Trivial

The trivialitites of my life, without which would mean a hollow emptiness:

Buy new sandals/winter jacket/underwear for the daughter because we are going back to Singapore this weekend and winter will almost be at our doorstep when we return.

Buy necessities for the trip because I am now used to certain German toiletries. One example is the Proschmelz toothpaste (which removes plaque effectively!) as opposed to the Darlie one I grew up with.

Mental note to self not to acquire new summer clothes to strut around the Lion City as hot summer days here in this country have become almost non-existent.

Get a prepaid data plan for Singapore while I resist the temptation to have one in Germany. I am a living contradiction.

Prepare my body with smoothies and salads (in vain because I have been ditching that diet in favour of a bout of carbo indulgence: pasta soaked in homemade pesto or shrimp noodles drenched in hae bee hiam) before stuffing my face with greasy deliciousness.

Anticipating grudgingly the clinging humidity that awaits me, us.

Can't wait to see my family and friends. I really do miss them.

I certainly did not expect this spur-of-the-moment frivolity would bring tears to the eyes. Writing is indeed an evidence of love, as beautifully explained by Anne Lee Tzu Pheng in this interview excerpt:

Q: What inspires you? In life and in writing.

A: Love. Because it makes you want to give, and learn, through giving, how to receive. Love is at the root of creative writing: writing is a giving of yourself to the Other, to the world through expressing the human. Human beings need to know what they are, what their world is, and the writer uses language to open up, to activate, both the desire to know and the things worth knowing.

 

 

Lamenting

I was lamenting to friends it takes far too long for editors to reply these days and a brief discussion ensued if sharing my writings on social media wouldn't be more effective and faster. I am all for sharing good stuffs. Other people's good stuffs, that is. As the friend puts it, 'You are a young writer with an old soul.' I can't agree more. I am a young writer who is still in search of her own voice and style. I have a lot to learn and like a grandstander, I crave for applause, not from friends who are often too kind to criticise, but from experienced writers who possess the expertise to cast my lesser writings to the bin and said no to the face of my email. Mostly, I starve for criticism to improve and be better. I do not want to swim in my little well and fantasize that I am good enough because I know I am not. I discover however a rejection is also a form of criticism. A wordless silent kind of criticism. A recent rejection is living proof of that theory. It doesn't feel good to be rejected of course but at least it spurned me on to work harder in order to gain the acknowledgment I yearn. This is the path I have chosen and no matter how rough and long the path may be, I cannot turn back or it would be a sort of betrayal and lie to myself and my family.

But why do I need someone else's stamp of approval on my works? If the simple act of writing sometimes brings tears to my eyes and a shudder down my spine, isn't that good enough for me? Yes and no. Yes because I am grateful beyond words that I find joy while writing. It really does feel like an inner calling, nevermind the cliche (ok, it makes me flinch a little writing that) And no because maybe I feel people-pleasing is the way to go in this attention-seeking world and I am part of this superficial age and it simply feels good to be acknowledged. Apologies, I just can't help being contradicting.

Still I refuse to believe Bukowski's

'if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don’t do it.'

even though I love his raw honest writings to bits.