THE SOUL OF THE TOWN

by Dunstan

18/4/13

   Some years ago there was a big fire in my hometown. That was the third fire in the last 15 years. Those three fires almost wipe out that tranquil little town by the sea. I visited Mukah last year. Standing the centre of what was left of the old town, I looked around me and realised that eighty percent of the place where I spent such blissful childhood was gone forever. They managed to replace some of the shops, but not all. So, what used to be rows of quaint wooden shophouses was now just one big car park. So, physically Mukah is no longer the same town that I grew up in. It has all gone up in smoke except for the old cinema building and the coffee place by the river.

   Ah, the cinema, it used to the life of town once every few months. It became the focal centre only when a good movie arrived in town. I used the word “arrived” pointedly because the movie arrived in the form stacks of round tin containers from Sibu by boat and lorry.

   In a small place word spread fast, the bus driver made sure of that. Thus, before the poster was up, the whole town and the surrounding villages would be agog with excitement. The young ladies were getting ready to doll themselves up and the young men were laying extra “brylcreem” on their hair.

   Watching movie then was a community event and to the adolescents with raging hormones it was a thrilling time. Of course, it was a rather innocuous thrill. It was a “boys-ogling-at-girls-and-girls-demurely-looking-at-boys” stuff. The fact that the cinema had only one projector was a boon. After every reel the projectionist would have to rewind the film back to its original spool. The lights would be switched on and that gave the people ample time to check on their neighbours. “Main mata” was a prevalent term then.

   Unfortunately, though the building is still standing “the cinema” as I knew it had long gone. The place had been turned into some sort of karaoke lounge. The emergence of video, VCD and now DVD made sure of that. It is like the soul of the building is gone, only the body remains.

   Fortunately, the “soul” of Old Mukah is still alive. It resides in a corner of the town by the river. Here three elements coincide: the river, the fish market and the ‘Kedai Kopi Suab’ (Morning Coffee Shop). The latter has been a meeting place for the true locals of Mukah, the ‘a liko Mukah’ (the people of Mukah) for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid my dad used to take me to this place where we sipped coffee and he chinwagged with his friends. All the time they kept an eye on the river mouth. A buzz would run through the place when the brown sails of the fishing boats appeared on the horizon. Until as late as the early 60s the fishing boats were still wind powered. As soon as the fishing boats berthed the erstwhile patrons of the coffeeshop would descend on them to make their purchase. I don’t think one can fish any fresher than that.

   Now the scene is played out all over again everyday, though with slight variation. Firstly, one does not have to scramble into those boats to make the purchase. A well organized fish market is just by the river. Secondly, the frail sailboats are now replaced by sleek looking crafts driven by powerful outboard engines. In spite of the difference, the ambiance of the place remains the same. This is a unique place, for it is a place where one loses the sense of one’s ethnicity. Here the medium of conversation would move seamlessly from Melanau, to Malay, to Chinese, to English. So if we were to wish for a soul for the town it should be that which is represented by this place.

   Since the first fire the authorities have, in fact, built a spanking new township somewhat inland but to an “a liko” like me that is not Mukah. That new town does not seem to be any different from the hundreds of small towns in Sarawak. It does not have the soul. Call me sentimental, call me romantic but the soul of Mukah is there by the river, at the fish market and in the “Kedai Kopi Suab”.

 IN THE FOREST I

by Rebecca

18/4/13

   It was nearly dawn. The makeshift path through a forest was barely visible in the morning mist that wrapped the surrounding trees and anything within its vicinity. The canopy of leaves above allowed a peek at the dark sky beyond the towering trees, while morning dew plopped down onto the damp ground beneath it. Gnarled roots of ancient trees snaked across the path and met each other in a tangle of knots. A cicada gave one faint encore of its music before disappearing into the crack of a tree trunk. Save for the occasional fall of a withered leaf, it was mostly silent. A wild pheasant was foraging for food for its young ones, it's black and brown feathers camouflaging it from beasts of prey. Suddenly, it stopped and raised its head, alert and watchful. It heard the sound of a broken twig again and in the next second, an arrow whizzed over its head. It hastily disappeared into the abyss of shrubs.

   A profanity about somebody's mother rang out from behind the trunk of an old jhomonsugi.

   “That could hv been our breakfast, fool!” a raspy, male voice hissed.

   “Why don't you shoot next time then?!” a nasal one snapped back.

   They were leopard poachers. On a good day, they could bag and haul two or three leopards to the black market. On a bad day, they robbed and killed civilians for supplementary income. Today was going to be one of those days.

   Silence followed after that. Both the men crouched low as they squinted their eyes to see better through the cloud of mist. Somebody was approaching. At least they wouldn't return home empty handed.

   A lone figure could be seen softly treading down the walk path. Clad in a black tunic and dark brown leather vest, the figure seemed average height. The face was partly concealed by a hood. The two men could make out a thick belt with a scabbard on the right side. Other than that, they did not see how the person could pose a potential threat; alone and with only one weapon, it was easy meat for them. The raspy-voiced one chuckled. Loud enough to be heard by the approaching stranger. The stranger stopped.

   The two men practically sauntered towards the stranger. One held a drawn bow, the arrow already aimed at its target. He was tall and gaunt, with hard eyes. There was a scar on the right side of his face. He spoke with a raspy voice.

   “Bit early for a morning walk, eh, stranger?”

  “Yeah, would you like some company? We're kind of free..” the nasal one snickered. He was stout and had dark, matted hair. He used his dagger to scratch an itch on his neck.

   The stranger said nothing.

  “Oh, don't care for a friendly chat? No matter, just unload whatever you have for a start. Then we'll think about what to do with you. Would that be eyes first or tongue first, Bo?” The raspy one asked meaningfully to his companion.

   “Well, Heng, I'll leave that to you to decide. My hands are itching to cut something. It's been a dull morning,” Bo licked his lips and chortled again.
(To be continued...)

OF DEATH AND THE LIVING

by Zabariah

18/4/13

   Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to Jean-Baptiste Leroy in 1789 wrote “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes...” Of course this proverb sounds so fatalistic and derisive but death indeed is inevitable and taxes could not be evaded. I certainly would not focus my energy on talking about taxes, but death somehow seems to be a common premise this year, to people I know. First Dr. Muhammad Uthman El-Muhammady, a renowned scholar from the Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilisation, International Islamic University Malaysia. The late Dr. Muhammad Uthman was a regular contributor to our programs on multi-religious understanding. I admire him for his thoughts and intellect.

   Next was Zainon Ahmad, fondly referred to as Pak Non, a respected and well-known media practitioner in Malaysia and South-East Asia. I knew Pak Non for his candid and analytical observation of political circumstances in and outside the country whilst maintaining his professional ethics as a journalist that of giving a balanced perspective on current issues. Then there was my friend’s mom whom I knew as a kind-hearted woman, and loved to wear kebaya. She passed away at the age of 81.

   Death has a way of snitching into one’s consciousness, recreating similar memories and hence changing one’s outlook of life and living. I remember vividly when one of my closest friends, Jill, died more than 10 years ago at the age of 32 from LSE. It felt surreal when I saw her body lying stone-cold at her mom’s place. I could not even shed a tear. The numbness was deafening.

    And 6 years ago my father passed away. I was thinking then “This could not be happening to me, to my family. He was the only father that I had, that I knew and all these were a bad dream. Yes, other people’s father could die for all I care, but not mine. “ Anger, rejection and self-blame are some very raw, potent emotions to deal with when there is death in the family. At that time, days and nights seemed very muddled and inconsequential. Sadness and somberness later began to be replaced by an aching pain, a pain that could only be felt but not expressed. A poignant pain that could only be lived through, never revealed nor understood.

   But time does heal. And time also allows death to be viewed in a different manner. Death is no longer considered with despondency and morbid fear. One then accepts that death indeed is a part of living, a part of renewal and a part of one’s belief in the Higher Being, one’s Creator. By finally accepting that, it brings solace to the soul. And one learns to forgive and let go of the past, not easy but at least the awareness and the efforts are there.

    And what about the living? Yes, death has a way of bringing the living closer. One tends to cherish every moment with one’s family and friends. One knows with a certainty that whatever little time one has, it would not last forever. “Life as John Moeleart said, “is the epitome of brevity. Death is the quintessence of eternity”.

MAKESHIFT BEDDINGS TO TRIPLE STOREY

 by Jenifer

18/4/13

   “Meeeee! Mimeeee!” shouted the ten year old girl and added, “Bobby! Bobbeee!

   She was holding a pot of boiled fish and stewed meat pieces in a concoction of white rice. As the animals came scampering at her feet, she scooped out the food portions generously into two round plastic containers and an old tin dinner plate. Right on cue, the two dogs, Bobby and Lassie knew exactly which to devour and polish off gleefully. Meanwhile the mother cat, Chimmy and her three kittens were sharing the dinner plate.

   What a sight! The girl swept her ponytail backwards as she jumped to whipped lightly one of the kittens that landed its paws upon its sibling’s head, not wanting to share the food. Boiled fish and rice. Leftovers from lunch or dinner, mixed with rice. These were food for my pets in the 70s.

Yes, indeed. I have had pets in my life ever since I was three. I could not for the life of me, remember for any one time, if my family was ever deprived of a pet. The pets ranged from cats to dogs, pigeons to squirrels, a rabbit and a tortoise-just to mention some of the animals that joined my family circle.

   Anyway, why I am reminiscing? Pets back then, and pets these days.

Back then, my pets were simple animals. They ate whatever leftovers, and food we prepared. Moreover, back in the 70s, we could not afford dog food and cat food. In fact, they were unheard of. Let alone, dog food; I cannot even remember if the word “Vet” or “veterinarian” existed. If anybody wanted to spay or castrate their pet dogs or cats, they would refer them to the Agriculture Department officers.

   Incidentally, my parents’ good friend work there. Refer to Uncle if you want to “potong” Lassie, our dog! “Potong” was a crude reference to “castrate”! Because it was done by a family friend, there was no charge; just give some food gifts as a friendly gesture.

My cats and dogs slept together in the shade at the backyard. Just a simple makeshift beddings from cut out of cardboard boxes, and old cloth rugs, were sufficient for them.

   Present day pets-a higher standard of living indeed. From the makeshift cardboard boxes beddings, Aster and Casper now live in a triple storey wired cat cage, residing behind my house cover with mosquito nettings and PVC table covering, to shelter them from the rain. As for food, they only feed on dry pellets of the “Smart Heart” brand. Even that too, the flavour has to be salmon or chicken only. They showered every two weeks in warm water and cat shampoo. Yes, like human babies, they were given three vaccinations as kittens in the first three months. My father actually commented that, the cats’ veterinarian bills and food bills were almost equivalent to his or more!

   The progress in human life-style has indeed covered every aspect and facet of our life. Our pets are no exceptions. We love our pets like family members and lavish them with similar material needs.

AN ORDINARY GIRL

(impromptu)

by Rebecca

11/4/13

   There was once a little girl. A girl so ordinary you'll pass by her. She was 8 years old, big bright eyes and her hair in pigtails. She loved to wear pink and she loved ice-cream. Just.. an .. ordinary.. little.. girl. Her name was simply May.

   But upon closer look, May was really no ordinary girl. Nobody could really put a finger on it. Yet, there was something unusual about her as she sat on her primary school desk, day to day, writing her composition. She was extremely, quietly calm.

   It so happened one day that as she was writing, a boy came up behind her. The boy had just been transferred from the other class. Something about the teacher not being able to handle him. Somebody got hurt because of him. But nobody knew what to do with him so they simply changed him to her class. The boy looked at her hair. He reached his hand out slowly, deliberately. Without any warning, he then forcefully pulled her hair back. He laughed hysterically. Oh did you hear her scream? He said to his new mates, she sounded like a piglet.

   May remained seated. She had stopped writing. Her scalp stung. She looked back at her tormentor. He was skipping from foot to foot, making faces at her. There were no teachers in the classroom. How convenient. May placed a piece of blank paper before her, she gripped her pencil, closed her eyes and .. started drawing.

   The boy was shouting, “Piglet! Piglet! Piglet! Pig----”

All of a sudden he stopped, his hand clutched his throat. His lips turned blue. His eyes widened and his mouth opened but nothing came out. Falling to the floor, his legs started lashing the floor. He was writhing like a cockroach on fire.

   The other boys thought he was fooling around so they laughed louder. Until they saw red, trickles of blood dripping from his nose and eyes. They stopped, petrified. One ran to call the teacher. The teacher rushed to his side. By then, he had stopped thrashing. He was still. His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

   In the chaos that followed; the principal demanding to know what happened, the sirens of the ambulance, children crying.. only one person seemed untroubled.

When it was time, May packed her bag to go home. In the car, her mother asked her, “How was school?”

   “Fine.”

   “What did you do today?”

   “I drew a picture. Wanna see?”

   “Ok.”

   May handed her mother the picture. Her mother glanced at it while driving, then a second glance. She pulled over and stopped the car.... her face was pale. Her fingers started trembling and sweat formed on her forehead. It was a picture of a boy, tongue lolled out, blood trickling from his eyes and nose. Lifeless.

   Her voice came out in a whisper...

   “May ........ what …. have...... you done?”

THAT SWEET MOMENT

(impromptu)

by Dunstan Chan

11/4/13

   My family was poor. Then again who wasn’t in the 50s? Though we were poor but I have many beautiful memories of my childhood. Many of them involved the regular trips to the cinema.

My parents were avid movie goers. When a new movie was in town my family would be among the first to watch it. I remember vividly those joyful evenings -- seven of us (2 adults and 5 young kids) would pile into Pak Mat’s taxi. Usually it was a P. Ramlee movie. The man was more than an icon of the Malay cinema. In fact, he was the Malay cinema. He sang, acted, directed, wrote and produced the many endearing movies of yesteryears -- the golden era of Malay film industry.

   His movies captured the whole range of emotions – grief and joy; tears and laughter; fear and hope. We would emerge from the cinema teary eyes but with laughter in our bellies and joy in our hearts. P. Ramlee believed in happy ending.

   Then it would be off to Abu’s place. Abu had a noodle stall where he would cook up a storm every evening. This was the pre-plastic days. The helcyon days when we still wrapped our takeaway food in banana leaves. Abu would “bungkus” a few packages. One the way home we could smell the sweet aroma of the fried noodle, egg and beansprouts fused together and conspired to test our patience.

REFLECTIONS THAT MOULDED 

(impromptu)

by Jenifer

11/4/13

   The childhood memories that hold dear to my heart were the ones spent in Sarikei, the town I was born. In the early 70s, it was indeed a sleepy, rustic and country-bumpkin kind of town that you could relate to a cowboy movie. What I like best was, we could walk anywhere and reach there in matter of 10-15 minutes; plus no traffic congestion-hardly many cars back then. People were mostly walking, cycling or on motor-cycles.

    Why I re-enact this, I was so unhappy when my father decided to move the family to Kuching. This happened when I was eleven years old. I could not imagine departing from my best friends, and the fact that I cycle to school everyday. In fact, I grew independent because of that bicycle which my father had given as a prize for achieving first position in my class when I was in Primary Three.

Moving to Kuching meaned no more cycling to school. No more bicycle gangs-yes, indeed, I had my bicycle gang-Maria, Adeline and Alice. I will lose the liberty to cycle to the town library with my little brother riding on the carrier behind my Mini-bike. Kuching is such a big town!

You can clearly imagine my distraught on the first day at school as a new girl in Kuching town. The atmosphere was so different from Sarikei. I missed all that freedom. I felt gagged in Kuching. There was no where I could go without my parents or an adult, because I was only eleven years old. Moreover, we could not walk to the town any longer. We had to take the bus, because Kuching was a bigger town than Sarikei, hence, all distances were longer!

    Looking back, I realised how much simplicity in life actually holds dear to me, than the complicated routines. I remember them more vividly than the chaotic mode I was in when I was in Kuching. I hold onto them with fondness on my dreary days. In fact, those simple bicycle days were what moulded me to being independent later in my college years. On top of that, moving away from the rustic mundane town, also was an eye-opener, which refreshed to adapt to various environment and cultures. If I had stayed put in the town where I was born, I would have grown up to be a hermit and possibly not graduated with a degree from overseas.

DANCE WITH MY FATHER

(impromptu)

by Zabariah

11/4/13

   Do you know the song “Dance with my father” by Luther Vandross? Whenever I listen to that song, it brings back memories of my father and the lessons, pertinent life lessons that he taught me.

    There are three things that I learned from him. First, to respect time. My father was never late for anything. He was the first to arrive at the office and the last to leave. Whenever there was any invitation for a kenduri (a village gathering), he would be the first to be present. He said this to all of us “Never be late for anything”. This respect for time is very much ingrained in all of us, his children that I become annoyed or perturbed every time if people are late for meetings, functions and the like.

    Second, taking the road less travelled. My father wanted all of us to be good in English, because he believed that that would get us somewhere in our lives. The only challenge then was the only English school in my kampong (village) was a Christian missionary school. The villagers were not happy when my father decided to enroll us in the school. “Your children would be proselytized” they said. But my father was indifferent to all these accusations. He took risk by having all his children enrolled in that school. I am glad he did stand his ground. If not for his principles, I would not find the beauty of the English language and the ability to understand other religions, Christianity in particular.

   Finally, saying thank you is a norm in my father’s daily vocabulary. Even for a small gesture of serving him a glass of water, he would say “thank you”. And I admire him for that, especially in a Malay family where the expression of gratitude to one’s children is a nonentity. The values that my father taught me I hold dear to this very day.     

WHY I WRITE

by Dunstan Chan

11/4/13

           “Why I write?” I gather that this is a question that visits many a writer when he is in the depth of isolation, wrestling to put into written form the inchoate ideas that float around in his head.

My immediate response to that question is a Descartes-esque “I speak, therefore I write”. Yes, I write because I speak. I have been a public speaker for many years before I tried to put into permanent form that which have been ephemeral and transient – the ideas I uttered through my speeches.

Why do I speak? I speak because I was afraid to speak. I was in the Fifth Form when I was roped in as the replacement speaker in an Inter-school debate between Sacred Heart Boys School and St. Elizabeth Convention School. The first choice speaker was my good friend Eric whom I was convinced faked illness on the big day to avoid making a fool of himself in front of the girls in town.

Well, someone did make a fool of himself that day. How I managed to stay on my feet for the full five minutes on stage on that day is still a mystery to me. The school assembly hall was just a sea of blurry faces (though I did notice a few girls from our sister school sniggering away at my discomfiture). I am convinced that I spoke in English on that day but my friends were equally convinced that I was speaking in Foochow. Sibu is a Foochow town.

The traumatic experience left a scar on psyche, a scar I was determined to erase. It took many years – public speaking courses, elocution classes, a law degree and an admission to the English Bar – before I emerged from that shadow of the demon called stage fright.

I only confirmed to myself that I was a public speaker at a class reunion. At that reunion party Eric who put me in that awkward position on stage many years ago admitted that he feigned sickness because he was afraid to go on stage during the school debate.

Like all these re-union things we tried to catch up with lost time.

“What do you do now?” most we would ask.

There was a preponderance of doctors, engineers, accountants, lawyers and practitioners of the main professions in our ranks. To them the answer was simple. But it took me a few seconds to gather my thoughts before blurted out “I am a professional speaker”.

“Oh, really?” my classmates would asked incredulously.

“Yes, really, I am,” I reply as I realized that by then I have been on the speaking and training circuit for many years.

Six years ago the chief editor of our local English daily asked me if I care to write a Sunday column for his paper. “After all you have been expressing your ideas orally for many years. Just write them out.” I suppose he could be forgiven for making such a simplistic assumption. Public speaking and writing are as similar, and as different, as oranges and lemons.

I foolhardily accepted the challenge and almost as soon panic set in. How could I come up with something for the whole world to read (yes, nowadays with the internet and online publication, it is the whole world) and not made too much of a fool of myself? And what if come Saturday afternoon (my deadline) and I still stare at a blank screen on my computer?

It has been nearly six years and 300 articles published; somehow I have not missed a beat. The weekly deadline gave me the impetus to write. I have to search for topics constantly. In so doing, my life has changed. It was as if I have been given a new pair of glasses – a more powerful one. I begin to see things that I did not notice before – to appreciate more fully the splendour of the world and the beings that occupy it. I have added more life to my life.

So really, the question should not be “why I write” but “why I didn’t write earlier?”

WHY I WRITE

by Diana

18/4/13

   I am always an overachiever. That is, trying to achieve the unachievable. Unachievable in my book, not others. Because I believe that, even if I fell short of my target, I won’t fall that low. So, when I was 15, about to sit for my PMR examiniation, I set myself a goal of getting straight As.

   Bahasa Malaysia, Mathematics, Geography, History, Living Skills, Science, Bahasa Iban; all checked. English? I had love-hate relationship with the subject. Perhaps I could always blame the English Language teacher who was almost constantly pregnant throughout the entire years of my lower form of schooling. I could say she made me dislike the subject with her constant vommiting while she was in class. But to be fair, I just hate to learn the technicality of a language. I guess she had the wrong approach to teach us English Languange, too technically academic in her methodology.

   But not getting an A for English was really going to ruin my entire PMR result. Diana Spencer, 7As1B. No way. So I pulled myself together, exactly a month before the exam. But how could I ace the subject if I hate studying it? This Einstein in me thought of something unconventional, doing it the way that I love it.

  Read novels. Lotsa and lotsa novels. Immersing myself in them. Absorbing the language subconsciously without actually thinking of the technicality of it. Grammar, tenses, I didn’t actually care about them. I just had a feel of what was sound and right.

    Fast forward a couple of months later, fate was kinder to me when it gifted me with this young, hot but female English teacher. She made me looking forward to English class instead of dreading it. She tackled the subject via unconventional methods. She made us listen to songs, acted in dramas and sometimes even danced!

   One day, I guess she must ran out of idea to make learning that day fun. She made us write free style. I wrote an open letter to her where I told her my love of football and of course, the athletic, handsome and good looking footballers. I started to make use of my newly acquired vocabulary in this open letter of mine. And I just loved it how crazily outrageous I could get in this piece of writing.

   Ever since that day, for 3 years I couldn’t stop writing. And eventhough this young, hot but female English teacher only taught us English for only a year, I kept on sending my piece of writings to her. Now, after almost 10 years of hiatus, I started writing again for my toastmasters speeches. And this (not so) young, (still) hot but female teacher; bless her soul, still does the checking on some of my writings.

Anyway, did I get an A for my PMR’s English? Of course.

WHY I WRITE

by Rebecca

8/4/13

Why do dancers dance?

Why do singers sing?

Why do artists create?

Because it delights others first before themselves?

I believe not.

They do it primarily because it brings pleasure to themselves. They do it because they HAVE to do it. When a dancer dances, she is no longer a separate entity from the dance, she has become.... the dance.

Similarly, I write because writing is delightful to me. It is gratifying to see the words from my mind come together then flow in perfect harmony like musical notes on a scale. It is even more pleasurable when my words produce not just a quartet but a symphony in the reader's mind. A symphony of colours, of shapes, characters and their emotions.

I write because there are things which the heart feels that cannot be simply uttered by the mouth, but they can be sculpted by the pen. And as they are chiseled to take form, a part of me lies in the words that I write. I am what I write.

I have been writing ever since I was a child, in my diary.. My first entry was like this: “Dear Diary, today my papa bought a Big Mac for me from KL. I eat until I cannot eat anymore. Aaah, thank goodness for Big Mac...”

In my primary school years, there were a few soggy pages in my diary when I wrote: “Dear Diary, my friend does not want to play with me and she got other girls not to play with me too. I hate all of them!”

During my courting years: “Dear Diary, I am so glad I have a nice boyfriend. He drove all the way from Penang to come and send me to the airport. He can be a little bit of a blockhead though.”

After I got married: “Dear Diary, WHY DID I GET MARRIED? MEN ARE STUPID!”

In many instances, I felt glad I wrote down the emotional words which reflected my state of mind at that time rather than speaking them. What is uttered cannot be retrieved. What is written can be kept as a lesson or discarded so it may not hurt another.

I write because there are stories in my mind that need to be told. Some of these stories may be incredible, some may be frivolous, some heartfelt.. whichever they are, they are tussling for an outlet, so that they may pour forth from my fingers and find their place in a paper, a notebook, newspaper, a book.. And these stories struggle to stay afloat among the other clutter in my brain for fear that they may drown and disappear. Some in the past have been shoved into black holes. They may be out of sight, but they are not gone. As long as they are not told, there is no restfulness. Therefore, I write so that they may be appeased, so that the characters are immortalized.... even if it is only for a little while, because there is always a story that needs to be told.

It is my hope that someday, my stories may be a source of reflection and pleasure to others just as they have been to me. That is why I keep writing.

WHY I WRITE

by Zabariah

11/4/13

   I am a late bloomer, when it comes to writing that is. I “discovered” my interest and my natural aptitude for writing when I was a freshman in university. I was a Social Science & Humanities student then majoring in English, and one of the assignments that we had to prepare, was a weekly journal of anything and everything under the sun. That was indeed the initiation of my love affair with writing. I found such joy and pleasure in writing. I began to look at everything with fresh perspectives, an almost childlike enthusiasm I must admit, and would look forward to my journal-writing classes. I started to experiment with new vocabulary, new idiomatic expressions, and a whole range of figure of speech. I thought then and even now, Literature and Linguistics were created just for me. Shakespeare, Lord Byron, Wordsworth, Percy Shelly, John Keats and in fact all the Romantic Poets became my idols. I aspired to be one of them. I also bought my very first Roget’s Thesaurus, with more than 20,000 words and numerous entries. I was like a child in a candy store, very happy and really thrilled. With one word, I could elaborate into substantives, phrases, verbs and even interjections. Online thesaurus was a thing of the future.

   Life indeed was rosy and beautiful.

   Of course, like any love affair, writing is not all a walk in the park for me. Yes, I sometimes experience pain and heartache too especially when I am faced with my writer’s block. It could be days when my brain refused to cooperate and come up with a single, coherent sentence. I felt like I was in the deepest abyss with no hope of getting out, and no one that could understand. It was not a pleasant feeling indeed - a yo-yo existence between ecstasy and misery. I hope I would never have to go there, ever. But it does happen, time and again.

   Somehow when I started working, the desire and the need to write were buried beneath piles of proposals and annual reports. But that did not dampen my spirit of “getting my hands dirty” and write again. That spark is still there, waiting for the right moment to rekindle itself. And it did.

   When AZAM launched its weekly column, The 3^rd Voice, I found my writing voice again. It was intellectually exhilarating, emotionally cathartic and spiritually calming. But I wanted more, I wanted to explore and write more than just a column. I wanted a memoir, my very own recollections of my life. Something that I could share with, and would remain in the recesses of people’s mind. Something to remember me by. I have even crafted the title “My field of dreams – a Memoir”. I wanted to push the boundary of my thinking and my potential. I have this conviction of leaving behind a legacy and that legacy is in the form of a creative, intimate piece of me – my writing. And that is why I write.

WHY I WRITE 

by Jenifer

11/4/13

   There were two major phases in my life when I was so geared up into writing. First phase was during my teenage years, beginning from the time I got hold of Enid Blyton’s book, all through Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys series.

  The second phase was quite late in my adolescence or rather my adulthood, when I embarked on reading the collection of short stories from the Chicken Soup series and books from Malaysian writers like Lydia Teh.

   I shall always applaud to the products of Enid Blyton. Even though she catered for children and teenagers, I revere at her style of writing. Simple, yet vivid and creative. She never failed to depict her fairy-tales in lavish and creative imaginations, I could clearly envision them in my mind up till now! Her descriptions of food were so alluring and mouth-watering, that I was either feeling thirsty or hungry, just reading a party or picnic scene. Her anecdote of “sipping a cold glass of lemonade” on a hot sunny afternoon sitting on the grassy meadow in the Famous Five series, enriched my vocabulary, and actually taught me to love the English language.

   Consequently, all these built my interest to write my own composition. My first published literary piece of work was a poem which caught the attention of my English language lecturer during my pre-University College days-entitled “When I grow Old”... She was so impressed with my choices of descriptive words which added a colourful note regarding growing old. Hence, she had it sent for printing in the college newsletter. I felt honoured and jubilant, a commendation coming from a Liverpudlian woman. That was my first attempt to actually publicise my original writing.

The second phase in life which once more ignited the interest to write was the debut of the Chicken Soup series, which related real-life stories of moral values and exemplary experiences that motivated and inspired. Upon reading Lydia Teh’s “Life’s Like That”, I suddenly realised this woman is simply writing the thoughts, dramas, arguements and discussions which I re-enact in my mind everyday.

Lydia Teh made our day-to-day routine animatedly hilarious because she never failed to inject humour and poke fun at herself in a pleasant unoffensive manner. I thought why not I start writing short stories of my own childhood experience as a tribute to those people I admire. My parents, especially my mum has many stories of old days and Bidayuh folklores which no one has ever written and published by local writers. Instead, we have many foreigners who are willing to collect and compile these short stories.

   As a conclusion, my main reasons “why I write”, can be divided into three. Firstly, following the footsteps of Enid Blyton, depicting vivid imaginative details whilst conveying moral values. Secondly, paying tribute to my family, teachers and friends by recounting and re-enacting their “unsung heroic” deeds. Finally, relating and writing stories, and anecdotes of day-to-day experiences with a twist of humour and fun to encourage, motivate and inspire.

WHO ARE WE?

Jenifer

Aspiring Writer

Rebecca

Aspiring writer.

Dunstan

The only real writer in our group.
Weekly columnist..

and.. FOUR books on the way.

Zabariah

Aspiring writer.

Diana

Frustrated ........ aspiring writer.