eyed bombshell; with thick, luscious eyelashes; long, hooked nose; and small, delicate thin lips.
This image is further heightened when one talks to me over the phone. I sound like every other Caucasian out there, having no accent or difficulty in conversing in perfect English, with a speed as fast as a speeding bullet.
I remember going to the dentist with my Mother at the age of five, being stared at by the nurse as if my Mother and I were sporting spots all over our skins and tails behind our backs. It was my first taste to racial discrimination, but certainly not my last.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
The Last Stroke of the Pen...
As of two minutes ago, I have, after a long session of procrastinating, finally written the last section to finish off Michael & Lizzy II!
There is a bittersweet feeling that comes with finishing this off. On one hand, I feel... liberated! This section has been the one I have been putting off for so long - partly because it involves a lot of research to the settings and ideologies of two vastly different countries (both of which I have NEVER been to before), and therefore don't feel confident in writing it.
On the other hand though, there has been quite a lot of angst on my part, knowing that once I've written that last word of the section, my 'love affair' with these characters will also come to an end (so to speak). The 'Michael & Lizzy saga', as I have endearingly termed it, has been a significant part of my life since... 2007 I believe (oh my GOD - I can't believe it's that long ago!) that saying goodbye to them feels almost like losing an arm.
But saying goodbye to them I must, even if it's only for a little while. So long, Michael Bradford and Elizabeth Hartley; it's been a wonderful shy-of-four-year ride. I have had a wonderful time shaping each of your characters, and the characters of others closest and dearest to you. I have enjoyed every minute of writing down all your adventures. I will, of course, revisit you from time to time, in the name of editing, proof-reading, and just to remind myself everything that had happened to you in the ten-year span of your lives.
There is a bittersweet feeling that comes with finishing this off. On one hand, I feel... liberated! This section has been the one I have been putting off for so long - partly because it involves a lot of research to the settings and ideologies of two vastly different countries (both of which I have NEVER been to before), and therefore don't feel confident in writing it.
On the other hand though, there has been quite a lot of angst on my part, knowing that once I've written that last word of the section, my 'love affair' with these characters will also come to an end (so to speak). The 'Michael & Lizzy saga', as I have endearingly termed it, has been a significant part of my life since... 2007 I believe (oh my GOD - I can't believe it's that long ago!) that saying goodbye to them feels almost like losing an arm.
But saying goodbye to them I must, even if it's only for a little while. So long, Michael Bradford and Elizabeth Hartley; it's been a wonderful shy-of-four-year ride. I have had a wonderful time shaping each of your characters, and the characters of others closest and dearest to you. I have enjoyed every minute of writing down all your adventures. I will, of course, revisit you from time to time, in the name of editing, proof-reading, and just to remind myself everything that had happened to you in the ten-year span of your lives.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
To Third Novel and Discipline...
I have been battling to overcome this dilemma for the past few days (and not doing a lot of writing on either the remaining Michael & Lizzy II or Evelyn as a result...)
I have had this idea brewing in my mind of yet another novel. There's not much detail in it as yet, apart from the fact that it involves a love story (that shouldn't come out as a surprise any more, should it?), set in a fantasy-like timeline and places (I'm thinking sort of like The Lord of the Rings era, without the wizards/elves/dwarves), and the main characters are a prince and a princess from neighbouring kingdoms.
On one hand, this is, by far, one of the most exciting aspects of writing a novel. The beginning - there are so many unknown variables, so many ways the story can take shape, so many names to be given to the characters, so many personalities to be attached to each and every one of them. I have to say also, that at this stage is where my brain works to the best of its capacity, and often, this will also trigger further inspirations for the other novels I'm currently working on.
On the other hand... let's see; since I've started writing Evelyn, I've noticed in myself that I've been majorly neglecting the fate of Michael & Lizzy II, a novel that is so close to completion. I find my inspirations sometimes running like its tail is being chased on fire for Evelyn, but... very little of it is going to Michael & Lizzy II. Working on another novel means that I have three (collapses!) unfinished novels rather than two. And I don't think my conscience can take that...
So it's time, I guess, to discipline myself, more than I have ever had to. I NEED to finish Michael & Lizzy II - it's been sitting there for far too long, untouched, unfinished. And to that end, I will TRY my best not to touch, or start anything else until that pen has written the very last word, of the very last section of Michael & Lizzy II.
I have had this idea brewing in my mind of yet another novel. There's not much detail in it as yet, apart from the fact that it involves a love story (that shouldn't come out as a surprise any more, should it?), set in a fantasy-like timeline and places (I'm thinking sort of like The Lord of the Rings era, without the wizards/elves/dwarves), and the main characters are a prince and a princess from neighbouring kingdoms.
On one hand, this is, by far, one of the most exciting aspects of writing a novel. The beginning - there are so many unknown variables, so many ways the story can take shape, so many names to be given to the characters, so many personalities to be attached to each and every one of them. I have to say also, that at this stage is where my brain works to the best of its capacity, and often, this will also trigger further inspirations for the other novels I'm currently working on.
On the other hand... let's see; since I've started writing Evelyn, I've noticed in myself that I've been majorly neglecting the fate of Michael & Lizzy II, a novel that is so close to completion. I find my inspirations sometimes running like its tail is being chased on fire for Evelyn, but... very little of it is going to Michael & Lizzy II. Working on another novel means that I have three (collapses!) unfinished novels rather than two. And I don't think my conscience can take that...
So it's time, I guess, to discipline myself, more than I have ever had to. I NEED to finish Michael & Lizzy II - it's been sitting there for far too long, untouched, unfinished. And to that end, I will TRY my best not to touch, or start anything else until that pen has written the very last word, of the very last section of Michael & Lizzy II.
Going Back to the Very Beginning...
I was recently asked (writing it like this sounded as though I was answering an interview question...) by a close friend of mine where I got my inspiration from.
I guess the short answer is "all over". I read a lot of books (though that amount has diminished significantly ever since I took up writing). I've read most of Jodi Picoult's books, loved some of her male characters, got a lot of ideas as to what schooling system in America was like (not that much different from here) and admired her writing style. I read the 600-800 odd pages of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, captivated by the world in which Jamie Fraser and Clare Randall Fraser lived in. I bawled my eyes out from half-way through 'The Time Traveler's Wife' by Audrey Niffeneggger, and sorry, the movie just didn't do it justice. I love love LOVE Paullina Simons' Alexander and Tatiana trilogy.
What I don't get from these books, I substitute in movies and TV series. Thanks to my husband, the movie buff who introduced me to all kinds of movie genres, not just romance, my inspiration is further fueled with scenes. Suspense gives me ideas to end sections in a cliffhanger manner, action provides me with chunks of gun-blazing, sword-buckling, fist-fighting, tongue-lashing stuff I can use (and spend a considerable amount of time trying to creatively describe 'punch', 'hit', 'kick' and 'shoot') for Eleanor and Evelyn novels. And romance... well... y'know... it fills my mind with all these endless tender moments I can write in-between ;)
Music. If books and movies give me the visuals, music provides me with the substance, much like red meat contains certain amount of irons. Sometimes, when I'm driving along, stuck in traffic, my mind escapes to the sound of music, and just by listening to the lyrics, I can sometime conjure up THE perfect scene.
But, at the very base of it, there are... my vivid dreams. Yes, you read that right. Most of my books originated because I had gone to sleep one night, woke up the next morning, recalled my dreams, and, with something that could only be described as a lightbulb moment, thought to myself, "Hey! I could write that! That would be a great section for a book!"
So... without further ado, this is the section that gave birth to the characters of Elizabeth Hartley and Michael Bradford; the beginning of the Ben Hur-sized books they are now.
“So…, what’s coming up in the Bradford’s social calendar?” she asks at last, breaking the somewhat deafening silence that has hung between them.
“We’re having a benefit dance for Cancer Research three weeks from now,” he replies quickly, smiling as he remembers the countless times she has asked him the same question; at least once a week, since they were both old enough to attend such a prestigious occasion.
“Black tie?” she guesses, turning her head around to meet his gaze.
“What else?” he challenges her back, rolling his eyes helplessly.
She chuckles slightly before burying her face in her cup once more, tilting the cup, and her head backwards, to drain the last few remnants of her hot drink. Slowly, he straightens himself up, resting both elbows on his thighs, scrutinising her feature; from her long, curled up, dark brown eyelashes, her pair of small, attentive, piercing Oriental hazel eyes, to her soft, light beige skin. He hesitates a moment, pondering, averting his glance down, watching his hands interlink together before he looks up at her again.
“Will you come with me?” he blurts out before he could have a chance to change his mind. Startled, her head jerks up, turning around and regarding him uncertainly.
“Michael James Bradford, are you asking me out on a date?” she teases lightly, her lips twitching in slight amusement as she tries to hide her nerves, her heart pounding loudly. This is it, Lizzy.
“I’m asking my best friend to be my plus one for a social function. If by the end of the night, we end up kissing…” He trails off, meeting her gaze as she regards him through slightly widened eyes, daring him to finish his sentence. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing that could ever happen.”
She turns away from him, pretending to be amused at her empty foam cup, frowning as she repeatedly turns the object around in her cupped hands.
“Liz, seriously, what are you…”
“Ok.” Her voice, so soft and casual, drifts through the air, carried by the wind. And for a moment, he sits there, beside her, unable to move a muscle, afraid to even breathe, wondering if he has, once again, only heard her answer in his mind.
“Sorry?” he asks, pushing his whole head slightly forward, dumbfounded. She turns around and meets his gaze bashfully, giving him a slight, crooked smile; a timid gesture she hasn’t given him since the day he introduced himself in the library on their first day of high school.
“I’ll go to the benefit dance with you.”
I guess the short answer is "all over". I read a lot of books (though that amount has diminished significantly ever since I took up writing). I've read most of Jodi Picoult's books, loved some of her male characters, got a lot of ideas as to what schooling system in America was like (not that much different from here) and admired her writing style. I read the 600-800 odd pages of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, captivated by the world in which Jamie Fraser and Clare Randall Fraser lived in. I bawled my eyes out from half-way through 'The Time Traveler's Wife' by Audrey Niffeneggger, and sorry, the movie just didn't do it justice. I love love LOVE Paullina Simons' Alexander and Tatiana trilogy.
What I don't get from these books, I substitute in movies and TV series. Thanks to my husband, the movie buff who introduced me to all kinds of movie genres, not just romance, my inspiration is further fueled with scenes. Suspense gives me ideas to end sections in a cliffhanger manner, action provides me with chunks of gun-blazing, sword-buckling, fist-fighting, tongue-lashing stuff I can use (and spend a considerable amount of time trying to creatively describe 'punch', 'hit', 'kick' and 'shoot') for Eleanor and Evelyn novels. And romance... well... y'know... it fills my mind with all these endless tender moments I can write in-between ;)
Music. If books and movies give me the visuals, music provides me with the substance, much like red meat contains certain amount of irons. Sometimes, when I'm driving along, stuck in traffic, my mind escapes to the sound of music, and just by listening to the lyrics, I can sometime conjure up THE perfect scene.
But, at the very base of it, there are... my vivid dreams. Yes, you read that right. Most of my books originated because I had gone to sleep one night, woke up the next morning, recalled my dreams, and, with something that could only be described as a lightbulb moment, thought to myself, "Hey! I could write that! That would be a great section for a book!"
So... without further ado, this is the section that gave birth to the characters of Elizabeth Hartley and Michael Bradford; the beginning of the Ben Hur-sized books they are now.
“So…, what’s coming up in the Bradford’s social calendar?” she asks at last, breaking the somewhat deafening silence that has hung between them.
“We’re having a benefit dance for Cancer Research three weeks from now,” he replies quickly, smiling as he remembers the countless times she has asked him the same question; at least once a week, since they were both old enough to attend such a prestigious occasion.
“Black tie?” she guesses, turning her head around to meet his gaze.
“What else?” he challenges her back, rolling his eyes helplessly.
She chuckles slightly before burying her face in her cup once more, tilting the cup, and her head backwards, to drain the last few remnants of her hot drink. Slowly, he straightens himself up, resting both elbows on his thighs, scrutinising her feature; from her long, curled up, dark brown eyelashes, her pair of small, attentive, piercing Oriental hazel eyes, to her soft, light beige skin. He hesitates a moment, pondering, averting his glance down, watching his hands interlink together before he looks up at her again.
“Will you come with me?” he blurts out before he could have a chance to change his mind. Startled, her head jerks up, turning around and regarding him uncertainly.
“Michael James Bradford, are you asking me out on a date?” she teases lightly, her lips twitching in slight amusement as she tries to hide her nerves, her heart pounding loudly. This is it, Lizzy.
“I’m asking my best friend to be my plus one for a social function. If by the end of the night, we end up kissing…” He trails off, meeting her gaze as she regards him through slightly widened eyes, daring him to finish his sentence. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing that could ever happen.”
She turns away from him, pretending to be amused at her empty foam cup, frowning as she repeatedly turns the object around in her cupped hands.
“Liz, seriously, what are you…”
“Ok.” Her voice, so soft and casual, drifts through the air, carried by the wind. And for a moment, he sits there, beside her, unable to move a muscle, afraid to even breathe, wondering if he has, once again, only heard her answer in his mind.
“Sorry?” he asks, pushing his whole head slightly forward, dumbfounded. She turns around and meets his gaze bashfully, giving him a slight, crooked smile; a timid gesture she hasn’t given him since the day he introduced himself in the library on their first day of high school.
“I’ll go to the benefit dance with you.”
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Two Steps Forward, One Step Back...
This is the state of my writing for the past... oh I don't know... two weeks or so.
I have these remnants of passages I would like to write for Evelyn's story. It is the pivotal, most significant passage in the story, detailing an incident which would make Evelyn hit rock bottom, and how she very slowly picked herself up and trudged that unconquerable hill until she found herself again.
Most of the times, I could simply pick a pen and paper, duck my head down, and the whole section would just... pour out of my brain and into said paper. I did, for a while, but the more I sat on it, the more I was convinced that what I had written was actually the middle of the passage instead of the beginning; and what I had written was just that; big chunks of sections rather than a fluid, fluent start-to-finish sections.
So with A LOT of regrets, I had had to tore off the pages I had scribbled on, and started again from scratch. This wasn't exactly a new thing for me - I have torn off pages before. Never though, in the whole four and a bit years I've written, had I had to rip 5 whole pages and start again from the very beginning.
I have started re-writing the sections, and touch wood, so far, I am very happy with the way it is turning out. It has more meat, the settings are more real. And with luck, I will keep at this without having to slip down a few levels again!
I have these remnants of passages I would like to write for Evelyn's story. It is the pivotal, most significant passage in the story, detailing an incident which would make Evelyn hit rock bottom, and how she very slowly picked herself up and trudged that unconquerable hill until she found herself again.
Most of the times, I could simply pick a pen and paper, duck my head down, and the whole section would just... pour out of my brain and into said paper. I did, for a while, but the more I sat on it, the more I was convinced that what I had written was actually the middle of the passage instead of the beginning; and what I had written was just that; big chunks of sections rather than a fluid, fluent start-to-finish sections.
So with A LOT of regrets, I had had to tore off the pages I had scribbled on, and started again from scratch. This wasn't exactly a new thing for me - I have torn off pages before. Never though, in the whole four and a bit years I've written, had I had to rip 5 whole pages and start again from the very beginning.
I have started re-writing the sections, and touch wood, so far, I am very happy with the way it is turning out. It has more meat, the settings are more real. And with luck, I will keep at this without having to slip down a few levels again!
Thursday, June 9, 2011
From Dusk, 'Til Dawn...
Usually, I'm not a fan of waking up before the sun emerges through the dark, early morning sky. In fact, I am more than likely to be cranky as, and in danger of biting someone's head off, if I am woken up that early in the morning for no valid, substantial reason.
But I did just that yesterday morning, fumbling and stumbling my way through the still pitch-black bedroom and house at 5 in the morning. Not for no apparent reason, I can assure you. I have been invited to a breakfast meeting down the coast and didn't trust my ability to drive in a straight line and safely along the highway. So I had to wake up this early, beautify myself to the point that I could FOOL everybody that I wasn't still bleary-eyed, left the house at 6AM to get to work and be picked up by one of my bosses to get to the breakfast venue.
It was the beginning of winter here, and the sun didn't greet us until almost 7AM. Coupled that with the fact that yesterday was an overcast day, it did little more than change the colour of the sky from titanium grey to a subtle light blue.
I had a lovely time at breakfast, networking with those secretaries from other schools, and listened to a light-hearted, engaging guest speaker. What started as an early morning didn't end until somewhat late as I also had to take minutes of after-hours meeting at a different location. I left the office at 4.30 in the afternoon, to endure a close-to-50 minutes journey to the meeting venue, and in the course of twenty or so minutes, saw the sky transformed yet again, from barely blue to something resembling charcoal, and watched the lights of the vehicles around me shine so brightly.
It's something simple, something that greets and ends each and every day. It is something that you take for granted most times, just knowing that a new day will arrive. And yet, having not been accustomed to seeing it, the sight always strikes me anew, and fills me with the most wonderful sense of... awe; of peace; of calm.
But I did just that yesterday morning, fumbling and stumbling my way through the still pitch-black bedroom and house at 5 in the morning. Not for no apparent reason, I can assure you. I have been invited to a breakfast meeting down the coast and didn't trust my ability to drive in a straight line and safely along the highway. So I had to wake up this early, beautify myself to the point that I could FOOL everybody that I wasn't still bleary-eyed, left the house at 6AM to get to work and be picked up by one of my bosses to get to the breakfast venue.
It was the beginning of winter here, and the sun didn't greet us until almost 7AM. Coupled that with the fact that yesterday was an overcast day, it did little more than change the colour of the sky from titanium grey to a subtle light blue.
I had a lovely time at breakfast, networking with those secretaries from other schools, and listened to a light-hearted, engaging guest speaker. What started as an early morning didn't end until somewhat late as I also had to take minutes of after-hours meeting at a different location. I left the office at 4.30 in the afternoon, to endure a close-to-50 minutes journey to the meeting venue, and in the course of twenty or so minutes, saw the sky transformed yet again, from barely blue to something resembling charcoal, and watched the lights of the vehicles around me shine so brightly.
It's something simple, something that greets and ends each and every day. It is something that you take for granted most times, just knowing that a new day will arrive. And yet, having not been accustomed to seeing it, the sight always strikes me anew, and fills me with the most wonderful sense of... awe; of peace; of calm.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Success! EUREKA! We Have Lift-Off!
After a long, frustrating, stagnate period of not writing, I came back to my most prominent passion with a vengeance.
It started VERY slowly... much like a piece of machinery that had been idle for years and years being revived to life. It had a few false starts, with me growing super-aggravated at the times I had to rip off the scrap papers I was using to write and start again from scratch (the perfectionist streak in me was also in full force at this time, making it difficult to write anything worthy of substance down).
But once the machine is oiled, the battery is connected correctly, and my mind was in the zone (and stayed long enough in the zone), there was no stopping me. I'm back Baby, and I'm planning to enjoy every minute of it while it lasts!
Here is the latest on what I've been working on.
Unlike the predecessors before him, Allistair simply couldn’t embrace the farming life. Whereas his Father, and his Father’s Father before him, had slipped on their mud-stained galoshes with some zest, Allistair had done so grumbling and pouting, the enticement of earning a little bit extra money failed to ignite the merest hint of a smile on his sour, sullen face. Whereas the two generations before him saw the ploughing of the land nothing less than honourable work, Allistair had regarded the demonstration with growing distaste, face all screwed up at the sight of his already washed out jeans further decorated with splotchers of mud.
From an early age, therefore, Allistair had sworn to seek an alternative; forge a different and, in his opinion, better future. He had rebelled from performing all his farm chores, which infuriated his Father greatly, and had buried his head under the piles of books so high, foregoing hanging out with friends, which made him an easy target to cajole and ridicule. And at the first opportunity of being offered a pre-med scholarship, Allistair Chang had grabbed it with both hands, thus turning his back on the heritage his Father had assumed that one day, he would be handling over to his one and only offspring.
He had enrolled in Northwestern University, Chicago, his solid determination to pour all of his undivided attention to the years of study ahead remained unwavered until he was half-way through completing his fourth year residence.
Feeling doggedly tired after concluding a straight, sixteen-and-a-half hour shift, Allistair had reluctantly agreed to visit a nearby bar upon insistent persuasion from his fellow third year pre-med residents, the pair of legs carrying him staggering awkwardly towards the nearest bar stool that to other spectators, he might as well be on his way to being drunk without a drop of alcohol touching his lips.
He had just been about to bring the wide-rimmed, still mildly frothing beer glass to his lips when, sitting directly opposite the bench he had been occupying, he had caught sight of a thoroughly exotic, beautiful Asian woman; her thick, long black locks had been swept up and twisted onto a stiff French bun, her dark maroon Cheongsam accentuated every part of her flattering curves perfectly; from her full, voluptuous bust to her slender, hourglass-like waist and hips.
Distraction, Allisatir’s conscience had warned him sternly. Tilting his head back, he had taken several sizable gulps of his mid-strength ber, eyes focussed on the golden liquid.
He had turned his face to his left, eyes staring intently at his friend’s moving mouth as though he possessed the ability to lip-read, though his mind only registering to whatever anecdotes his friend was currently recounting half-heartedly.
Forget her. Despite the firm warning ringing inside his head, Allistair had felt his resolve weakening, head turned, little by little, to where he had originally located that particular member of the opposite sex, eyes itching to feast on the very alluring spectacle.
His heart had leapt to his throat as their gazes locked, her raised brow clearly suggesting that she had been trying to capture his attention for some time. As though the girl had cast a spell on him, Allistair had sashayed down from his backless chair, all tiredness forgotten as he sauntered confidently to the far end of the bar.
Her name was Lillian Wu, a daughter of the Chinese diplomat residing in one of the luxurious penthouse apartments on the Upper East Side New York. Her Father had come to Chicago to fulfil his obligation as a board member of a multi-million dollar shipping company, and Lillian, sophisticated, spoilt, and downright bored, had seized the first opportunity she could to sneak out of the hotel her Father had put both of them up in and roamed the poorly illuminated streets of main Chicago in search of a suitable entertainment.
It started VERY slowly... much like a piece of machinery that had been idle for years and years being revived to life. It had a few false starts, with me growing super-aggravated at the times I had to rip off the scrap papers I was using to write and start again from scratch (the perfectionist streak in me was also in full force at this time, making it difficult to write anything worthy of substance down).
But once the machine is oiled, the battery is connected correctly, and my mind was in the zone (and stayed long enough in the zone), there was no stopping me. I'm back Baby, and I'm planning to enjoy every minute of it while it lasts!
Here is the latest on what I've been working on.
Unlike the predecessors before him, Allistair simply couldn’t embrace the farming life. Whereas his Father, and his Father’s Father before him, had slipped on their mud-stained galoshes with some zest, Allistair had done so grumbling and pouting, the enticement of earning a little bit extra money failed to ignite the merest hint of a smile on his sour, sullen face. Whereas the two generations before him saw the ploughing of the land nothing less than honourable work, Allistair had regarded the demonstration with growing distaste, face all screwed up at the sight of his already washed out jeans further decorated with splotchers of mud.
From an early age, therefore, Allistair had sworn to seek an alternative; forge a different and, in his opinion, better future. He had rebelled from performing all his farm chores, which infuriated his Father greatly, and had buried his head under the piles of books so high, foregoing hanging out with friends, which made him an easy target to cajole and ridicule. And at the first opportunity of being offered a pre-med scholarship, Allistair Chang had grabbed it with both hands, thus turning his back on the heritage his Father had assumed that one day, he would be handling over to his one and only offspring.
He had enrolled in Northwestern University, Chicago, his solid determination to pour all of his undivided attention to the years of study ahead remained unwavered until he was half-way through completing his fourth year residence.
Feeling doggedly tired after concluding a straight, sixteen-and-a-half hour shift, Allistair had reluctantly agreed to visit a nearby bar upon insistent persuasion from his fellow third year pre-med residents, the pair of legs carrying him staggering awkwardly towards the nearest bar stool that to other spectators, he might as well be on his way to being drunk without a drop of alcohol touching his lips.
He had just been about to bring the wide-rimmed, still mildly frothing beer glass to his lips when, sitting directly opposite the bench he had been occupying, he had caught sight of a thoroughly exotic, beautiful Asian woman; her thick, long black locks had been swept up and twisted onto a stiff French bun, her dark maroon Cheongsam accentuated every part of her flattering curves perfectly; from her full, voluptuous bust to her slender, hourglass-like waist and hips.
Distraction, Allisatir’s conscience had warned him sternly. Tilting his head back, he had taken several sizable gulps of his mid-strength ber, eyes focussed on the golden liquid.
He had turned his face to his left, eyes staring intently at his friend’s moving mouth as though he possessed the ability to lip-read, though his mind only registering to whatever anecdotes his friend was currently recounting half-heartedly.
Forget her. Despite the firm warning ringing inside his head, Allistair had felt his resolve weakening, head turned, little by little, to where he had originally located that particular member of the opposite sex, eyes itching to feast on the very alluring spectacle.
His heart had leapt to his throat as their gazes locked, her raised brow clearly suggesting that she had been trying to capture his attention for some time. As though the girl had cast a spell on him, Allistair had sashayed down from his backless chair, all tiredness forgotten as he sauntered confidently to the far end of the bar.
Her name was Lillian Wu, a daughter of the Chinese diplomat residing in one of the luxurious penthouse apartments on the Upper East Side New York. Her Father had come to Chicago to fulfil his obligation as a board member of a multi-million dollar shipping company, and Lillian, sophisticated, spoilt, and downright bored, had seized the first opportunity she could to sneak out of the hotel her Father had put both of them up in and roamed the poorly illuminated streets of main Chicago in search of a suitable entertainment.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Nearing the End, Procrastinating, and Letting Go...
I've mentioned this before, in an older post... that as the writing of my novels come to a close, I find it harder to write the sections that... tie up/wrap up the entire novel.
I think, partly, it is because I know that once I write that very last sentence of that very last section, tying the book nicely together from one section to the other, everything is final. I can revisit the books, of course, to proof-read and edit, to change a word here and there, but generally, all the characters have taken that final bow; the final curtain has been drawn, never to be opened again; all the encores have been performed.
This is something I'm currently struggling with in trying (trying being the operative word) to finish the Michael & Lizzy saga. Book I, III and IV are finished, and I, literally, only have 2 sections to finish off book II before I can officially announce that Michael & Lizzy books, in its entirety... is done and dusted, leaving me free to concentrate all my energy and time wholeheartedly to the Evelyn's story.
I always feel both liberated and saddened at that thought, but especially with Michael & Lizzy. Writing a 10-year span of these characters' lives is by no means an easy feat, and I can honestly say that this is the very novel that has developed and refined my writing skills and abilities to new limits. I owe so much to Michael & Lizzy novel, including cementing my writing style. Having shaped these characters from its infancy (ok, not quite, but you get my gist) to adulthood, it is also the novel I am very much attached to.
The thought of rounding this process off is sometimes quite upsetting I have to walk away and do something else to distract my mind. I feel like I've lived with these wonderful characters for so long that to write that final sentence would be equivalent to packing my bags and fly to the other side of the world, never seeing those I love and care about, ever again. Irrational, I know, considering none of these people are real.
The flip side of the coin is that, being so close to the end, I wish, with every fibre of my being, to do this novel justice. To end it in a wonderful way it deserves; to not settle for something that's just 'good enough'; to take my time and ensure that what I've written is grade-A, top choice, best quality piece of work.
To this end, I find myself... stalling from even attempting to write these two final sections. I find myself writing the first paragraph, pausing, taking one look at what I've scribbled, and tearing the page off in confetti-sized pieces, believing that it's utterly crap, lame, and undeserving of the novel. Every thought processes I have in my mind about how I want to write these final sections have always been scolded and belittled by the other, more critical voice inside my head, shun to shame for its simplicity.
But I'm realising, more and more, that I have to stop doubting myself, and just like what I've done for the past four-and-a-half years, plunge in and do it (heck, this is how I started writing in the first instance anyway!). And the rest, as they say, will take care of itself...
I think, partly, it is because I know that once I write that very last sentence of that very last section, tying the book nicely together from one section to the other, everything is final. I can revisit the books, of course, to proof-read and edit, to change a word here and there, but generally, all the characters have taken that final bow; the final curtain has been drawn, never to be opened again; all the encores have been performed.
This is something I'm currently struggling with in trying (trying being the operative word) to finish the Michael & Lizzy saga. Book I, III and IV are finished, and I, literally, only have 2 sections to finish off book II before I can officially announce that Michael & Lizzy books, in its entirety... is done and dusted, leaving me free to concentrate all my energy and time wholeheartedly to the Evelyn's story.
I always feel both liberated and saddened at that thought, but especially with Michael & Lizzy. Writing a 10-year span of these characters' lives is by no means an easy feat, and I can honestly say that this is the very novel that has developed and refined my writing skills and abilities to new limits. I owe so much to Michael & Lizzy novel, including cementing my writing style. Having shaped these characters from its infancy (ok, not quite, but you get my gist) to adulthood, it is also the novel I am very much attached to.
The thought of rounding this process off is sometimes quite upsetting I have to walk away and do something else to distract my mind. I feel like I've lived with these wonderful characters for so long that to write that final sentence would be equivalent to packing my bags and fly to the other side of the world, never seeing those I love and care about, ever again. Irrational, I know, considering none of these people are real.
The flip side of the coin is that, being so close to the end, I wish, with every fibre of my being, to do this novel justice. To end it in a wonderful way it deserves; to not settle for something that's just 'good enough'; to take my time and ensure that what I've written is grade-A, top choice, best quality piece of work.
To this end, I find myself... stalling from even attempting to write these two final sections. I find myself writing the first paragraph, pausing, taking one look at what I've scribbled, and tearing the page off in confetti-sized pieces, believing that it's utterly crap, lame, and undeserving of the novel. Every thought processes I have in my mind about how I want to write these final sections have always been scolded and belittled by the other, more critical voice inside my head, shun to shame for its simplicity.
But I'm realising, more and more, that I have to stop doubting myself, and just like what I've done for the past four-and-a-half years, plunge in and do it (heck, this is how I started writing in the first instance anyway!). And the rest, as they say, will take care of itself...
Monday, April 11, 2011
Haven't done this in a while...
But I did a 30-minute power walk today (just realised too that this could be what I was referring to, because I haven't done any kind of exercise for a while, unless you count lifting the PVC blinds to be installed on the patio is one...), and the 'Secret' song, sung by Sarah McLachlan, came through eerily on my iTouch, and I immediately thought about this particular section I've written in Michael & Lizzy.
It was a lamented song; a sad ballad written about regret; about not saying what you wanted, or should have said, including your goodbyes and forgiving one another, until it was too late.
The basic of this gave me inspiration for this passage; and, without sounding self-righteous or arrogant, it is one of the better passages I've written; one in which I could claim proudly, and show off happily. It also, I just realised, seemed more than fitting to put in here, given what I've just witnessed during the month February-March.
When I was little, I likened my Mother to a superhero; her superpower being that she possessed a love so powerful that at any appropriate moment, it could be transformed into a spear and a shield, ready to barricade and defend those she loved from any harm.
As years went by, her love for her family didn’t diminish; on the contrary, I think it was fair to say that Sarah Hartley approached everything in life the way she loved each and every one of us; fiercely and courageously, because to do otherwise was to admit fear and defeat against the intimidating world we all live in presently. It was also a trait she tried so very hard to impart to both her daughters, Megan and I; a wisdom she wanted us to adopt; a defence mechanism she would like us to have and use in necessary circumstances.
But, like any other superheroes, tough, strong and unbreakable on the outside, my Mother had an abundance of soft, gentle kindness in her; able to envelop each of us with warmth without suffocation, doting and nurturing; traces of personality traits I have begun to see emerging in my younger sister, Megan.
Lizzy took a deep breath and opened her mouth before she closed it again with such effort and gulped uneasily. Slowly, she pried her gaze away from the people sitting down in front of her, all eyes focussed on her, and twisted her head around, staring straight into the eyes of a blown-up picture of her Mother, trying to find the last shreds of spirit and draw strength that could radiate from a piece of glossy paper behind a thin sheet of glass.
None of us expected this; not to happen in the way it did, and certainly not so soon. None of us was prepared to say goodbye to this brave, wonderful, loving woman. But, it seemed that, somehow, we had to.
So…, Lizzy paused and bit her bottom lip as she heard the quiver in her voice, to my Mother, Sarah Hartley; admired and loved by her partner in life; adored and idolised by her daughters; respected by all who knew her. May you rest in peace, free from all suffering, and know that you will be sorely missed by those you left behind.
It was a lamented song; a sad ballad written about regret; about not saying what you wanted, or should have said, including your goodbyes and forgiving one another, until it was too late.
The basic of this gave me inspiration for this passage; and, without sounding self-righteous or arrogant, it is one of the better passages I've written; one in which I could claim proudly, and show off happily. It also, I just realised, seemed more than fitting to put in here, given what I've just witnessed during the month February-March.
When I was little, I likened my Mother to a superhero; her superpower being that she possessed a love so powerful that at any appropriate moment, it could be transformed into a spear and a shield, ready to barricade and defend those she loved from any harm.
As years went by, her love for her family didn’t diminish; on the contrary, I think it was fair to say that Sarah Hartley approached everything in life the way she loved each and every one of us; fiercely and courageously, because to do otherwise was to admit fear and defeat against the intimidating world we all live in presently. It was also a trait she tried so very hard to impart to both her daughters, Megan and I; a wisdom she wanted us to adopt; a defence mechanism she would like us to have and use in necessary circumstances.
But, like any other superheroes, tough, strong and unbreakable on the outside, my Mother had an abundance of soft, gentle kindness in her; able to envelop each of us with warmth without suffocation, doting and nurturing; traces of personality traits I have begun to see emerging in my younger sister, Megan.
Lizzy took a deep breath and opened her mouth before she closed it again with such effort and gulped uneasily. Slowly, she pried her gaze away from the people sitting down in front of her, all eyes focussed on her, and twisted her head around, staring straight into the eyes of a blown-up picture of her Mother, trying to find the last shreds of spirit and draw strength that could radiate from a piece of glossy paper behind a thin sheet of glass.
None of us expected this; not to happen in the way it did, and certainly not so soon. None of us was prepared to say goodbye to this brave, wonderful, loving woman. But, it seemed that, somehow, we had to.
So…, Lizzy paused and bit her bottom lip as she heard the quiver in her voice, to my Mother, Sarah Hartley; admired and loved by her partner in life; adored and idolised by her daughters; respected by all who knew her. May you rest in peace, free from all suffering, and know that you will be sorely missed by those you left behind.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Have Finally Bitten the Bullet...
I wonder, in actuality, what that would taste like, bullet. And secondly, why, in reality, would anyone in their right mind would ever want to bite a bullet, whether it's the casing, or the actual poisonous powder itself...
But I digress. What I'm talking about here has nothing to do about destroying my teeth, or digestive system, by tasting something so destructive. It is, rather, the beginning of a new chapter of me pursuing the other love of my life; writing.
For a while now, I've been racking my brain as to what my next step would/should be in trying to get the multitudes of novels I've finished published. I've done a lot of research (seriously, Google IS my friend!) as to what unpublished, unrepresented author should do next.
What I've found, so far, is that publishing, first and foremost, is a tough industry to crack your way into. Secondly, that most publishers will not even bat an eye at unsolicited work - meaning that to get publishers to even pick up your novel proposal, you must be represented by a reputable agent.
All well and good, right? Well, yes, when you put it down like that, in the simplest terms, that sounds easy enough. All I have to do is get an agent. But, just like you have to go through several hundreds, if not thousands interviews before you land your feet on that perfect job you've always wanted, agent-hunting is no different than job-hunting. You have to put yourself out there, send your resume (in this case, the pitch for your novel), any supporting documentation you think might help your case (pages of your novel), and sit there crossing all your fingers, toes, and everything else that can be crossed, hoping that somehow, all the other unpublished authors are currently experiencing mental block and have written crap-all proposal and novel so that yours come out on top (ok, not literally, but you get my meaning).
I did attempt just this mid- last year (I think!), and got a rejection email some 10 minutes later. By far, the quickest rejection I have ever gotten! Not that it discouraged me, but it did get me thinking that perhaps, I was approaching this whole publishing thing head on when I should have considered the side entrance.
So, after much research, a slight procrastination on my part, and a lot of self pep-talk that this *should* be a worthwile path to take, on Monday, I subscribed myself to the local Writers' Association.
I can't tell you how much, in the course of 2 days, I've been 'patting' my back with this decision. It's like a door to a brand new mansion has been opened to me, showing me all the useful little knick-knacks I didn't even know existed. Yes, a very materialistic metaphor, I know, but it's the best I could come up with at the moment.
This centre has emailed me tons of resources, from courses run by prominent local writers throughout the year to competitions - something I have never thought of entering, but now have a much better understanding to its benefits in getting my foot closer to the publishing world.
So, watch this space for all the writing-type activities I'm planning to partake this year. And in the words of someone famous.... I AM EXCITED!
But I digress. What I'm talking about here has nothing to do about destroying my teeth, or digestive system, by tasting something so destructive. It is, rather, the beginning of a new chapter of me pursuing the other love of my life; writing.
For a while now, I've been racking my brain as to what my next step would/should be in trying to get the multitudes of novels I've finished published. I've done a lot of research (seriously, Google IS my friend!) as to what unpublished, unrepresented author should do next.
What I've found, so far, is that publishing, first and foremost, is a tough industry to crack your way into. Secondly, that most publishers will not even bat an eye at unsolicited work - meaning that to get publishers to even pick up your novel proposal, you must be represented by a reputable agent.
All well and good, right? Well, yes, when you put it down like that, in the simplest terms, that sounds easy enough. All I have to do is get an agent. But, just like you have to go through several hundreds, if not thousands interviews before you land your feet on that perfect job you've always wanted, agent-hunting is no different than job-hunting. You have to put yourself out there, send your resume (in this case, the pitch for your novel), any supporting documentation you think might help your case (pages of your novel), and sit there crossing all your fingers, toes, and everything else that can be crossed, hoping that somehow, all the other unpublished authors are currently experiencing mental block and have written crap-all proposal and novel so that yours come out on top (ok, not literally, but you get my meaning).
I did attempt just this mid- last year (I think!), and got a rejection email some 10 minutes later. By far, the quickest rejection I have ever gotten! Not that it discouraged me, but it did get me thinking that perhaps, I was approaching this whole publishing thing head on when I should have considered the side entrance.
So, after much research, a slight procrastination on my part, and a lot of self pep-talk that this *should* be a worthwile path to take, on Monday, I subscribed myself to the local Writers' Association.
I can't tell you how much, in the course of 2 days, I've been 'patting' my back with this decision. It's like a door to a brand new mansion has been opened to me, showing me all the useful little knick-knacks I didn't even know existed. Yes, a very materialistic metaphor, I know, but it's the best I could come up with at the moment.
This centre has emailed me tons of resources, from courses run by prominent local writers throughout the year to competitions - something I have never thought of entering, but now have a much better understanding to its benefits in getting my foot closer to the publishing world.
So, watch this space for all the writing-type activities I'm planning to partake this year. And in the words of someone famous.... I AM EXCITED!
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Fallen Off the Wagon...
I have identified one emerging trend from my blog entries for this year; it seems that with each passing month, I have blogged less and less.
No, this is not a post merely to up the number of my blog entries for March. I think it's fair to say that life has been hectic and full-on, both at work, and on the home front.
You've heard a little bit about my work. Things in February once again gone haywire, and a lot of my energy has been thrown into recovering from said events in March. On the home front... hmm... let's see...
1. Fred and I have finally bitten the bullets and announced to the family that yes, we would like to go to Philippines, his home town. My darling husband hasn't been back in excess of 15 years, and would really love to see it again (understandably).
To my husband, it was very important for his Mum to come with us, as she knows the lingo (most important), and knows where to go to find the relatives we would like to see. From there, the idea of a family holiday (not only us, family of 2, but also the larger part of my husband's family) emerged. So the most part of February and March have been spent having long discussions and gatherings with Fred's older brother, his wife, and their small children (our niece and nephew), planning this family holiday for this Christmas and New Year 2012.
2. In the earlier post, I've mentioned that we will have been living in our current house for 10 years this September. Of that 10 years, 5 years of it have seen us transforming our messy, bushy backyard into a beautiful, big patio. It was, up until March, a wide open patio, and with our little doggie (who turned 15 in January) being completely deaf and did very little except curl herself up in her dog house sleeping, the birds roamed free, stealing bits of her water and literally shitting everywhere around our patio. For this reason alone, we have stopped inviting guests over to our house because it would take us a whole day just to clean the patio, and then the next day spent cooking and preparing the patio for visitors.
So Fred and I had had enough! It was time to enjoy our lovely patio the way it was supposed to be enjoyed. To facilitate this, Fred and I bought some tinted PVC blinds, and spent... 2-3 weekends putting that up, with me holding up one end and Fred doing the same to the other, drilling holes onto the horizontal beams and screwing these PVC blinds in place.
It has been a wonderful pay-off, I tell you. We've been busy entertaining ever since, and I can't tell you how rapt I am to only have to wipe down a film of dust off the table. I can't tell you how invigorating it is to be able to walk out to the patio at night time, sipping hot chocolate with throw-on rug wrapped around me, chatting away about my day with my darling husband.
It does come with sacrifices though, such as putting meaningful entries to this blog of mine. Or having some precious quality time in which I can be left on my lonesome to write to my heart's content.
I do have this prevailing sense of hope that one day soon, everything will settle down. Work will NOT demand too much of my time, I will have a free weekend, free of obligation, even as a wife, to pour all my heart and soul into writing.
No, this is not a post merely to up the number of my blog entries for March. I think it's fair to say that life has been hectic and full-on, both at work, and on the home front.
You've heard a little bit about my work. Things in February once again gone haywire, and a lot of my energy has been thrown into recovering from said events in March. On the home front... hmm... let's see...
1. Fred and I have finally bitten the bullets and announced to the family that yes, we would like to go to Philippines, his home town. My darling husband hasn't been back in excess of 15 years, and would really love to see it again (understandably).
To my husband, it was very important for his Mum to come with us, as she knows the lingo (most important), and knows where to go to find the relatives we would like to see. From there, the idea of a family holiday (not only us, family of 2, but also the larger part of my husband's family) emerged. So the most part of February and March have been spent having long discussions and gatherings with Fred's older brother, his wife, and their small children (our niece and nephew), planning this family holiday for this Christmas and New Year 2012.
2. In the earlier post, I've mentioned that we will have been living in our current house for 10 years this September. Of that 10 years, 5 years of it have seen us transforming our messy, bushy backyard into a beautiful, big patio. It was, up until March, a wide open patio, and with our little doggie (who turned 15 in January) being completely deaf and did very little except curl herself up in her dog house sleeping, the birds roamed free, stealing bits of her water and literally shitting everywhere around our patio. For this reason alone, we have stopped inviting guests over to our house because it would take us a whole day just to clean the patio, and then the next day spent cooking and preparing the patio for visitors.
So Fred and I had had enough! It was time to enjoy our lovely patio the way it was supposed to be enjoyed. To facilitate this, Fred and I bought some tinted PVC blinds, and spent... 2-3 weekends putting that up, with me holding up one end and Fred doing the same to the other, drilling holes onto the horizontal beams and screwing these PVC blinds in place.
It has been a wonderful pay-off, I tell you. We've been busy entertaining ever since, and I can't tell you how rapt I am to only have to wipe down a film of dust off the table. I can't tell you how invigorating it is to be able to walk out to the patio at night time, sipping hot chocolate with throw-on rug wrapped around me, chatting away about my day with my darling husband.
It does come with sacrifices though, such as putting meaningful entries to this blog of mine. Or having some precious quality time in which I can be left on my lonesome to write to my heart's content.
I do have this prevailing sense of hope that one day soon, everything will settle down. Work will NOT demand too much of my time, I will have a free weekend, free of obligation, even as a wife, to pour all my heart and soul into writing.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Another Day, Another Funeral...
Seems as though lately, this is what I've been doing.
Today, a group of us trekked up to Toowoomba to show our support to one of the Area Supervisors I look after as he said goodbye to his younger brother, taken away from this world at the age of 54, after 10-month courageous battle of leukaemia.
You know, I thought, not having a personal stake on the deceased, having that distance from the man my dear boss had to bury, would also have toughened my heart, just a little. But I found a single tear rolled down my cheek, touched by the moving tribute the deceased's wife had made to her husband of ten years. I found a small part of me questioning God, once more, if it had been a fair decision to take him from the people who had clearly loved him dearly far too soon. And perhaps, there was a small niggling fear gnawing on the inside, as I looked around and noted the white hairs on some of my other bosses today, and finding out their ages, that I would have to say goodbye to the people I've worked closely with, and loved in a certain way, in my life time. And that reality, brought even more real to me by the conversation I had with my boss' wife, hit it home; that they are approaching the age in which some of their friends are nearing the end of their lives, and this saying goodbye might have to become a regular occurrence one must accustom yourselves with.
But today, I want to write about the positives; the sense of camaraderie our organisation has formed. I was chatting to my husband about having to go to this funeral last night, and I made a comment that never before, in my professional life, I have ever encountered this sense of compassion, as I have by being part of this particular organisation. Yes, we go about our days, completing our tasks; yes, we stop and 'play' from time to time, and for a little while, our colleagues become more than just a bunch of people I work with; yes, we go about our lives, we have our own family and circle of friends we socialise with, separate from our professional lives.
But days like these, going to a funeral of a man who is, literally, a stranger to me, whose association only extends so far as my working for his older brother, and finding a band of us going to the funeral simply to support the man we currently work with, I see the strong bond of the community we have formed; thicker and stronger than blood sometimes are. It is the support you can count on, and one that will remain there, available to be called upon whenever one is in need.
Today, a group of us trekked up to Toowoomba to show our support to one of the Area Supervisors I look after as he said goodbye to his younger brother, taken away from this world at the age of 54, after 10-month courageous battle of leukaemia.
You know, I thought, not having a personal stake on the deceased, having that distance from the man my dear boss had to bury, would also have toughened my heart, just a little. But I found a single tear rolled down my cheek, touched by the moving tribute the deceased's wife had made to her husband of ten years. I found a small part of me questioning God, once more, if it had been a fair decision to take him from the people who had clearly loved him dearly far too soon. And perhaps, there was a small niggling fear gnawing on the inside, as I looked around and noted the white hairs on some of my other bosses today, and finding out their ages, that I would have to say goodbye to the people I've worked closely with, and loved in a certain way, in my life time. And that reality, brought even more real to me by the conversation I had with my boss' wife, hit it home; that they are approaching the age in which some of their friends are nearing the end of their lives, and this saying goodbye might have to become a regular occurrence one must accustom yourselves with.
But today, I want to write about the positives; the sense of camaraderie our organisation has formed. I was chatting to my husband about having to go to this funeral last night, and I made a comment that never before, in my professional life, I have ever encountered this sense of compassion, as I have by being part of this particular organisation. Yes, we go about our days, completing our tasks; yes, we stop and 'play' from time to time, and for a little while, our colleagues become more than just a bunch of people I work with; yes, we go about our lives, we have our own family and circle of friends we socialise with, separate from our professional lives.
But days like these, going to a funeral of a man who is, literally, a stranger to me, whose association only extends so far as my working for his older brother, and finding a band of us going to the funeral simply to support the man we currently work with, I see the strong bond of the community we have formed; thicker and stronger than blood sometimes are. It is the support you can count on, and one that will remain there, available to be called upon whenever one is in need.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Saying Goodbye...
I know that death is a part of life; it comes to greet us unexpectedly; that unless you've found a substance that will give you immortality, it is inevitable that one day, God will come knocking and tell you 'this is it! Ready or not, you're coming with me... NOW!'
I guess, throughout growing up, having experienced the first death in my family in the form of an ailing grandmother, in which the last... 18-24 months of her seventy-fifth year of her life confined in firstly a hospital bed, and then in her own bed, battling cancer, I always thought that the kind of death that would greet each and every one of us was one that came when our hairs had gone all grey or white; when all our skins had wrinkled, showing both wisdom gained from old age and life experienced to the fullest; when time had slowed and dragged you were at the point of waiting for your life on earth to end and another kind of life to begin.
I guess it hit me hard and raw then, to find that a close family friend was called to join God in Heaven when she was in mid-fifty of age, after a very short battle of pancreatic cancer. She was a loving Mother, a doting wife, and the kind of friend who would welcome your visit with open arms no matter the hour. She had an infectious giggle, and one in which I could still hear, so very clearly, from time to time, in my mind.
Not long after that, a friend of mine I met online passed away from a bad case of multiple sclerosis; she was a few months short of her 31st birthday! In the course of less than three weeks, I have had to say goodbye to two dear friends, neither of which I was prepared to let go just yet.
Last year came, and the shock of losing my Director, the man whom, to this day, I regard very highly of, rocked me to the very core. I can't tell you how much my heart sank, lower than the ground my feet stood upon. I can't tell you how many times I've cried myself to sleep, and in the briefest of moments when I opened my eyes, believed that what had happened had been nothing but a bad dream, a cruel joke of my subconscious, until reality sank in and wrenched my heart six feet under once more. I can't tell you how many mornings I've had to control myself from breaking down and become a blubbering mess, my eyes filled with tears I had to wipe away so that I could still see the road whilst I drove myself to work. I can't tell you how many times I've subconsciously looked for any sign of my Director to waltz in through the front door, wishing for the kind of miracle you've read in the Bible, of someone being resurrected from death, to come true. Of all the deaths I've had to deal with in my life, his was, in my honest opinion, the most tragic, the saddest, and one that made me question my beliefs in God.
I woke up on Tuesday, 22 February, at a relatively early hour; so uncharacteristically of me. I spent the hour before I had to go down and have breakfast at this hotel/conference venue bawling my eyes out, remembering that this time last year, my life was about to change forever; that what I thought was another ordinary work day, ready to see the down-to-earth, compassionate Director we have all come to know and love, was going to turn out to be one of the saddest day of my life to date. The more I conjured up images and memories of this man whom, to his final hour, remained optimistic and empowering to those who knew him, the more tears flowed down my cheeks uncontrollably at the unfairness of his passing, taken away from us way too soon.
Eight-twenty that morning, almost exactly at the same time the news of his passing was broken so gently to me, I received another phone call; one that would make me relive this painful memory once more. A dear work colleague of mine, a PA to the company's Deputy Executive Director, whom had been diagnosed with inoperable brain tumour in September last year, passed away at 1:30AM the same morning.
I was inconsolable; two tragic deaths in exactly one year, to me, was just that little bit unbearable. I roamed around for a whole day in a daze, trying my best to converse and function, when all I wanted to do was curl myself up in a hole, closed my eyes, and pretended that this day, last year and this year, never happened.
And so I found myself attending yet another funeral service, saying goodbye to a wonderful friend whose life had been cut way too short; another beacon of hope in our lives; a wonderful, lighthouse-like presence; a wonderful, 47-year-old who had lived to the fullest and never once complained about the injustice of the fate she had been dealt with (unlike the host of family/friends/colleagues who had raged about such cruelty).
Perhaps I will become more accustomed to this as I grow older; as I am more exposed to more deaths, in whatever shapes and forms God call one's soul to join Him. But for now... it really is impossibly hard to say goodbye to the people you don't want to let go just yet, and I can't help but feel just a tad bitter at the unfairness of it all...
I guess, throughout growing up, having experienced the first death in my family in the form of an ailing grandmother, in which the last... 18-24 months of her seventy-fifth year of her life confined in firstly a hospital bed, and then in her own bed, battling cancer, I always thought that the kind of death that would greet each and every one of us was one that came when our hairs had gone all grey or white; when all our skins had wrinkled, showing both wisdom gained from old age and life experienced to the fullest; when time had slowed and dragged you were at the point of waiting for your life on earth to end and another kind of life to begin.
I guess it hit me hard and raw then, to find that a close family friend was called to join God in Heaven when she was in mid-fifty of age, after a very short battle of pancreatic cancer. She was a loving Mother, a doting wife, and the kind of friend who would welcome your visit with open arms no matter the hour. She had an infectious giggle, and one in which I could still hear, so very clearly, from time to time, in my mind.
Not long after that, a friend of mine I met online passed away from a bad case of multiple sclerosis; she was a few months short of her 31st birthday! In the course of less than three weeks, I have had to say goodbye to two dear friends, neither of which I was prepared to let go just yet.
Last year came, and the shock of losing my Director, the man whom, to this day, I regard very highly of, rocked me to the very core. I can't tell you how much my heart sank, lower than the ground my feet stood upon. I can't tell you how many times I've cried myself to sleep, and in the briefest of moments when I opened my eyes, believed that what had happened had been nothing but a bad dream, a cruel joke of my subconscious, until reality sank in and wrenched my heart six feet under once more. I can't tell you how many mornings I've had to control myself from breaking down and become a blubbering mess, my eyes filled with tears I had to wipe away so that I could still see the road whilst I drove myself to work. I can't tell you how many times I've subconsciously looked for any sign of my Director to waltz in through the front door, wishing for the kind of miracle you've read in the Bible, of someone being resurrected from death, to come true. Of all the deaths I've had to deal with in my life, his was, in my honest opinion, the most tragic, the saddest, and one that made me question my beliefs in God.
I woke up on Tuesday, 22 February, at a relatively early hour; so uncharacteristically of me. I spent the hour before I had to go down and have breakfast at this hotel/conference venue bawling my eyes out, remembering that this time last year, my life was about to change forever; that what I thought was another ordinary work day, ready to see the down-to-earth, compassionate Director we have all come to know and love, was going to turn out to be one of the saddest day of my life to date. The more I conjured up images and memories of this man whom, to his final hour, remained optimistic and empowering to those who knew him, the more tears flowed down my cheeks uncontrollably at the unfairness of his passing, taken away from us way too soon.
Eight-twenty that morning, almost exactly at the same time the news of his passing was broken so gently to me, I received another phone call; one that would make me relive this painful memory once more. A dear work colleague of mine, a PA to the company's Deputy Executive Director, whom had been diagnosed with inoperable brain tumour in September last year, passed away at 1:30AM the same morning.
I was inconsolable; two tragic deaths in exactly one year, to me, was just that little bit unbearable. I roamed around for a whole day in a daze, trying my best to converse and function, when all I wanted to do was curl myself up in a hole, closed my eyes, and pretended that this day, last year and this year, never happened.
And so I found myself attending yet another funeral service, saying goodbye to a wonderful friend whose life had been cut way too short; another beacon of hope in our lives; a wonderful, lighthouse-like presence; a wonderful, 47-year-old who had lived to the fullest and never once complained about the injustice of the fate she had been dealt with (unlike the host of family/friends/colleagues who had raged about such cruelty).
Perhaps I will become more accustomed to this as I grow older; as I am more exposed to more deaths, in whatever shapes and forms God call one's soul to join Him. But for now... it really is impossibly hard to say goodbye to the people you don't want to let go just yet, and I can't help but feel just a tad bitter at the unfairness of it all...
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Heat and I...
Are like oil and water - we just don't play nice together. To quote one of my favourite fictional characters, I hate heat. I detest heat. I view heat with the most abhorrence. Granted, he was talking about boats, but you get my drift.
People think it strange since I was born and raised in the tropics, where it was summer almost three-quarter of the year and the country's version of 'winter' was rainy season. But I sincerely dislike heat. How much I hate thee, let me count the ways:
1. I hate hate HATE the way it struck me in the face, first thing in the morning, when I walk to the garage to get into the car. It's stifling, like getting into a sauna when wearing three layers of clothing.
2. I hate the fact that the car gets heated up within MINUTES of being parked outside, and when you get into the car... see point above.
3. I detest the fact that I perspire heavily within a few minutes of walking under the blazing sun. Good if I'm wearing sports gear, but with a nice work dress and heels - TORTURE!
4. Whilst we're still on the subject of attire, let me point out that summer restricts my work clothing choices. One of my... aim (because putting this as a New Year's resolution is a bit lame, I think) this year is to accessorise more, and to have a more polished appearance. For this purpose, I have bought those chunky belts I can wrap around a nice work dress to give said dress a different, chic look; I have bought some dangling necklaces I can wrap around my neck; I have even replenished my supply of pantyhoses. Wearing these in summer, with the sweat trapped on the places you've put additional layers, give me rashes in the most uncomfortable places.
5. Being in the sun, even for a short period of time, put me in danger of nursing one hell of pounding headache. No, I would go one step further and say that driving with my eyes squinting against the mid-afternoon sun would put me in danger of having a pounding headache.
6. The sun saps all my energy. I feel more lethargic in summer, despite being couped up in an air-conditioning building all day. I feel doggedly tired, almost unable to face the day as soon as I woke up. For this reason, I avoid doing any strenuous activities, or even doing chores around the house, until the sun goes down. I have even gone as far as avoiding being in direct contact with the sun in any way possible, including galavanting to the nearest shopping centre during my lunch break, even though I know that such change in scenery is good for the mind.
7. The sun also plays a big part in stalling my inspiration. Somehow, making cards when the late afternoon sun is shining so brightly through the window of my arts and crafts room is less-than-appealing. Writing with the sun coming through the glass of the front door is distracting rather than comforting.
8. The summer sun doesn't go down until 6:30 in the evening. What the hell? Come on now - it's 6:30PM - it's NIGHT TIME. Night time DOESN'T have sun!
Perhaps the only thing I like about summer is the opportunity to go for a swim, though even then, I instinctively look for the shade, not wanting to get sunburnt...
People think it strange since I was born and raised in the tropics, where it was summer almost three-quarter of the year and the country's version of 'winter' was rainy season. But I sincerely dislike heat. How much I hate thee, let me count the ways:
1. I hate hate HATE the way it struck me in the face, first thing in the morning, when I walk to the garage to get into the car. It's stifling, like getting into a sauna when wearing three layers of clothing.
2. I hate the fact that the car gets heated up within MINUTES of being parked outside, and when you get into the car... see point above.
3. I detest the fact that I perspire heavily within a few minutes of walking under the blazing sun. Good if I'm wearing sports gear, but with a nice work dress and heels - TORTURE!
4. Whilst we're still on the subject of attire, let me point out that summer restricts my work clothing choices. One of my... aim (because putting this as a New Year's resolution is a bit lame, I think) this year is to accessorise more, and to have a more polished appearance. For this purpose, I have bought those chunky belts I can wrap around a nice work dress to give said dress a different, chic look; I have bought some dangling necklaces I can wrap around my neck; I have even replenished my supply of pantyhoses. Wearing these in summer, with the sweat trapped on the places you've put additional layers, give me rashes in the most uncomfortable places.
5. Being in the sun, even for a short period of time, put me in danger of nursing one hell of pounding headache. No, I would go one step further and say that driving with my eyes squinting against the mid-afternoon sun would put me in danger of having a pounding headache.
6. The sun saps all my energy. I feel more lethargic in summer, despite being couped up in an air-conditioning building all day. I feel doggedly tired, almost unable to face the day as soon as I woke up. For this reason, I avoid doing any strenuous activities, or even doing chores around the house, until the sun goes down. I have even gone as far as avoiding being in direct contact with the sun in any way possible, including galavanting to the nearest shopping centre during my lunch break, even though I know that such change in scenery is good for the mind.
7. The sun also plays a big part in stalling my inspiration. Somehow, making cards when the late afternoon sun is shining so brightly through the window of my arts and crafts room is less-than-appealing. Writing with the sun coming through the glass of the front door is distracting rather than comforting.
8. The summer sun doesn't go down until 6:30 in the evening. What the hell? Come on now - it's 6:30PM - it's NIGHT TIME. Night time DOESN'T have sun!
Perhaps the only thing I like about summer is the opportunity to go for a swim, though even then, I instinctively look for the shade, not wanting to get sunburnt...
Monday, January 10, 2011
'Recap 2010-Plans for 2011 (Part 4)
Yes, yes, this is a continuation of the super-mammoth post at the beginning of the year. I promise though, that this one *shouldn't* be as long and/or windy...
I've done up to 7 things I'm looking forward to happen/achieve this year. Here's some more, though I don't think it will make 11.
8. I've been living in our current house for a while. In fact, this September will mark the tenth year anniversary since we've travelled to the solicitor's office and got the keys in our hot little hands. Throughout these years, we have done quite a few... reorganising, redecorating, re... whatever it is you want to call it. Still, there are so many things we've accumulated, clutters we can't seem to get rid of. So my goal this year, is simply to decluter; to finish what we've started as a second study, and to make every room in the house look... mmm... tidy-looking :)
9. By February this year, it will be 2 years before my husband turns the big 40. Whilst he is adamant he doesn't want a party, I want to give him something memorable to celebrate this wonderful, important milestone. I have started gathering photos for the powerpoint presentation I want to create, a kind of 'Fred, This Is Your Life' presentation. So I need to get myself into gear and actually create some slides :)
I've done up to 7 things I'm looking forward to happen/achieve this year. Here's some more, though I don't think it will make 11.
8. I've been living in our current house for a while. In fact, this September will mark the tenth year anniversary since we've travelled to the solicitor's office and got the keys in our hot little hands. Throughout these years, we have done quite a few... reorganising, redecorating, re... whatever it is you want to call it. Still, there are so many things we've accumulated, clutters we can't seem to get rid of. So my goal this year, is simply to decluter; to finish what we've started as a second study, and to make every room in the house look... mmm... tidy-looking :)
9. By February this year, it will be 2 years before my husband turns the big 40. Whilst he is adamant he doesn't want a party, I want to give him something memorable to celebrate this wonderful, important milestone. I have started gathering photos for the powerpoint presentation I want to create, a kind of 'Fred, This Is Your Life' presentation. So I need to get myself into gear and actually create some slides :)
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
I Find Myself Standing At A Crossroad...
I can just see this turning into another long-ish, mammoth-sized post, so if you are reading this, the only pre-warning wisdom I can impart is... bear with me - I will get to the point... eventually...!
A bit of a background story. Up until the time I married my husband, and even for up to a year afterwards, I became really REALLY clucky. I had this vision of us trying to conceive almost immediately; I even, at one stage, contemplated how ideal it would be to conceive during our overseas honeymoon; how great of a story it would be. At that time, my niece was about two months old and growing, and, having been a product of 'the baby in the family', with a large age difference between me and my older sisters, I have always envisioned how great it would be for my child to have a playmate around the same age.
And then my personal situation started to change. For one, I began having a kick-ass job, working as Marketing and Communications Assistant in an Engineering company. It was a job in which I found my niche as a quasi Event Co-ordinator, and in the 14 months I was in this long-term contract job, I gained a lot of skills, experiences, worked and met with some wonderful, lovely people, and got the respect I could only so far imagine or seen depicted in movies. I loved this job SO MUCH that when my director regretfully informed me that his director above him wouldn't approve his proposal to make me permanent, the first thing I did, after bowing my head and accepting this not-so-great news, was to vacate the office, call Fred, and CRY!
You know that phrase 'when one door closes, another one opens'? For a while, I didn't want to believe it; I really thought I've failed, both myself and Fred; that I've had a perfect job but couldn't manage to keep it, even though I've busted my ass for it.
Well, I was wrong, wasn't I? Out of the blue, a recruitment agency in which I've signed up... oh, I don't know, about 3-4 years prior, call me to tell me there's a position going at BCE. So I thought it can't hurt to try. Went for the interview, and the recruitment agency rang back whilst I was on another interview somewhere else to tell me that I've gotten the job.
From then on, job-wise, things were on the improve. At the same time, I have also gained a nephew, and Fred and I were often called for babysitting duties. I have often said that my husband was a kids' magnet, for good reason; babies/small children seem to latch on to him. Maybe it's his utterly silliness that the children can relate to; maybe it's the fact that his face could be so animated that fascinate the little people.
For the longest time, I felt this pinch and pang in my heart every time I saw my husband cuddling or playing with my little niece; she was so taken by him she would just crawl up to him and sit on his lap, demanding that he'd read to her her favourite book; she would gulp whatever Fred tried to feed her I was tempted to see if she would eat gruel off the ground; she would CRY if Fred moved too far away from her pram whilst we were strolling through the supermarket aisles.
My cluckiness, however, began to dissipate (rather rapidly, if I recall) when my nephew reached age one upwards. I guess this is where the whole parents and non-parents have difference of opinions, but simply put, the kids were driving both Fred and I absolutely bonkers; the fact that they scream and plough into Fred even though they've been reprimanded by both Fred and their parents; the fact that both my niece and nephew would get progressively louder when Fred and I are having a conversation with his brother and sister-in-law, and there isn't anything any of us can say that can shut them up - not even the threat of 'Uncle Fred and Auntie Maria will go home if you don't behave'; or that in the course of two hours that the kids were in our house, there would be chips crumbs and papers all over our carpet...
In addition to this, there is... let's just call it my not-so-rosy past, eh?? I didn't have a set of loving parents growing up; my Mother was an overbearing, constantly worried-over-the-smallest-thing, harsh disciplinary individual, in which the slightest disobedience would hear her wrath for DAYS, if not YEARS (I'm not joking - she will bring up past behaviours she had scolded us for every single time). My Father was an arrogant, cheating son-of-a-bitch who believed, despite the fact that he was living in the 20th, and 21st century, that he was the main breadwinner and therefore, whatever he demanded should be granted and all hell would break loose to anyone who even attempted to defy him. Together, they formed a very toxic set of parents, who grumbled and whinged about one another... to their children, which put said children in a very awkward position.
I guess, with all these factors weighing on my mind, I have, first and foremost, a very strong conviction that I would never put my child(ren) through what my parents have put me through; I would be lenient, I would give my child(ren) choices, I would trust him/her/them, and I would, at one stage, let go of the rein completely. I also have, about a million doubts and apprehensions about undertaking the immense responsibility of being a parent; I watch these movies (yes, perhaps NOT the best examples to draw on), most depicting how much angst there are between mothers and their teenage daughter(s); how much parents could be at their wits' ends trying to guide their children through lives; and how, even despite your best efforts, your children might still hate you, don't want to do anything with you, refuse to share their problems with you, or worse, take matters into their own hands and do something reckless and irreversible such as taking their own lives. I only need to look at my non-existing relationship with my parents to know that to this day, there are things they have done and put me through I can't forgive, nor get over; there are scars they've left in my heart that will never heal, and still bleed from time to time.
Deep down inside me, hearing all these tales, even from my work colleagues, about how manipulative some mothers can be, how they can drive you absolutely crazy with the simplest gesture, the seemingly heartless phrases - all of which I can relate to but don't never reciprocate with tales of my own for fear of revealing all that happened in my previous life, pre-meeting my husband - there is one conviction that I hold firm, a belief that is still unwavered; that the parents should be the adults, and therefore they should know better.
Little by little, my cluckiness is resurfacing. Lately, particularly when I'm baking, I wish fervently, and can easily envision a little daughter standing right next to me, helping me fold the batter and licking the dough off the wooden spoon. I have a similar vision when I'm making cards, delighting in the possibility of being able to show my little girl the marvel of creating something out of thin air with just a few stamps and colouring pencils. I look at my husband and wonder whether our son would look like him, what personality traits he would inherit from either of us; I long to see those little, chubby, flailing hands reaching out, and my husband's arms reaching out in reflex. I've begun wondering how it feels to have someone call you 'Mummy', and to have the word 'Daddy' directed at my husband.
On the other side of the coin, I still, really, really love my current life. I can only imagine, from the stories I've heard, from witnessing first-hand how Fred's brother and sister-in-law cope with two children, that children consume so much of your time; time that I, at the moment, constantly whinge about not having enough of, having to juggle full-time work, my passions for writing/cardmaking, doing general housework, spending quality time with my husband and family. I love being able to stay up until 2AM, writing to my heart's content when the inspiration and the imagery inside my head is bursting out of me; I love being able to not wake up until 10AM, or later, and do so very very peacefully.
In hindsight though, the list of luxuries above pale in comparison to the effect children might have on my relationship with my darling husband. We have a very special, wonderful relationship,he and I; we have this amazing connection. It has taken both of us a long time to get here, with my husband mostly working relentlessly in bringing me out of my shell; for me to not be afraid to assert myself and contribute to discussions instead of saying "It's up to you" just to keep the peace; for me to show my affection more without feeling that I'm being silly.
But kids change everything, and I'm afraid that we might lose what we have. I don't want to resent Fred, for whatever reason Mothers resent their husbands; I can easily see me doing that, however inadvertently; from blaming him for the labour pains to the fact that I'm a big blob when I'm heavily pregnant. I am cranky when I don't get enough sleep as it is, so I can only imagine what kind of foul mood I will be in when I get waken up several times throughout the night when our child wants nutrition, or requires a nappy change. Most of all, I don't want the practicality of raising a child and maintaining order in the house to drift us apart rather than bring us closer together. I really, really don't want to be one of those couples (in the words of my friend Leanne on her blog French Kissing) whose highlight is watching a telemovie on a Friday night, who only has sex once a week; or worse, who become bitter at one another and exist in the same house solely for the purpose of providing some kind of a stabil environment for the child(ren), but has long forgotten why they were drawn to each other in the first place...
And now that I've rambled pointlessly, I shall stop at that and contemplate some more.
A bit of a background story. Up until the time I married my husband, and even for up to a year afterwards, I became really REALLY clucky. I had this vision of us trying to conceive almost immediately; I even, at one stage, contemplated how ideal it would be to conceive during our overseas honeymoon; how great of a story it would be. At that time, my niece was about two months old and growing, and, having been a product of 'the baby in the family', with a large age difference between me and my older sisters, I have always envisioned how great it would be for my child to have a playmate around the same age.
And then my personal situation started to change. For one, I began having a kick-ass job, working as Marketing and Communications Assistant in an Engineering company. It was a job in which I found my niche as a quasi Event Co-ordinator, and in the 14 months I was in this long-term contract job, I gained a lot of skills, experiences, worked and met with some wonderful, lovely people, and got the respect I could only so far imagine or seen depicted in movies. I loved this job SO MUCH that when my director regretfully informed me that his director above him wouldn't approve his proposal to make me permanent, the first thing I did, after bowing my head and accepting this not-so-great news, was to vacate the office, call Fred, and CRY!
You know that phrase 'when one door closes, another one opens'? For a while, I didn't want to believe it; I really thought I've failed, both myself and Fred; that I've had a perfect job but couldn't manage to keep it, even though I've busted my ass for it.
Well, I was wrong, wasn't I? Out of the blue, a recruitment agency in which I've signed up... oh, I don't know, about 3-4 years prior, call me to tell me there's a position going at BCE. So I thought it can't hurt to try. Went for the interview, and the recruitment agency rang back whilst I was on another interview somewhere else to tell me that I've gotten the job.
From then on, job-wise, things were on the improve. At the same time, I have also gained a nephew, and Fred and I were often called for babysitting duties. I have often said that my husband was a kids' magnet, for good reason; babies/small children seem to latch on to him. Maybe it's his utterly silliness that the children can relate to; maybe it's the fact that his face could be so animated that fascinate the little people.
For the longest time, I felt this pinch and pang in my heart every time I saw my husband cuddling or playing with my little niece; she was so taken by him she would just crawl up to him and sit on his lap, demanding that he'd read to her her favourite book; she would gulp whatever Fred tried to feed her I was tempted to see if she would eat gruel off the ground; she would CRY if Fred moved too far away from her pram whilst we were strolling through the supermarket aisles.
My cluckiness, however, began to dissipate (rather rapidly, if I recall) when my nephew reached age one upwards. I guess this is where the whole parents and non-parents have difference of opinions, but simply put, the kids were driving both Fred and I absolutely bonkers; the fact that they scream and plough into Fred even though they've been reprimanded by both Fred and their parents; the fact that both my niece and nephew would get progressively louder when Fred and I are having a conversation with his brother and sister-in-law, and there isn't anything any of us can say that can shut them up - not even the threat of 'Uncle Fred and Auntie Maria will go home if you don't behave'; or that in the course of two hours that the kids were in our house, there would be chips crumbs and papers all over our carpet...
In addition to this, there is... let's just call it my not-so-rosy past, eh?? I didn't have a set of loving parents growing up; my Mother was an overbearing, constantly worried-over-the-smallest-thing, harsh disciplinary individual, in which the slightest disobedience would hear her wrath for DAYS, if not YEARS (I'm not joking - she will bring up past behaviours she had scolded us for every single time). My Father was an arrogant, cheating son-of-a-bitch who believed, despite the fact that he was living in the 20th, and 21st century, that he was the main breadwinner and therefore, whatever he demanded should be granted and all hell would break loose to anyone who even attempted to defy him. Together, they formed a very toxic set of parents, who grumbled and whinged about one another... to their children, which put said children in a very awkward position.
I guess, with all these factors weighing on my mind, I have, first and foremost, a very strong conviction that I would never put my child(ren) through what my parents have put me through; I would be lenient, I would give my child(ren) choices, I would trust him/her/them, and I would, at one stage, let go of the rein completely. I also have, about a million doubts and apprehensions about undertaking the immense responsibility of being a parent; I watch these movies (yes, perhaps NOT the best examples to draw on), most depicting how much angst there are between mothers and their teenage daughter(s); how much parents could be at their wits' ends trying to guide their children through lives; and how, even despite your best efforts, your children might still hate you, don't want to do anything with you, refuse to share their problems with you, or worse, take matters into their own hands and do something reckless and irreversible such as taking their own lives. I only need to look at my non-existing relationship with my parents to know that to this day, there are things they have done and put me through I can't forgive, nor get over; there are scars they've left in my heart that will never heal, and still bleed from time to time.
Deep down inside me, hearing all these tales, even from my work colleagues, about how manipulative some mothers can be, how they can drive you absolutely crazy with the simplest gesture, the seemingly heartless phrases - all of which I can relate to but don't never reciprocate with tales of my own for fear of revealing all that happened in my previous life, pre-meeting my husband - there is one conviction that I hold firm, a belief that is still unwavered; that the parents should be the adults, and therefore they should know better.
Little by little, my cluckiness is resurfacing. Lately, particularly when I'm baking, I wish fervently, and can easily envision a little daughter standing right next to me, helping me fold the batter and licking the dough off the wooden spoon. I have a similar vision when I'm making cards, delighting in the possibility of being able to show my little girl the marvel of creating something out of thin air with just a few stamps and colouring pencils. I look at my husband and wonder whether our son would look like him, what personality traits he would inherit from either of us; I long to see those little, chubby, flailing hands reaching out, and my husband's arms reaching out in reflex. I've begun wondering how it feels to have someone call you 'Mummy', and to have the word 'Daddy' directed at my husband.
On the other side of the coin, I still, really, really love my current life. I can only imagine, from the stories I've heard, from witnessing first-hand how Fred's brother and sister-in-law cope with two children, that children consume so much of your time; time that I, at the moment, constantly whinge about not having enough of, having to juggle full-time work, my passions for writing/cardmaking, doing general housework, spending quality time with my husband and family. I love being able to stay up until 2AM, writing to my heart's content when the inspiration and the imagery inside my head is bursting out of me; I love being able to not wake up until 10AM, or later, and do so very very peacefully.
In hindsight though, the list of luxuries above pale in comparison to the effect children might have on my relationship with my darling husband. We have a very special, wonderful relationship,he and I; we have this amazing connection. It has taken both of us a long time to get here, with my husband mostly working relentlessly in bringing me out of my shell; for me to not be afraid to assert myself and contribute to discussions instead of saying "It's up to you" just to keep the peace; for me to show my affection more without feeling that I'm being silly.
But kids change everything, and I'm afraid that we might lose what we have. I don't want to resent Fred, for whatever reason Mothers resent their husbands; I can easily see me doing that, however inadvertently; from blaming him for the labour pains to the fact that I'm a big blob when I'm heavily pregnant. I am cranky when I don't get enough sleep as it is, so I can only imagine what kind of foul mood I will be in when I get waken up several times throughout the night when our child wants nutrition, or requires a nappy change. Most of all, I don't want the practicality of raising a child and maintaining order in the house to drift us apart rather than bring us closer together. I really, really don't want to be one of those couples (in the words of my friend Leanne on her blog French Kissing) whose highlight is watching a telemovie on a Friday night, who only has sex once a week; or worse, who become bitter at one another and exist in the same house solely for the purpose of providing some kind of a stabil environment for the child(ren), but has long forgotten why they were drawn to each other in the first place...
And now that I've rambled pointlessly, I shall stop at that and contemplate some more.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
'Recap 2010-Plans for 2011' Post (Part 3)
Gee we always say the year has gone quick but when you spell it out like I've just done in the previous two posts, you could definitely pack a lot in in a year's time.
I'm taking a leaf out of my friend's Liss' blog Frills in the Hills and create an '11 Things I'm Looking Forward to 2011'.
1. I'm looking forward to have a better work-life integration. I love my job - I really, really do. But if you look at my previous posts, apart from our big US trip, everything that has happened last year revolved around my work, and I am conscious of the fact that I do very little outside of work; I don't socialise much, I become a hermit, I close myself in at home and most of that is spent sitting on the couch, either watching TV or writing. So this year, I'm going to do a bit more of 'other stuff'.
2. Hmmm.... ok, this will also serve as a reminder when I start bitching about Fred's family. Contrary to the (silent) upheavals strengthening the tension, and yes, my resentment towards almost every member of Fred's family member last year, Fred and I had a good time at Christmas, and again at New Year's, chatting with his brothers/sister/sister-in-law. And so this year I'm going to continue that and reacquaint myself with them; going to the movies, having a good ol' girl chat with sister-in-law and Fred's sister... fun things like that.
3. This year WILL see me more actively trying to publish my book. For starters, I will join the Queensland Writers' Association and enjoy the networking that comes from being a part of this group.
4. I would like to get back to the things I've neglected in the name of writing my unpublished books. I think I will set aside a couple of hours each week resuming my TESOL qualification. I started this... oh... I think 2 years ago now, when my husband and I thought about changing the scenery and teaching English in Jakarta (a large market for it). Whilst this dream may not be realised, there is no reason as to why I can't finish what I started and get my TESOL diploma at least. I'm sure this can come in handy sometime, somewhere...
5. Still running along the same theme of number 4, I'm going to get back on my creative roots - making cards and scrapbooking. It's a little daunting because I haven't touched the stuff in a little over 2 years, but just like I've said over and over about the only thing stopping me from writing some days is my own self-doubt, so is my reluctance to be daring and just create a card/page out of nothing.
6. Once we've been bitten by the travel bug, we can't stop. So Fred and I have been talking about going overseas again at the end of this year. At the moment, we're tossing up between going to the Philippines with the in-laws, or, failing that, back to Jakarta, my beloved hometown.
7. I say this every year, and this year is of no exception... well, alright... maybe with a little bit of a difference. My weight has always remained in the 69-70kg mark, and whilst I'm about... 2-3 kg overweight, I'm really not going to fuss to shed those kilos. What I am fussed about is the fact that my tummy can go balloon up more often than it deflate, and I know that it is due to lack of regular exercise and eating too many good food and not balancing that with eating moderately. So this year, I am going to try really hard to keep a more regular, well-shaped, somewhat flattened tummy. I'm going to try to do a power-walk or bike twice a week and make/eat more side-dish vegetables.
8-11 - I've drawn a blank! Might have to come back to this later :) (Dear God - I just realised that that would be post number 4.... in one day!).
I'm taking a leaf out of my friend's Liss' blog Frills in the Hills and create an '11 Things I'm Looking Forward to 2011'.
1. I'm looking forward to have a better work-life integration. I love my job - I really, really do. But if you look at my previous posts, apart from our big US trip, everything that has happened last year revolved around my work, and I am conscious of the fact that I do very little outside of work; I don't socialise much, I become a hermit, I close myself in at home and most of that is spent sitting on the couch, either watching TV or writing. So this year, I'm going to do a bit more of 'other stuff'.
2. Hmmm.... ok, this will also serve as a reminder when I start bitching about Fred's family. Contrary to the (silent) upheavals strengthening the tension, and yes, my resentment towards almost every member of Fred's family member last year, Fred and I had a good time at Christmas, and again at New Year's, chatting with his brothers/sister/sister-in-law. And so this year I'm going to continue that and reacquaint myself with them; going to the movies, having a good ol' girl chat with sister-in-law and Fred's sister... fun things like that.
3. This year WILL see me more actively trying to publish my book. For starters, I will join the Queensland Writers' Association and enjoy the networking that comes from being a part of this group.
4. I would like to get back to the things I've neglected in the name of writing my unpublished books. I think I will set aside a couple of hours each week resuming my TESOL qualification. I started this... oh... I think 2 years ago now, when my husband and I thought about changing the scenery and teaching English in Jakarta (a large market for it). Whilst this dream may not be realised, there is no reason as to why I can't finish what I started and get my TESOL diploma at least. I'm sure this can come in handy sometime, somewhere...
5. Still running along the same theme of number 4, I'm going to get back on my creative roots - making cards and scrapbooking. It's a little daunting because I haven't touched the stuff in a little over 2 years, but just like I've said over and over about the only thing stopping me from writing some days is my own self-doubt, so is my reluctance to be daring and just create a card/page out of nothing.
6. Once we've been bitten by the travel bug, we can't stop. So Fred and I have been talking about going overseas again at the end of this year. At the moment, we're tossing up between going to the Philippines with the in-laws, or, failing that, back to Jakarta, my beloved hometown.
7. I say this every year, and this year is of no exception... well, alright... maybe with a little bit of a difference. My weight has always remained in the 69-70kg mark, and whilst I'm about... 2-3 kg overweight, I'm really not going to fuss to shed those kilos. What I am fussed about is the fact that my tummy can go balloon up more often than it deflate, and I know that it is due to lack of regular exercise and eating too many good food and not balancing that with eating moderately. So this year, I am going to try really hard to keep a more regular, well-shaped, somewhat flattened tummy. I'm going to try to do a power-walk or bike twice a week and make/eat more side-dish vegetables.
8-11 - I've drawn a blank! Might have to come back to this later :) (Dear God - I just realised that that would be post number 4.... in one day!).
'Recap 2010-Plans for 2011' Post (Part 2)
June came and went and to my, and everyone's relief, things at the Centre finally settled. My boss, who became an Acting Director, came back, healthy though he did have on-going medication problem which turned him yellow at one stage, and wouldn't go to the doctor if his ex-Secretary (i.e. me) didn't point his unnatural face colour to him. The new Director was apppointed - ironically enough another boss of mine (I have three!), who is also a very dear, close friend to Neil. And the person replacing my boss whilst he was Acting Director replaced the current director. Yes, it's like playing musical chairs in here for a while, and we were hoping that the status quo would prevail just for a little while longer.
August - ahhh... the anniversary month. Before we got there though, August also saw me taking the most amount of sick leave in one month! It started with what I thought was a head cold - my head was pounding so hard I could feel even my cheekbones hurt. So I took a day off and spent a day being utterly miserable because the headache was that bad I couldn't even sit still to watch daytime TV. Braced myself to go to work the next day, and the next day, and then I had to resort to gulping panadols throughout the day to keep the pounding ache at bay.
Taking this as a sign that something's not right in my world, I went to the GP, and then to the dentist. And what do you know - two wisdom teeth, one on the top and one on the bottom, had compacted the rest of my mouth and pushing all the other teeth - hence the stabbing pain from my mouth.
So off I went to the dental surgery to get these removed, and being told that I had to take MORE days off. Spent the remainder of Thursday afternoon after the operation swallowing my own blood (yuck!!!!), changing the cotton-ball-wrapped-in-gauze to blot the blood dry, and feeling my cheek going absolutely numb. Oh, and let's not forget the half-drugged state, too!
But I was on the improve in no time, and by the time 14th August rolled over, my husband and I were able to enjoy a lovely cruise lunch along the river, with no whinging, so-much-in-pain wife to deal with, celebrating our 6th wedding anniversary.
I have NEVER been so excited to greet the month of September. As part of the deal, I have asked my husband to give me tickets to the USA instead of throwing me a massive 30th birthday party. And the lovely man that he was, he did just that. So on the 6th of September, we flew to LA, get a connecting flight to Miami, and braced the 4-hour drive to Orlando (nothing like baptism of fire here, driving on the wrong side of the road and all). We spent a week here, visiting the 4 parks of Walt Disney World, got sunburnt, perspiring heavily, took LOADS of photos, went on so many roller-coasters (some in total darkness, which I must say was THE best type), and rubbed shoulders with celebrities the like of Winnie the Pooh, Genie from Aladdin, and Jafar...
After that, we spent three weeks in glorious New York. It is the place I've always wanted to go to ever since I practically could say the word, and all I can say is... OH... MY... GOD!!!!! I have never fallen that much in love with anything (except for my husband) in my life. New York exceeded all my expectations; it was love at first sight (or even before that) and I dream, every day, of being able to live there. I could go on and on here - the landscape such as Central Park and Rockefeller Center, the breathtaking building architectures like Empire State Building and Grand Central Station; the fact that Macy's, one of the many major department stores, open until 9:30PM on weekends, and 8:30PM on weekdays. The bustling Times Square, jam-packed with people even until past midnight. The Chinatown, where we had the best yum-cha ever. And the list goes on... and on... and on...
In October, we continued our US journey, trekking to Vegas. I have likened The Vegas Strip to 'Crown on steroids' - I have never seen so many casinos, in so many different themes, in one stretch of a street. Watched unforgettable shows including 'Cirque De Soleil' La Reve and 'The Lion King'.
By the time we reached LA, our travelling fuel was super-low and in badly need of refuelling. After 5 weeks of living out of hotel rooms and suitcases, airport- and airplane-hopping, we have had enough; we wanted, so very badly, to go home and marvel at the massive amount of space a four-bedroom-plus-a-study house could offer.
The rest of the year flew by so fast it really felt like it was gone with the flick of a finger. But this year, I have also cemented my extra-curricular activity as the singer for the Centre, with my singing ability being called upon for various Liturgies and ceremonies. Whilst I wouldn't go as far as forming my own band, or, as someone suggested, perform at the Sydney Theater, I must say I quite enjoy performing on this low-key, local level, and my nervousness become less and less each time I have to get up on that 'stage' and sing in front of a microphone.
And, since this is yet another bigger-than-Ben-Hur post, there will be a part 3, where I will reveal what I hope/plan/expect in 2011.
August - ahhh... the anniversary month. Before we got there though, August also saw me taking the most amount of sick leave in one month! It started with what I thought was a head cold - my head was pounding so hard I could feel even my cheekbones hurt. So I took a day off and spent a day being utterly miserable because the headache was that bad I couldn't even sit still to watch daytime TV. Braced myself to go to work the next day, and the next day, and then I had to resort to gulping panadols throughout the day to keep the pounding ache at bay.
Taking this as a sign that something's not right in my world, I went to the GP, and then to the dentist. And what do you know - two wisdom teeth, one on the top and one on the bottom, had compacted the rest of my mouth and pushing all the other teeth - hence the stabbing pain from my mouth.
So off I went to the dental surgery to get these removed, and being told that I had to take MORE days off. Spent the remainder of Thursday afternoon after the operation swallowing my own blood (yuck!!!!), changing the cotton-ball-wrapped-in-gauze to blot the blood dry, and feeling my cheek going absolutely numb. Oh, and let's not forget the half-drugged state, too!
But I was on the improve in no time, and by the time 14th August rolled over, my husband and I were able to enjoy a lovely cruise lunch along the river, with no whinging, so-much-in-pain wife to deal with, celebrating our 6th wedding anniversary.
I have NEVER been so excited to greet the month of September. As part of the deal, I have asked my husband to give me tickets to the USA instead of throwing me a massive 30th birthday party. And the lovely man that he was, he did just that. So on the 6th of September, we flew to LA, get a connecting flight to Miami, and braced the 4-hour drive to Orlando (nothing like baptism of fire here, driving on the wrong side of the road and all). We spent a week here, visiting the 4 parks of Walt Disney World, got sunburnt, perspiring heavily, took LOADS of photos, went on so many roller-coasters (some in total darkness, which I must say was THE best type), and rubbed shoulders with celebrities the like of Winnie the Pooh, Genie from Aladdin, and Jafar...
After that, we spent three weeks in glorious New York. It is the place I've always wanted to go to ever since I practically could say the word, and all I can say is... OH... MY... GOD!!!!! I have never fallen that much in love with anything (except for my husband) in my life. New York exceeded all my expectations; it was love at first sight (or even before that) and I dream, every day, of being able to live there. I could go on and on here - the landscape such as Central Park and Rockefeller Center, the breathtaking building architectures like Empire State Building and Grand Central Station; the fact that Macy's, one of the many major department stores, open until 9:30PM on weekends, and 8:30PM on weekdays. The bustling Times Square, jam-packed with people even until past midnight. The Chinatown, where we had the best yum-cha ever. And the list goes on... and on... and on...
In October, we continued our US journey, trekking to Vegas. I have likened The Vegas Strip to 'Crown on steroids' - I have never seen so many casinos, in so many different themes, in one stretch of a street. Watched unforgettable shows including 'Cirque De Soleil' La Reve and 'The Lion King'.
By the time we reached LA, our travelling fuel was super-low and in badly need of refuelling. After 5 weeks of living out of hotel rooms and suitcases, airport- and airplane-hopping, we have had enough; we wanted, so very badly, to go home and marvel at the massive amount of space a four-bedroom-plus-a-study house could offer.
The rest of the year flew by so fast it really felt like it was gone with the flick of a finger. But this year, I have also cemented my extra-curricular activity as the singer for the Centre, with my singing ability being called upon for various Liturgies and ceremonies. Whilst I wouldn't go as far as forming my own band, or, as someone suggested, perform at the Sydney Theater, I must say I quite enjoy performing on this low-key, local level, and my nervousness become less and less each time I have to get up on that 'stage' and sing in front of a microphone.
And, since this is yet another bigger-than-Ben-Hur post, there will be a part 3, where I will reveal what I hope/plan/expect in 2011.
A Long Overdue 'Recap 2010-Plans for 2011' Post (Part 1)
Yes, I know, I know, I've been slack... having a 10-day break with so many things put on my to-do list, performing various balancing act between having a time to myself and spending quality time with my husband, sleeping late (I'm talking about 2-3AM here) and as a consequence sleeping in and not waking up until the sun is already out for a few hours, battling with the lack of air-cond in our place, and going to several after-Christmas sale, and I just... simply... haven't gotten round to it. Until now.
So New Year's Eve came and went, and whilst we stayed up, my husband and I (rather shamefully here, I might add) stayed at home. We had a lovely home-cooked dinner, we watched a few episodes of our favourite TV series, my husband played Final Fantasy XIII on his brand-spanking new Playstation 3 he bought from the US, which he only stopped around 11:55PM. At midnight, we cracked open the bottle of Moet Champagne we got as a Christmas present, toasted the New Year, and watched the 10-minute fireworks show on television before my husband then resumed playing his Playstation game and I, with perspiration drenching down my face and back, attempted to write beautiful, meaningful little passages for my books.
It hasn't escaped me, however, that the change between the year that was and the year ahead is the time to reflect; to recap on the year that has been and to set goals/hopes/expectations for the year you're about to face.
Let's start with the recap. 2010 has been a big year, in both ends of the spectrum. From the get go, my work is branching out to 2 Service Centres, and with the role I was (and still am) in, it required me to pack all my belongings, including laptop and screen, and moved from Dutton Park to Springwood. I was able to enjoy the novelty of having a proper morning tea and afternoon tea break whilst helping the PA and the Area Supervisors settled everything in to the centre, and began training the new Area Supervisors' secretary.
It was a new beginning for all 45 staff in the centre in mid-January, and I found myself instantly weaving new friendships with the other Secretary and the new Secretary to the PA - friendships that, thankfully, still continue to blossom to this very day.
February rolled over and the biggest bombshell dropped on me this month, was the sudden passing of our beloved Director, Neil Bloxsidge. The news came as a hard blow to all of us, and for a long while, I lived in denial, in constant hope that this was a nightmare I couldn't wake up from, and that one day, I would, and find that his passing was all a big mistake. For months afterwards, I kept wishing that whoever had played this cruel joke on us would turn around and laugh devilishly and Neil would miraculously appear, back into our lives; striding into his office, turn around the corner and greet us with that trademark, comical smile. For the longest time I could ever remember, I blamed God for dealing the crappiest, most bitter card He had dealt to one of his most wonderful, loving, generous followers, and my faith in Him was shaken more than ever before.
March - as if dealing with Neil's death wasn't enough, the acting Director replacing him, one of my bosses I have been working for/with for the large part of 2008 and all of 2009, fell ill that he had to be off in hospital and recovering for 6 weeks. His replacement was nothing like him, possessing a thick Scottish accent that was rather difficult to understand, and for the first time in... God knows how long, I was literally overwhelmed and showed my panic/resistance to change; everything was changing, and was happening too fast for my liking.
In May, I turned the big 30. Whereas some people dreaded reaching the end of their 20s, I actually couldn't wait. I was bouncing off the walls counting the days to my birthday. And boy, did I celebrate it in style! My husband, blessed his gorgeous heart, bought me a super-stylish Cue jacket that just fit like a glove on me, and accentuated all the curves on my figure. I also had a cocktail party with my closest friends, drank some cocktails, and had a wonderful, cheerful, unforgettable night.
And now, having realised that this post has turned rather mammoth, I will end part 1, and continue part 2 with the rest of 2010 and plan for 2011.
So New Year's Eve came and went, and whilst we stayed up, my husband and I (rather shamefully here, I might add) stayed at home. We had a lovely home-cooked dinner, we watched a few episodes of our favourite TV series, my husband played Final Fantasy XIII on his brand-spanking new Playstation 3 he bought from the US, which he only stopped around 11:55PM. At midnight, we cracked open the bottle of Moet Champagne we got as a Christmas present, toasted the New Year, and watched the 10-minute fireworks show on television before my husband then resumed playing his Playstation game and I, with perspiration drenching down my face and back, attempted to write beautiful, meaningful little passages for my books.
It hasn't escaped me, however, that the change between the year that was and the year ahead is the time to reflect; to recap on the year that has been and to set goals/hopes/expectations for the year you're about to face.
Let's start with the recap. 2010 has been a big year, in both ends of the spectrum. From the get go, my work is branching out to 2 Service Centres, and with the role I was (and still am) in, it required me to pack all my belongings, including laptop and screen, and moved from Dutton Park to Springwood. I was able to enjoy the novelty of having a proper morning tea and afternoon tea break whilst helping the PA and the Area Supervisors settled everything in to the centre, and began training the new Area Supervisors' secretary.
It was a new beginning for all 45 staff in the centre in mid-January, and I found myself instantly weaving new friendships with the other Secretary and the new Secretary to the PA - friendships that, thankfully, still continue to blossom to this very day.
February rolled over and the biggest bombshell dropped on me this month, was the sudden passing of our beloved Director, Neil Bloxsidge. The news came as a hard blow to all of us, and for a long while, I lived in denial, in constant hope that this was a nightmare I couldn't wake up from, and that one day, I would, and find that his passing was all a big mistake. For months afterwards, I kept wishing that whoever had played this cruel joke on us would turn around and laugh devilishly and Neil would miraculously appear, back into our lives; striding into his office, turn around the corner and greet us with that trademark, comical smile. For the longest time I could ever remember, I blamed God for dealing the crappiest, most bitter card He had dealt to one of his most wonderful, loving, generous followers, and my faith in Him was shaken more than ever before.
March - as if dealing with Neil's death wasn't enough, the acting Director replacing him, one of my bosses I have been working for/with for the large part of 2008 and all of 2009, fell ill that he had to be off in hospital and recovering for 6 weeks. His replacement was nothing like him, possessing a thick Scottish accent that was rather difficult to understand, and for the first time in... God knows how long, I was literally overwhelmed and showed my panic/resistance to change; everything was changing, and was happening too fast for my liking.
In May, I turned the big 30. Whereas some people dreaded reaching the end of their 20s, I actually couldn't wait. I was bouncing off the walls counting the days to my birthday. And boy, did I celebrate it in style! My husband, blessed his gorgeous heart, bought me a super-stylish Cue jacket that just fit like a glove on me, and accentuated all the curves on my figure. I also had a cocktail party with my closest friends, drank some cocktails, and had a wonderful, cheerful, unforgettable night.
And now, having realised that this post has turned rather mammoth, I will end part 1, and continue part 2 with the rest of 2010 and plan for 2011.
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