So I printed a book. You can find out about the book here. It's a slip-shot website that I created about the book and its collection details.
I haven't directly addressed my book production in both meekfreak/sneakspeak. Perhaps I don't know how to begin. I don't quite yet know why I'm addressing now. Perhaps I think I should address it because it's just this huge personal episode for me, but this has happened in such a rapid cascade of events that I don't quite have the time to think what should be said properly, or what are the answers that people want to hear. What do you want to know? Ask me. Or else I don't know what should be said.
Today I spent about half an hour, waiting underneath a tree. I was listening to some Thai pop rock and thought about how lucky I am. When I was home, I found a green caterpillar on my arm. I hope that there aren't any caterpillars in my hair. I flicked it away and then picked it up with a piece of toilet paper, and then I carefully threw the toilet paper out of my bedroom window. I knocked my head against the back of my window, because I was standing on the table so to reach as far out as possible. Poor caterpillar. Displaced. I hope it doesn't feel too lonely. I hope it is not even aware of how lonely it must be.
And I was scrolling around the internet, looking for something to read but I didn't find any. Then I thought that meekfreak/sneakspeak are also huge personal episodes for me, so I'd just try to write something, in case anyone wants to read.
I left my job about 5 months ago. I printed a book and am running out of money. Today's newspapers' headlines were about how the jobmarket is going to suck for the next few months. My mother had asked me if I regret leaving my job. If I were still at it, I would have been there for 2 years come 12th Dec. I remember such things. But I don't remember the birthday of my best friends. I've concluded that I'm a workaholic. But I do love my friends. I don't even remember the birthday of my grandmother. But I do love her. This is a picture of my grandmother.
It was taken a few years ago, when she was healthy enough to make dumplings for the occasion. Those were the best dumplings I've ever tasted, and I suspect, they will be the best that I'll ever taste. I don't know how to make dumplings. But I recently heard about why Mr Qu Yuan killed himself. Apparently, if I remember correctly, he did it to protect his ideals. He believed in the country he worked for (he was a statesman/advisor to the king), but because he knew the country was going to fall, and if he was to watch his country fall, his ideals would smash against the rocks like waves on the shore. So he smashed his head instead, against the rocks of the river bed. Now we all have dumplings to eat. I'm taking for granted that everybody knows dumplings were what the people made to feed the fishes so that they won't feed on Qu Yuan's dead body.
My ah ma is very proud of me that I have printed my book. She doesn't understand English but she would sometime surprise me by knowing some alphabets and understanding snippets of English conversations.
I told her, that now that I've printed the book, I feel that it's no big deal. I have no reason to act humble in front of my grandma, but I really feel that it's a matter of going to the printer with some essays and paying them to print. Sometimes, I have this strange tendency to trivialise my accomplishments. But then again, at the same time, I also know that it's been an arduous undertaking and it's arduous in a way that it cannot be fully articulated, and therefore, perhaps, the effort deserves no further validation. Are you confused? I beg your pardon. I am confused too.
How do I feel? I feel about one hundred levels of emotions that I cannot accurately discern apart.
Some friends reminded me that they are happy to see that the book is finally out. I have been talking about it since forever. (I have records that I wanted to have finished a book more than 5 years ago.) I am embarrassed that it is done so late. But I am comforted that I have friends who are with me for more than 5 years, and who are simply happy for me to see that I've fulfilled my "dream" of producing a book. and to remind me, that simply to have produce them is success already, even if I just stuff them underneath my bed, and then underneath my corpse in my coffin when I finally die.
Indeed. Perhaps now I can say, with this little bit more credibility, if there's anything you want to do, just do it. (I may add that after you do it, you may feel that it was nothing much too, but then again, you may be different from me - you may feel great, or you may feel shittier. Even I may feel different about it tomorrow.) But just go and do it lor. It's not hard to start taking the little steps towards it. It's like stepping stones across a torrent river. Looking at the river - it's fucking scary. But just concentrate on the next stone and worry about the next next stone later. If anyone asks me for any advice, I think that's the best one that I can offer up now.
Some very patient friends, I cannot thank them enough, had to suffer my repetitive questions, that were simply begetting reassurance under the pretence of being rhetorical. How wonderful is life to have people like that around.
And the excitement now lies in what people think about the stories, how they can stand up for themselves. Can they stand up for themselves? When you read them, don't just read into how it has been a fierce undertaking for me, read them for themselves. I hope they stand up for themselves. They are my children. Now that they've been put to print, I can only hope that they'll be independent and make a living for themselves. That's me - I'm a mother like that. Of course I hope that they'll be accomplished in their field. But if they're not, I can't help it either, right? I will be disappointed, but I will not be ashamed. Is that how mothers feel like? I bet some mothers feel ashamed. I hope I won't feel ashamed.
On occasions, I likened my anxieties and the entire experience as a crab (crab eat rotten meat) that sits on my heart and tear off and nibble at the throbbing muscle that's probably sickened by the paranoia and the panic that ran amok. I don't quite know how the analogy works. But I don't want to explain too much.
These are just some examples of how I feel.
My sentiments about putting the book together, accompanied by my instinctive rambling style, could be compiled into a fucking telephone directory - and it may be just as boring to read. The way ahead is curious, exciting, and as scary as... the first day in primary one, except that I'm not in primary one, and there's nobody in my class, and I'm 26 and I am aware of how crazy I feel.
I take comfort that my loved ones and, those who love me, are standing outside the classroom, peering through the window, wishing me well.
The strange thing in my case, is that I am also standing outside a classroom, looking at my children - the stories - perform their first piano recital, or oral examination, or taking their first baby steps - performing for their audiences - who may or may not be my friends who are watching me outside the window of my classroom. It's like living in a M.C. Escher world.
I wish them well, too, and even though they may be like the caterpillar who doesn't know to be afraid at all, I sure am nervous like hell. I did write them, afterall.
I take a deep breath.
Come on, wish me good luck. Luck - one could always do with more good luck.
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