undoing a shape

Last night I was writing Dorina’s story and I was getting nothing out of my head. Was drinking cane juice and listening to the ballgame and falling in bed and it just wasn’t working, I kept asking myself, how can I establish the fact that Dorina owns the café while the narrator left her and came back even after she had gone mad… All this, in under 2000 words?

Then I tell myself, in the early stages of drafting a story, it’s important to let it go and be willing to experience with different forms. Allow lots and lots of room for the shape of the story to change. Let the characters write themselves. Had I known that before, I would have walked less long roads to complete my previous stories. It’s all part of discovering the craft. Naturalness wins.

the wide window

I'm writing a scene in which Dorina and the narrator are sitting at a little round table on the upper level of a coffee shop that is closed. Yet there they are, sitting there, all to themselves, watching through this window, a funeral procession for a person they knew but never met.

Last night I wrote a chunk of the dialogue, but then I was too tired, and I fell asleep with my desk lamp still on. Tonight I took that dialogue, rearranged it and refined it a little.

confidence

Not sure where this source of confidence comes from when I haven't even been published. But I’m going to be a very good writer. I just know it. I know it even on days that I don’t write.

yet it's not about me

To what extent do you retain your innocence?

I believe people are good no matter how you look at them. I believe I'm good no matter how you look at me.

Does writing become more difficult for you as you drift further and further away from your innocence?

It hasn't become so difficut yet. I write what I want to write and I can say pretty much what I want to say. The more I practice, the more I become aware of how to say exactly what I want to say.

night

night, how high is the half moon
stars there are none
dusts of reality move faster each day, but where to?
faces, wearing masks
the day is really tired
bodies go home and hearts are lost

how lucky
you're by my side to cheer me on
how lucky
the heart's longing is unwasted

dreams, no matter how good
disappear and all is lost
but love grows not old, it runs forward
tomorrow, I still don't know
if bitter or sweet
with you, I have crossed paths, we must not stop

I turn around, in deep sleep you're smiling
and especially beautiful, why?
yet this moment there's a distance
as I watch you once, a thousand times
it's like my worries are following you to sleep
bit by bit
as my heart's love deepens, as I get close to you

night, how high is the half moon
stars there are none
but I have you by my side
the moon and stars are envious


A direct translation of the Cantonese song "night" performed by Cocos. I swear no one knows this song (or this band), but it's amazing good. An old song by an old band on an old tape. I type as I play the tape. Go back and fix a few lines to make it flow better. Much is lost in the translation, but still, it's a quick poem in a few minutes, on a night when I'm tired and can't think of what to write... ta-tah!

thirty yards out

There was a time when I thought I was unbeatable. I'd take the ball at midfield, take shots from thirty yards out and score. Shots from thirty yards out feel good even when you hit the post.

Of course, this only happens when I'm on top of my game. Back then, it didn't take much for me to shoot from way out. Shots were actually more accurate when I didn't think mainly of scoring. Just the sheer nice feeling was good enough. The act itself commands respect.

I didn't write tonight.

on value and behaviour

Back writing today. After class went to Starbucks at the newly renovated Sheraton Parkway Hotel and took full advantage of the hotel setting (nice chairs and tables) for an hour of reading. Revisited Anthony Robbins’s Unlimited Power today. He writes about values and how we have to set our values straight and discover what our behaviour is for these values. Values are primal and emotionally charged. They determine our behaviour and decision making process.

I decide to take some time to discover the values of my characters. Then I would know their behaviour. I would be able to explain their behaviour.

An exciting week in store for me:

Yesterday -- Chris Wong concert at Hummingbird (I’m so glad I went!)
Thursday -- Anthony Robbins talk
Friday -- Event with David Gilmour at IFOA

A singer-songwriter, a motivational speaker, and an established author. What can I take from all three?

night's good when i'm in one piece

Another day of not having written. (Contradictory, for I am now typing here). I had planned to. But work got in the way. At least it wasn't the tedious stupid work like yesterday. Besides typing here, I had a few other options: 1) Read. I'm still sauntering through Nellcott Is My Darling and I'm on the last chapter of Alice in Wonderland. 2) Watch the baseball game on TV. But late night TV is always unwise.

So I'm here.

About this story I'm working on, I've set a few pointers for myself:

• Use short and clear sentences
• Narrow the scope of your story
• Catch yourself when you start to speak in metaphors and stringy sentences
• Tell it in 1500 words
• Really really know your characters before you write

So yes, these pointers are to guide me to write a better story. The point is for me to improve on each story I write. I want to be a great writer. I want to be great like Raymond Carver and Julio Cortazar.

On a night in which I haven't written, I did produce the following composition in response to a rather undefined question posed to me in an online discussion board: What do you do when you're sad?

I stay away from people who are negative. There are people out there whom you talk to and they either make you feel like you want to kill them or you want to kill yourself. Yes, those are the type I'd stay away from.

It won't be so bad to be with another sad person if his/her sadness relates to mine, or if we could relate to each other's sadness.

I'll find some happy people to be with, but not people who are so happy their heads appear disconnected from their bodies. Those are the 'high' ones. There are many 'happy' people who are quite empty inside. I stay away from those.

It's rare to find someone happy who at the same time retains depth. A happy person who can genuinely relate to sadness is rare, and the vice versa, the same.

After walking around and around, I often find it best to sit with myself, arrive at a thought, then move forward.

stupid tedious work

Stupid tedious work took my writing time away. Now past midnight. Bits of life wasted on this stupid tedious work. Been awhile since I let my paid work get in the way of my creative work (and I'm proud to say that). Was going to scribble a little in my new story but I'm too tired now. In order to function properly the next day I need to sleep before 1am. I shall write in my head before I go to bed. I may even flip through a few pages of Taddle Creek and scribble down a few words to bitch about the stupid tedious work I've had to do today. But then, I bought a nice jacket today. Treated myself nicely. It also pays to get this stupid tedious work done so I can fully enjoy myself at the Chris Wong concert this Saturday!

as i revisit this fucked-up story

Tonight I was trying to rewrite ‘Cosmonaut’, a story I had first drafted almost two years ago. In my most recent effort to reshape this story, I saw that the story had become too long, so I divided it into two interconnected stories, and I thought it was a clever idea. But tonight, as I was trying to write one of these stories, the characters just didn't come to me. I couldn’t hear them and I couldn’t feel their texture. I didn't want to force it and end up with a contrived product. I wanted to write something different, a different theme at least, something away from the idea of ‘pondering departure.’

So I dug up a story I first drafted in 2003, a time when I barely knew what the writing life meant. Thinking back to that time makes me realize how far I've come. I never planned for Dorina’s story to be part of my collection, but I feel, at this point in time, that this is the story I really want to explore, and I know this story so vividly that I should be able to complete it in a month. I know this story. I’ve had it in my head for years. There aren’t that many questions to answer. As I started drafting and making prep notes, I heard myself saying, this is a really fucked-up story. Because of this, I want to explore it even more, though I don’t aspire too much to become a writer known for writing fucked-up stuff.

you're so fucked up it's not funny

Was at North York Central Library today to submit my manuscript for the writer-in-residence. Then I passed by the Starbucks located in the corner of the Civic Centre where they have tables set up outside. I saw this girl sitting there, writing in her notebook. The night was still warm enough she could sit and write outside. Light jazz was playing in the back. She was wearing a scarf, though I might have imagined it. I thought she looked like Maya.

My problem is I seem to settle for nostalgia. For example, I was at another Starbucks earlier today, the one close to my home. I was sitting at a spot on the counter marking my students’ papers and this girl came up and was talking to the guy who was making a latte. While they were talking she was all nervous. She was holding one hand with the other hand and was standing on the tip of her soles to peek over that coffee machine. At the end of their talk the girl said, “I’ll see you after work.” And I thought: How nice_________. I didn’t stop to finish the sentence. It’s just a petty sentiment. I worry that it weakens my writing and blurs the way I see things, so that things become purple, and I resort to hiding behind metaphors and writing about skaters and snowfields. I became so concerned about this while I was marking the papers (since I couldn’t stop to follow up on the thought), I resigned by saying to myself, you’re so fucked up it’s not funny. You’re so fucked up it’s not funny.

reminder to self

Reminder to self:

Use adverbial front-tags only when necessary. Don't overuse your 'after all's.

It's kind of cheating to create shock with quirk, and really annoyingly cheating if your quirk follows no logic.

Watch yourself when you're overly inspecting a text for rhythm.

Are you hiding behind a metaphor that you think is kinda cool?

Are your characters doing the same old things again? Sitting at coffee shops or benches staring at things like glass or the surface of water and pondering departure? Are they suffering from a hot-cold illness? Are they resigned to letting someone go without saying a word!?

registration

I dropped into the doctor’s office without an appointment because I felt my ailment had worsened and it qualified as a semi-emergency. I got there just before the newborn baby. A very newborn baby. The mother carried it there accompanied by two other women. The mother needed to find the paper about the baby because the nurse asked for it, but the mother left the paper at home, so the two women went home to get it for her. The baby made tiny ung ung sounds while they sat and waited for the paper (and I was reading Alice in Wonderland the whole time. First time reading it. Had been meaning to read it for the longest time. Picked it up from the bookstore yesterday for my long-weekend reading. I’m at the part where the Cheshire cat’s head is hovering above the queen and the soldiers as they debate whether the floating head could be beheaded). The paper came. The nurse asked why the baby’s name is not on it. Boy or girl, she asked. Girl. Name? Mandy. It sounded as though the mother thought of the name on the spot. Are you sure, the nurse asked, I’m gonna write it! The baby made ung ung sounds. Had no say over nothing. Little soul doesn’t get to decide her name, and who does? The nurse filled in the form and the baby was registered. The women sat with Mandy as they waited for the doctor. This is what I saw. This is all I wrote today.

the air that carries over

I notice an excitment about writing at night. First of all, the night does seem a little longer if I plan to write after dinner; it's like: there's a whole world after dinner! Whereas when I used to write in the morning, I used to rush doing my dishes, scamper to my room, check the clock to see if I've got time to read before tiring myself out by eleven in order to sleep and wake at five next morning. None of that now. I go on till 12:34am. And since I get a ride to work next morning, I can steal a few minutes of reading before I bury myself to bed. Though by then (or even by now), my head's a little jumbly, and if I scribble in my journal before I sleep, I might end up exhausting the last bit of 'air' that could save me from having tired eyes next morning if I chose to get straight to bed and sleep, lights out, right away.

as i move down the aisle to plant time

Settling into writing at night. I would still prefer to write in the morning but it’s become almost impossible to drag myself up at five every morning. I would prefer to write in the morning if I weren’t so tired. Maybe I’ll find a job in the future where I work in the afternoon so that I can use the late morning to write. Just a thought. I admit I do spend much time thinking about how my writing time will turn out for me as this life of my rolls out in a long carpet.

I produced this passage:

Across the water, an elderly couple came to a bench. The man held the woman under her arms and half-lifted her from the walking cart to the bench. Then he took out a box of blueberries from the grocery bag and gave it to her. She ate them one by one. She offers the box to the man who takes a few in his hands and picks from his handful. They watch the scenery about them. When the man finished, the woman offers the box of blueberries again, and he takes a few more.