Susan Abraham - Malaysia

Note - August 6, 2011

For the interim or at least for the next few weeks, please catch all my book posts at Sausan Reads where I shall be posting my thoughts. Thank you.

Picture Story: O Thiam Chin at Kinokuniya Bookstore Singapore, June 2011

While based in Dublin, Ireland, I happened to be on Orchard Road in Singapore that rainy Saturday afternoon last June 11, when one of the nation's more prominent and fashionable writers, O Thiam Chin read excerpts of his latest work of flash fiction from *Under the Sun, at Crossroads, Kinokuniya Bookstore, Singapore. It would be a few days yet before I left for East Africa. I was so glad to have wandered into the scene purely by chance. A congenial gathering and the usual crowd bustle among them patient parents keen to have a listen in and their gregarious children ready for athletic sprints into the store's vibrant stationery department. O Thiam Chin was a joy to listen to and a natural inspiration for any aspiring author. He spoke with an utter seriousness and dedicated passion on the complexities that afforded for a kind writing life...one that he so thoroughly enjoyed, despite the odds.

With an easy, ready smile, he talked at some length of a natural everyday discipline that would see him produce 50 captivating flash fiction stories and also described the difficulties of having to subscribe to a detailed editing task. He is by far an elegant person to meet, a charismatic writer, charming and approachable at every turn. On reading aloud a few of his enigmatic pieces one of which proved slightly erotic, he held the crowd at a standstill. - susan abraham

Further Reading: *Under the Sun is published by the MPH Group Publishing, Kuala Lumpur. You may read interviews with O Thiam Chin on the Good Books Guide blog & The Jakarta Post. Photo Credit: The above photograph is © copyright of Susan Abraham.

Malaysian novelist Tan Twan Eng's 2nd novel, The Garden of Evening Mists, out on 2 November

Caption: A lively green for the cover design may yet prove an eye-catcher!

I'm pretty much delighted to read that Malaysian novelist, Tan Twan Eng, once longlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2007 for his first novel, The Gift of Rain, is to have a second one titled The Garden of Evening Mists, out in London on 2 November.

I gather from past observations, that this would mean simultanous distribution in several other countries as well. Like the first novel, the second hardback priced at £18.99 (ISBN: 978-1-905802-04-3) and export paperback, would also be published by independent publisher,Myrmidon Books.

I'm personally excited about the second book but then I normally am about any other novel that would herald the presence of contemporary Malaysian novelists in Britain today. In recent years, we have enjoyed a cheerful number starting with Rani Manicka and this followed by Tash Aw, a little later, Tan and Preeta Samarasan and more recently Shamini Flint and Chiew-Siah Tei.

I am careful to mention the writers who stay the big names and with the exception of Flint at the last count; those who enjoy agented representation, are still in print with mainstream publishing houses and receive absolutely fantastic world distribution.

I believe there is another Malaysian writer in Britain to come; Ivy Ngeow, who was once published by Silverfish (Malaysia) and who won an international literary prize at Middlesex University in 2005, is currently agented but not yet published.

The Gift of Rain received worldwide critical acclaim. During my travels, I remember seeing Tan's novel being displayed for sale in unlikely regions and of course, at several airports while in transit.

Then, Tan had turned his pen to setting his plot in 1939 Penang, thus, etching his story deep into the complexities of an intense Malayan history that occured three years before the rampage and subsequent occupation of the Japanese in World War 2. Tan's storyline later moved beyond.

In the modern tale, an obvious exotic imagery crowns an almost mythical narration on the pain secured from an engagement of risky loyalties and the measured artistry of an opulent indulgence with *aikido, a Japanese culture relying on the searching rules of a life energy, and for which I've often read that Tan is himself famed.

The Garden of Evening Mists returns to a Malaya now 10 years later, in 1949.

In a new plot that bears no relation to the first one, Yun Ling Teoh, a traumatised and solitary survivor of a brutal Japanese wartime camp, still seeks solace from the Northern Malayan jungles close to where she grew up. Thankfully, she hasn't done too badly. With a law degree from Cambridge, she spends her time helping to prosecute Japanese war criminals.

In the midst of her trying time, she stumbles upon Yugiri, a single Japanese garden in Malaya created and owned by Aritomo, an exile and a former gardener to Japan's Emperor. Much as Yun Ling deplores the Japanese people, she feels compelled to request that Aritomo builds her a garden in Kuala Lumpur, in memory of a sister who perished in the prison camp. After an initial refusal, Aritomo eventually agrees with Teoh as his apprentice for a temporal season until the monsoon arrives.

The plot promises to widen and entice its reader with its entrance into the fringes of human intimacy and stirs up strong hints of unanswered questions There are dark secrets wound around the day-to-day realities. All the while, threats of murders and kidnappings from jungle guerrillas, stay one of these.

Why do I feel from just embarking on the summary alone, that here stands a plot, screaming to be turned into an intriguing film...

Tan Twan Eng who lives in Cape Town, South Africa and is now working on his third novel has always provided for high inspirations with regards to an admirable disciplined focus in his attitude towards the subject of novel-writing in general. He is not visible on the virtual networking scene but keeps his presence as a writer vibrant, with consistent appearances at international writing festivals. - susan abraham

*Aikido - Its detailed definition of a Japanese martial art resting on the philosophies of Morihei Ueshiba, may be found HERE.

Haji's Book of Malayan Nursery Rhymes by A.W. Hamilton

 

About my Find

Not too long ago when I stopped in Kuala Lumpur and visited the splendid Kinokuniya Bookstore, this quaint treasure of a children's poetry book, beckoned to me shyly, from a locked glass showcase. There it waited...a handsome Malaysian antiquarian item... regally poised in all of its ancient glory. The beautifully preserved second-hand edition titled Haji's Book of Malayan Nursery Rhymes, stood silently with several other sterner out-of-print hardback editions; all determined to feature tales and essays of an older Malaya, still laden with her sharp aristocratic flavour. Never you mind that in the same fashion which may have just as well befitted a toffee-nosed mannequin marvellously holding every strand in place, neither too would any page or content be held amiss.

With a gasp, I was thrown from adulthood into the enthrallment of a child's simple joys, than apparent in Klang town's famous Caxton Bookshop on Rembau Street. Back in the 1960s and 1970s, the groundfloor that made for a row of rambling old shophouses, ran riot with jigsaw puzzles and picture books.

My thoughts fell instantly into a cache of abundant memories, so gracefully matched with the wonder of the moment.

I felt ironically blessed for a birthday that had now stumbled into the late summer of my life. While happily encased in the present New Age digital world, I had once tasted the fading influences of British colonalism in the Far East, also. This, not to be imagined from novels but the real thing. How richly then had the literary influences of England been stirred into a potpourri of multicultural Malay, Chinese, Indian, Sikh and Eurasian communities with nary a complication, at least not that was offered to a child's visible notions. This of course, combined with varied enchanting storytelling elements that each culture so liberally allowed for its leisurely moments.

Without hesitation, I purchased the only edition that appeared to be present.

It set me back RM690 (about 150 euros). Of course, there were vital reasons for this. Book-collecting of somewhat rare and personal gems had turned into a passionate hobby and here was an opportunity too good to miss. Besides, I was seduced by the vault of memories that had so quickly engulfed me...that familar seduction of late, that demanded I write a novel on my childhood.

Caption: A little Malay girl in her sandals, stares anxiously at the heavy pelts of tropical rain being blown about by the wind while being kept dry by a hardy umbrella.

 

About the Author

Sadly, I know scant about A.W. Hamilton although I did receive a strong impression of his dedication to the Malay Language and I am familiar with his selection of pantuns. The trouble is as children we recite the poems, ballads, tales and songs with whoops of relish and later, mentally store away renditions with an equal fervour, but at such a tender age, spare little thought for the person who wrote them. Among a few of his works, I would discover Hamilton's Malay Pantuns, Malay Proverbs - Bidal Melayu and Malay Made Easy - Covering the Dutch East Indies and Malaya.

 

About the Book

Mine's a densely speckled and yellowed version of a 1956 reprint, published by the then Donald Moore Ltd, at MacDonald House on Orchard Road, Singapore. Haji's Book of Malayan Nursery Rhymes had been treated to its first publication in 1939, three years before the start of the Japanese Occupation as a result of World War II, in the Malayan Peninsular, Borneo and Singapore. The second reprint would be later published in Australia in 1947. I get the clear impression before feeling subsequently thrilled that the copy now lining my library shelf, had surely passed through several appreciative hands once upon a time, in the forgotten past.

What I found fascinating was Hamilton's Preface. He wrote that some of the Malayan Nursery Rhymes received their original publication as early as 1922 in pamphlet form, at the time of the Malaya-Borneo exhibition. They were then reprinted the following year, by the Methodist Publishing House in Singapore where the local poems were issued with both cardboard covers and illustrations, as an added attraction.

In his Preface, Hamilton also wrote most humbly that he considered the Malayan poems he so ably translated from a numerous collection of popular English rhymes, to be recognised as a product of Malaya and that he would take no credit for his industry. He dedicated the verses and what may even be viewed as limericks... solely for the indulgence of the little folk.

Caption: In a kampung, an old crooked man labelled as 'orang bongkok' takes a slow stroll to his attap home, held deftly by stilts. Next to his hut, lies a coconut tree.

Here are a few examples:

Georgie Porgie

Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie, Kissed the girls and made them cry; When the girls came out to play, Georgie Porgie ran away.

Now, the old Malay version would read:

Awang Bawang

Awang Bawang, kachang kobis, Chium anak dara, nangis; Bila kawan keluar chari, Awang Bawang sudah lari.

- Excerpt taken from Haji's Book of Malayan Nursery Rhymes.

and for another example,

Hey, Diddle Diddle

Hey! Diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.

Here, the Malay version would read:

Kuching Dengan Biola

Hai! mula-mula, Kuching dengan biola; Lembu melompat ka-bulan. Anak anjing ketawa, Suka tengok melawak, Dan sendok di-larikan pinggan.

- Excerpt taken from Haji's Book of Malayan Nursery Rhymes

The book still slightly frail in my hands, is made up of about a 100 pages of a commendable compilation of English rhymes. These are followed simulatenously by translations; each rhyme pairing up with a Malay version, featuring the older Malay vocabulary and spelling. Now, I was familiar with these as we still studied the older version for a while in the classroom, before an overhaul of the language took place a little later.

Several of the couplets are rather short, resulting in quite a few poems scattered together on a solitary page. The book ends with an added seven pages, featuring nothing but a heavy glossary of English-Malay definitions, giving me another distinct impression of how thorough a writer A.W. Hamilton was and of how much pride he placed  in his work.

 

 

About the Illustrations

I was really bowled over by the illustrations and I have placed a few here in this post.

In his Introduction, Hamilton also took time out to thank Mrs Nora Hamerton, who I gather was already a well-known illustrator in Malaya, during the time. She is mentioned a few times on the web and I was delighted to read that Badan Warisan Malaysia, had described Hamerton's early illustrations as a fine piece of work. I wish more accolades had been awarded her and that there would have been an appropriate biographical detail to her artwork, that would have been easily accessible.

Perhaps not even that, but just merely for Nora Hamerton to have been better celebrated for her artistry and talent. I also observed that Hamerton had worked with Hamilton on other childrens' books too. Once more, the poet and translator mentioned in his Preface that Nora Hamerton had resided in Kapar, Selangor. That drew this book really close to home for me. Although the thoughtful artist graced my patch many many years before I was born, my eyes still shone with excitement to read that the illustrator had lived on the fringes of Klang, where I myself had been raised in the Sixties.

I was tickled by some of the illustrations especially that of an old Tamilian lady who wore her saree with no blouse under the wrap. I remembered with a start that as a little girl, I often saw older ladies like these sauntering on the roadside, where they lived in nearby squatters made up of  attap houses or trooped down into town, from the neighbouring palm oil estates. The memory was especially distinct as I remember the sarees in rainbow hues as was the fashion during the time ie. an electrifying pink, a lime green or sky blue etc. Without a doubt, some of the toothless wizened women attracted public attention but seemed oblivious of it. The illustrations envelop all the races and I was touched to see also, a Nyonya mother and her child in their costumed regalia.

What a tender journey into the past from a little book festooned with nostalgic literary delights, still young to the mind after the twilight toil of long and winding roads. - susan abraham 

Caption: A merry band of children link hands and dance round a banana tree while singing a Malay rendition of 'Round the Mulberry Bush'

Further Reading:

i) For further reading, you may like to engage in the following essay, published in a French journal and titled: The Poetics of the Pantun. ii) A collection of definitions affliated to the Pantun in English may also be found HERE.

 

Picture Story - A Rush of Colour

Ireland's talented florists know how to turn any humble sidewalk into a glorious mini-garden, a carnival or even parade if you like. Seduced by the rush of colour, I fished out my Android for an amateur shot of this scene on Grafton Street, one of Dublin's more fashionable districts, tastefully moulded for both window shopping and a flamboyant cafe culture.

Photograph of flower stall on Grafton Street, Dublin © copyright of Susan Abraham

As Things Are

Its been close to two weeks since I've returned to Ireland and I think that the jet lag left me properly about four days ago. I woke up, having completely lost my fatigue and extreme bouts of sleepiness & even a couple of mild sensations of nausea - yes, it was really bad this time - and was thankfully, treated to a lot more renewed energy and a restored interest for the visions I  had planned to pursue.

I won't be sending out my manuscript submissions until the month of September when the autumn season sets in. I've just remembered that August is still very much - and possibly at its peak - England's vacation month. There is certainly a major drop to the number of book talks and signings during this time. Lest offices be half-empty, I don't fancy the increased chances of my submission for the slush pile, by having my story lost somewhere, on a thick waiting stack.  I'll use August for polishing up my manuscripts and also for engaging in other writing projects.

One thing that I'm really happy about is that with this new refreshing vibrance, about to envelop me for days on end, I have gone back to reading books with a vengence. It's not even been a fortnight yet and I have already bought several titles from the bookshops and just this morning, went along to order 5 or 6 more specialist titles with regards to Arabic literature, published by independent houses in London.

I'm a big spender when it comes to books and as one of the new luxuries in life afforded me, I stay unrepentant about this sacred joy. I believe I have contributed in a major way to the upkeep of traditional print, from my book-buying episodes here in Ireland and also elsewhere. One of my greatest passions is book-collecting which supplements my varied reading interests.

After several months of disruption - thanks to certain unwelcoming issues & circumstances in my life - I am now back to really celebrating translated Arabic and Persian fiction once more. For a while, I had completely lost the mood and inclination.  In a nutshell, my interest in books has been renewed to wanting to talk and write about them and to return to reading my favourite British book bloggers like I used to do so fervently,  in the past.

I realise too that all my deep loves never really go away. No door to a beautiful episode in the memory, is ever sealed. There will never be a closure. I say this because something very old and tender about Italy has returned to me.  Once more, I am suddenly drawn to the flamboyance and enduring charm of its old-world culture.

I remember now, that my serious interest in world literature in that very astute, grown-up way, first started when I lived in Melbourne, Australia and was often attracted to the romantic and passionate pre-war Italian films shown over the SBS channel. It didn't count that I did indulge in a fair bit of Chinese literature, back in the Nineties, while still in Kuala Lumpur. After all, Chinese culture forms an integral part of Malaysian life, so I consider my reads than a natural and certainly, the most ordinary thing. Till the present day, my passions for both world cinema and literature stay closely connected. My interest in Nigerian novels was also fuelled with the abundance of Nigerian films, I so enjoyed watching, while in Tanzania especially in the later part of 2008.

Picture Story - My Library

Here's a tiny portion of my collected books. I do love the clutter.

© Photograph copyright of Susan Abraham

Note

My resolution - and I can only pray that I manage to see this through - is to keep away from Facebook and ouch!...this is going to be so hard for me - for the next 8 days, at least. I am hoping to stay  focussed this coming week to send out my submissions, to some  daring places. Now, God help me there as well. I need to be strict with myself.

If I can keep off FB where I have often felt inclined to share links or comment on something, than I would have gained the measure of time in a generous fashion. This determination will definitely be easier for me in the current phase of my life, as I am not anywhere close to half of the interest as a whole, that I used to demonstrate on FB, about a year ago. A fair bit of the novelty has  already worn off and I'm possibly turning up on the site like a bad penny, more from habit than anything else.

Now, I would gladly stop tweeting as well.  Still, this wouldn't be wise as I really cherish my prized followers who have stayed with me from the early days and whom I've noticed, remain selective with minor lists of Follows.  I'm thinking tweeps like The Bookseller UK, Emirates Airline, Magrudy's Bookstore (Dubai), The Emirates Festival of Literature and so on. 

In truth, I'm just one of those writers who aren't good at social networking and writing a book at the same time. I yearn in this digital age, to be a recluse. I would give anything for a season of isolation.

I am very thankful to be back in my apartment here in Dublin, where I'm shrouded by both a physical and emotional space plus the freedom to write and read, as I please, before leaving again for Australia.  One senses the immediate serenity after the noise and clutter of S.E. Asia and East Africa. The major consolation is that tranquility allows me to to easily concentrate on my plans. I have gathered so much raw material that large chunks of photographic scenes, still wait in queue in my head.  They scream to be penned down, albeit an unruly style. The latter doesn't matter.

Right now, I'm at a crossroads where my interests are changing in numerous ways. I want to create stories and read specific literature that lure my ambitions forward with a bold jolt. I need to turn to things and people that inspire or motivate me. The energy needs to be just right.  I am forever fussy like that.

I suspect no passion really goes away but may hibernate on a back-burner, while another door opens for the meantime. At the moment, this spells a week of writing for me but with more urgency than intended. The preparation of a synopsis, query letters and so on...  It's not yet been a week that I've returned to Ireland, but I've managed to rearrange my library just the way I like it, tidy my very messy writing desk, collate the majority of my notes and material etc. Just some necessary displaced activity and I'm glad that that's sorted.

Credit: Free clip art of laptop courtesy of PureClipArt

Getting Started

by Susan Abraham

There is something rather magical about a Dublin sunrise. In my neighbourhood, the cry of a curlew cuts through the wind like the memory of a surreal misty morning, in an old English film. 

It's warmer today than it was a day ago.

There was no sign of a summer when I arrived. 

Only a sharp blustery to cajole a mild autumn flavour that spelt grey skies, pullovers and a sombre mood.

I took a few long walks while enjoying my strolls. One was to my favourite corner shop at the end of a picturesque street and another, downtown, where I lingered for a bit at a couple of favourite bookshops and settled for a tall chai at a cafe.

Still jet-lagged and in this case, accompanied by a heavy weariness, I wasn't in the proper mood to shop for novels or some enticing non-fiction.

I try not to spend money when I am tired, afraid otherwise, that I would waste precious euros, on the wrong thing. So far, my efforts have raked up a pretty good habit.

 

Feeling purposeful, I settled for some necessary writing magazines and the much

awaited and long-established Writers' and Artists' Yearbook 2012, now in its 105th edition.  Just so that I could get started with my pitches and query letters. To be honest, this updated version, was what I longed for with my whole heart.

The newest edition came out last month and I dreamt about it all the time I travelled. I'd not come across it anywhere else in East Africa, the Gulf, Malaysia or Singapore. Still, I would have been reluctant to buy one, the weighty directory, doing no favours to my luggage.

To my relief, I finally got to hold the book in my hands yesterday. Perusing my prized tome that evening, I was in no doubt that the manual proved an exciting essential encyclopedia, carefully designed for aspiring and established writers, worldwide. 

Several vital subjects were adequately covered. and  Where a majority of the markets and addresses proved to be in the United Kingdom, there were also listings for publishers, literary agents and other international media, worldwide. 

Any writer who published their work locally in a different continent, would still benefit richly from the varied articles that stretched on anything from the greeting card writing game and managing an online reputation and this, together with global listings of poetry, newspaper and magazine journalism markets, successful blog-writing, book publicity, the science of the e-book and the setting up of a writer's website, societies, prizes, awards and festivals; to a neat stack of self-help articles from established authors, self-publishing, creative writing courses, copyright issues and so much else.

I stayed focussed in my needs and while I would eventually find  other sections useful; was interested only in the literary agents. This edition proved most helpful. 

I haven't sifted through my directory as diligently yet, but already to my delight, I've pounced upon articles on how to prepare a synopsis for different genres and in-depth features of the literary agent. I'm aware of similar helpful tips on the internet, but to have all my publishing needs compiled into one friendly manual, conjures up a  blessing. 

Plus, there are other refresher courses for my slightly dusty mind. 

Some of the features include i) the role of the literary agent ii) how to know if you need an agent iii) how literary agencies work iii) how to attract the attention of a literary agent iv) how to get a literary agent & v) how to make a successful submission to the agent etc.  I noticed that although the titles may look too closely latched together, each subject serves to  offer an industrious detailed overview and have been carefully written by experts in their field.

These are then followed by the UK and US listings of agents, together with several others based in different international regions. I observed many established ones and gave a sigh...this would in no unlikely terms, be the hardest to penetrate through.

There are newer agencies but quite a few have reflected the inability to cope with the mountain of submissions that come their way.  Thus, the consequences lie in closed submissions on an agency's website for instance and this...dating to about a year ago.

And if I wasn't the proper masochist already, there was also a clear affirmation that as the saying goes, it would currently, prove much harder for a writer to get a literary agent in England over a publisher. Agents would be deemed to be slightly more ruthless in their focus for business and would not sign a writer on, unless the work held a clear chance of being sold.

At the same time, lest the creative finger be pointed accusingly at the hint of any dollar sign that may mark for misjudgement; many literary agents provide for cutting edge reputations and demand high standards for manuscripts including the fluency of language.

What I really loved about 2012 edition of the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook, turned out to be its gentler humane side. I was moved to see a few good comforting pages written by Alison Straw, on the slick ways of dealing with rejection. Tenderly penned and with great respect for the writer, Straw outlines the ways in which a writer is urged to moved on, even after a series of painful rejections. The key is of course, to not take things personally.

What spurs on the personal desired motivation  is that many literary agents now own websites and although the majority are armed with sticky individual rules, at least, I know what's expected of me as a writer. I'm also relieved that more than quite a few literary agents now accept e-mail submissions.

Returning to this Blog - 18th July 2011

I have been absent from my Typepad blog for the longest time.

I travelled for a season, returned to Dublin, travelled again and this morning, returned to Dublin once more. Clearly, where Malaysia doubles up as a birthplace, the shaping of my childhood years and also, where I once worked in young adulthood and still return ever so often from different places to catch up with my home country;  I do view Ireland as an uncanny solid presence in my present life; a romantic spiritual home if you like and beloved sanctuary. If anything,  the fascinating assortment of birdsongs at the crack of each dawn, will happily lay claim to this.

I believe I may have also experienced some blog fatigue. But more importantly, I reached a crossroads in my life about two months ago, without being fully aware of it.

I wanted to seek out different books and cultures but I wanted this to prove a solitary journey. I a natural extrovert, got to a point when I yearned for reclusion.

I found and I'll say this most honestly and possibly too, affliated to my own individualistic nature, that I often found my enchantment sadly affected by favoured cliques - still a hidden farce in virtual social networking -whenever I sought out knowledge, a connection or similar wavelengths.  My energy towards a certain interest would then be diluted by an obligation of compromise, held towards someone else's view eg. an average manuscript with noble intentions or otherwise.

And now too, thanks to the onset of modern publishing, one is treated to a surbuban middle-class view of middle-of-the-road writers. These in my eyes, are writers who have chosen to publish on their own, to be published in a very small way but later rely on false modesty to convey favoured reviews that have been mentioned about their works, on friends' blogs and the like. I was involved in so much of this support for a while - especially apparent on Facebook. I congratulated everyone, thanked everyone...and more would be expected from me. Whereas when it came to my own work, the reciprocation of a similar goodwill, was not as forthcoming. Clearly, there was no happy balance in place.

In the end, I felt myself scouring a giddy carousel where an approved camaraderie was bestowed from broken rules on flattery, or from a frightening ramble of praise and support, no matter how wanting the quality of the manuscript, failing which as a disapproving writer, you would be left out in the cold. Of course, one always has a matter of choice but it was for me, an unhappy discovery.

At the same time, I began to miss the magic of a genuine, more competitive and challenging publishing scene in London, where about 7 to 8 years ago, I often attended the city's many literary events, especially among the traditionally published. When I say 'traditionally published', I think clearly, my admiration is reserved for writers who have earned their accolades from literary agents and publishers...strangers who saw that necessary artistic talent in their work and bent over backwards to promote these.  With what I was involved in, virtually, I got really tired of the  countless egos. I realised that online, an ugly duckling could easily turn into a swan. Anyone could be termed a brilliant poet or novelist in a matter of minutes. I sensed a subtle lawlessness to this approach and did not care for it.

All of a sudden, I wanted to write a major work. A compelling urgency would suggest, that perhaps the hands to a clock that cautiously manouvered my destiny; had reached its perfect timing. I'll always be grateful to the small UK publisher that got me such a fantastic online distribution for Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam, my first little book of poetry and prose. At least, I was able to finally observe the majority of my scattered writings of the last few years, in one place. At least, there is something pretty good on record.

Now, I was suddenly consumed by such an intense power to write, that my role as writer, finally stopped playing second fiddle, to that of a reader. The power of my own confidence as a writer without a coterie of resounding echos, was made apparent to me. My desire to put a priority for creative writing above other hedonistic pleasures  was also ressurected from my love of life, the universal insight for humanity and a nostalgia for what I was now beginning to sorely miss about certain memories in London. Thank God, I had always kept in touch with much of the publishing news in England.

I have now gone back to writing. With books, I read less but have been urgently propelled at the behest of having to protect my own use of the English Language; more assertive fiction, honing demanding styles and forms.

 I am also easily attuned to the varied cultural television documentaries on social issues, cuisine and travel.  For the first time in  years, I finally inherited a clear focus for the tales I wanted to tell. The whole lingering feeling consumed me like never before and suddenly I forgot the time when my magic for books and writing, was temporarily but visibly deflected by so many unecessary things on social networking sites. Here, I must add, that Twitter, stays one of my favourite sites for information.

The bottom line is that whence, I forgot for many years, my own abilities as a writer, I am now happy to return to the craft that broaches for a tender exhilarating imagination.

I think this blog can no longer be just about books in general but perhaps more on works that currently inspire me to write the stories that I do and also on my own writing days that promise to restore the old magic lost to me and take me to an exciting future in the unknown.

Camaraderie is everywhere and my real friendships have already been built and are easily evident to me. So all that matters now, is the restoration of my art, derived from a personal essence of reflection. I don't even know if I can make it but I shall at least, try.

Tomorrow is a new day and after having rested all of today,   am going to pop into  two or three of my Dublin bookshop haunts and the very first thing I'm going to pick up, is the Writer's & Artist's Yearbook 2012. I am going to study the directory using microsopic scrutiny and proceed with query letters, never mind come a 1,000 rejections...

Credit: Free picture of bird clip art, courtesy of Karen Whimsy.

An Old Eskimo Poem

Actually called an Inuit poem, the Inuit people were formerly known as the Eskimos, the indigenous population of the North American Artic that stretches from Bering Strait to East Greenland, spanning a land of over 6,000 kilometres.

The ocean-loving people who made huskies and igloos cool, traditionally inhabited the polar regions made up of parts of Alaska, Canada and Siberia. Eskimo is actually an American-Indian word meaning "eaters of raw meat". The Inuit's favourite food is still blubber.

You may read more on the Artic Website. Moved The great sea stirs me, the great sea sets me adrift, it sways me like the weed, on a river stone. The sky's height stirs me, the strong wind blows through my mind, it carries me with it, so I shake with joy.

(C) Translation: Tom Lowenstein

*********

What I cherish about this poem is its lively sunny energy. It radiates a mood that hints of sunlight on my shoulders instead of underwater explorations. I visualize wide open spaces with no measured horizon and the observer held as an audience no bigger than a speck in the vast tranquil scene.

This poem describes the unknown poet's gullible, childlike awe; cheerful at the prospect of a capture that spells excitement. Far from the hardy fishing net or razor-sharp lampoon, the writer's kidnapper is no other than the mighty sea. The poet is satisfied at being held in this force's thumb, where in his dual role as hunter of whales, seals and fish, he pays homage to the origins of his livelihood.

Moved is the kind of obliging celebratory verse that graciously salutes a harvest festival or even the worshipper of paganism. It stops short at being a folksong. The Inuit indulgently beholds the ocean's greatness and its underlying depths of mystery. He pays reverence to its powerful strength. The sea in turn, breeds secret thoughts in the poet's otherwise subdued mind and heart and shakes him out of fair sobriety to embrace the exhilaration of the moment.

At the prospect of a tempest, the relationship between the poet and the sea is still kind.

The poet does not perceive the sea as a dangerous threat or foe when roused but rather, a friend in whom he would bank his trust. It is easy to picture him on his kayak as he recalls with confidence and gaiety, the memory of being rocked. The closest imagery would be of a baby being cradled in its mother's arms. "...The great sea sets me adrift, it sways me like the weed on a river-stone." How feeble indeed the weed and yet uncomplaining too, of its botanical structure, housed in unlikely places.

The poet offers a courage that may challenge adventure. Not even the strong wind, as he writes, can make him tremble. For at the end he resigns himself to a happy acceptance and contentment when he signs off with the tell-tale line, "It carries me with it, so I shake with joy." This liner also suggests an animated conjuncture of bliss, once the poet sets his vision on the sea.

******************

A radical thought may also suggests the idea of master and servant. The poet bears servitude to the ocean's instructions for his providence and in turn, trusts the masterful ocean - no questions asked - with his life.

Credit: Picture of ocean, courtesy of BigFoto.com

Intermission

An Old Egyptian Poem

 An ancient Egyptian poem

I wish I were your mirror

so that you always looked at me.

I wish I were your garment

so that you would always wear me.

I wish I were the water that washes your body.

  I wish I were the ungent,

O woman, that I could annoint you, and the band around your breasts, and the beads around your neck.

I wish I were your sandal that you would step on me. (Anonymous)

********

Above is an ancient Egyptian poem that could well be thousands of years old. I am not sure of the exact period or poet.

What struck me most were the brazen innuendoes, representing the raw lust that old Egyptian romantics were famous for. I may think of the poet in question as choosing to call the object of his desire...a broad instead of a lady, so biting is his thirst for a bodily desire that suggests through sharp interwined images; the locking of his whole being into a tight framework with his enraptured one.

His tone is set to one of daring and coyness.

For love, he is willing to endure pain, playacting the role of her sandal and being appropriately trampled upon.

In this vein, the poet's secret revelations may be described as masochistic in effect and sensual by turns. At one moment, he desires her vision never to leave his face. From the start, he would rather she stare at him transfixed. This suggests a loss of individual liberation and a sacrificial ambition to bow to her every whim.

He would rather be her labourer signifying a stricken desire..with the danger of heartbreak leading to fatalism. For here, is the kind of crude sacrifice carved up by a heart-struck lover from where logic may have fled.

With trademark tools of water, salve, garment, beads,sandals and a band on the lover's breasts, the poet hinges on images that must come into contact with human skin and desires to live in that fluid colourless form. He is no longer content to admire the physical figure from afar.

The roles of the lover and loved are clear. The poet hides in the shadows and his sweetheart basks in the limelight. His carefully thought-out masquerade bears similarities with a ghostly apparition.

There is a yearning for an invisible form, so he could play tricks and games...offer a wholehearted devotion and hang about with a closeness that would denounce any signs of separation. He would see all and know all.

At last, his lust would be satisfied. No doubt, the composition calls for a fairly straightforward technique, with the use of objects meant to highlight various parts of a physique. The high entertainment would probably lie in the poet's quest to shock the reader with content that depicts his hankering.

I wonder if these words took refuge as a harboured secret or if they were presented with much aplomb as a romantic gift on a papyrus scroll. - sausan reads

Credit: Picture of ancient Egypt is taken from ItThing.com

An Old Libyan Poem by Omar al Mukhtar

Caption: Omar Mukhtar who is actually in shackles being photographed on his arrest by the Fascist Italian army under the dictatorship of Benito Mussolini in 1931 and the concentration camp where many innocent Libyan civilians were imprisoned.

Below are excerpts of an old Libyan poem in translation by the Bedouin poet and resistance leader, Omar Mukhtar who was born in 1862 in a small village called Janzur on the eastern part of Barqa. Mukhtar who throughout his life remained religious and very poor, would turn to fighting in the desert against the then Fascist Italian Army.

Mukhtar who understood the strategies and geography of desert warfare well, led his people in small groups to successfully usurp many of the Italian army personnel in the fight against battleships and Italian colonization. The army was terribly embarassed at the time that one of their biggest foes, had turned out to be someone thought completely insignificant in the role of conqueror, as no one expected much of a Bedouin, one of the famous of Arab nomadic tribes.

It was the early part of the 20th century when Italy occupied Libya. It was only when Tripoli, its capital city, was finally bombed for three days in a row, that Mukhtar who had held his enemies off for 20 years and feeling defeated and exhausted, was finally arrested by the Italian army who in turn, was said to have treated the rebellious resistance leader as a prize catch. On the direct orders of Mussolini, he would be hung in front of his followers at the concentration camp in Solluqon as a stout reminder on the folly of rebellion. The poet's fight for peace and freedom for his land came to a sad undignified end.

In 1981, a film was made on the last years of Mukhtar's life and it starred Anthony Quinn, Oliver Reed and Irene Papas. Today, Mukhtar's face is still shown on Libya's 10 dinar dollar bill. The film considered to be damaging to the country's history, was banned in Italy.

*********

My only illness is being at al Agailla camp,

the imprisonment of my tribe and the long way from home…  

My only illness is the loss of my beloved,

good-looking strong people on top of camels and best-looking horses…  

My only illness is having to lose my dignity at my advanced age

and the loss of our finest people, the ones we cannot do without…  

My only illness is the torturing of our young women,

with their bodies exposed…  

My only illness is the loss of sweet and good people

and having to be ruled by grotesque people

whose straight faces show nothing but misery…  

My only illness is the broken hearts, the falling tears

and all the herds with no protector of care-taker…  

- Omar Mukhtar -

The above are carefully written lines that measure the devastation set before the poet's eyes. The poem scribbled in secret, is not meant for any tender display of beauty, grace or style as much as it is to painfully evoke the raw anguish, suffering and despair of a broken people. The poem serves as a lamentation in its quest to convey an important message.

The poet himself longs for a peaceful, happier time in the desert. The poet is solely concerned in these heart-wrenching verses with the loss of his land and longs for the mighty warrior strength inhibited by the Bedouin tribes as they proudly rode their horses and camels.

Through capture and imprisonment, all dignity has been lost and every family heirloom, tradition, ritual and old culture have faded to a distant memory.

The old man can no longer bear it...he is stricken by what the weakness of his age has brought him. He does not fear the future as much as he inwardly shudders at the present predicament of his peoples' tears. He sees in what he perceives to be the difference in the ugliness of the bad and the sweetness of the good, both of which are uncomfortably displayed before him, like jagged shards of glass unable to fit harmoniously together.

The poet is also abashed that the modest women of his tribe, always covered from head to toe, would have had to strip for degrading acts. He is worried that his people may be forever scattered with no commendable leader to watch over them.

There is no freedom for the individual, no time to reflect on philosophical wisdom while sipping tea in a tent or mulling on the change of weather. How much harder for a nomadic tribe so used to the wide open lands before them, to movement and a closely-tended treasured community spirit, to be deprived of the simple acts of peace snatched from them; a peace liberally given them from birth.

- sausan reads

Other Interesting Links:

A Gateway into History & Supporting the Children of Omar Mukhtar - Aljazeera

(Note: I wrote this piece in 2008 and found it accidentally, while riffling through older Notes. I thought it would prove relevant in the present day.)

This early photograph from IslamicQuerries

A memory of Dreams of Water by Nada Awar Jarrar

Note: I wrote this comment yesterday in the Guardian Books Blog on the subject of mental illness.

I've just remembered this rather beautiful, melancholic novel called Dreams of Water, by the Lebanese writer, Nada Awar Jarrar. The storyline revolves around the protagonist, Aneesa an exile in London, accompanied by a good life and excellent friendships. But strong family ties and unforseen circumstances, compel her to return to war-torn Beirut.

Ironically, it is Aneesa's mother, Waddad who gradually takes over the ensuing dramatic encounters of the plot. Waddad slips into a lingering depression when her son Bassam, in the company of rebels, goes missing one day and never returns.

As the reader moves into the centre of the story, it is Waddad who will hold court, when through her grief, she develops a worrying blurred sense of reality and decides that a little boy in an orphanage is actually the reincarnation of Bassam. Waddad's confusion clouds her life in a startling manner, as she attempts to adopt this little boy and uproot the family-dynamics.

An excellent study of how a mother in mourning and stranded in a region where dangerous risks are apparent, slips into the initial escapism of fantasy and terrifying superficial joys for a make-believe solace and of how she comes through in an unusual manner. A case where mental illness may be seen as a necessary consequence to survival. Jarrar takes her time to stretch out the science of her character's disorientation.

My additional Wordpress Blog, Sausan Reads

I've opened an additional books blog on Wordpress, something I've always wanted to do but never found the time and this with a far more serious intent, in my approach to world literature.

It's called Sausan Reads and aptly so. Sausan is  both the Persian and Hebrew versions of my first name, Susan. It  means the lily or lotus, but of course, my mum had told me this years ago.

I find the title really apt as it helps me pay homage in a proper perspective, to the universal arts.

Originally, I always intended Typepad to step into this role and ambition, but it's turned out to be a more personable hub on general reflections of books, writers, diary jottings and other things. But I also don't think that I was ready for serious critic. Now that I'm back in the blogger's and writer's seats, I want to push myself further as a book reviewer, reader and writer; to dare myself if you like, to think outside the box.

Now, I won't stay too much because you can read my intentions for yourself on Sausan Reads. At the moment, I've just created the shell of the blog which are the necessary introductory pages. Although it' s not an author website, I felt some personal details to fringe forthcoming posts, were necessary for a kinder intimacy; especially when faced with first-time readers.

Sausan Reads will holds lots of new thought on books and films but also act as a complete portfolio for all my favourite book reviews of the past, especially those pertaining to Iranian and Arabic literature in English.

Many of the posts there will be duplicated over here on Typepad, except that Sausan Reads does feel a lot sleeker and cleaner. However, because of the differing personalities of each blog, many of the forthcoming general posts on Typepad, will not be replayed on Sausan Reads. I won't delete any  of my really old blogs, that have been left to pasture. Let them stay on the web for posterity sake, if nothing else.  Someday in my old age and while huddled rather gaily deep into my rocking chair, I may yet steal a glance over my shoulder at my amateur posts, for an uncontrollable chuckle.

Back in a Bit

Dear Readers,

I shall be back with a book post later this evening. My bookshelves have now turned into a proper treasure island, offering a personal meditation by default.

I continue to be held stilled at the rejuvenation I soak in from a long gaze at the rows of lovely titles; some of which I shall read here, some that may play stowaways at the bottom of my travel luggage later on and yet, others that would bide their time for a distant, yearning twilight, measured in the shape of a different season, when a new hour and mood beckons, for pages to be turned.

In a nutshell, all stay my beloved companions 

Then of course, there are my films and music. The  other day, I bought some hypnotic beats that featured the Tuareg people of the Sahara and this, performed by a  popular band from the Niger. 

I was overwhelmed by the loud, harsh songs, all emotionally rendered and which immediately reminded me of Libyan novelist, Ibrahim al-Koni's memorable Sahara desert folklore of a young Tuareg man and his  piebald camel, in Gold Dust. The plot had led to a tearful end and I was still melancholic at swiftly recalling the tale and subsequently,  pondering on the harsher melodies, that appeared to fringe the protagonist's earlier lamentations.

I suppose Dublin playacts the perfect sanctuary. It is its literature that acts as a marvellous reservoir, for my rest.  Had I been in Malaysia, it would have been the superb Kinokuniya bookshop at the KLCC in Kuala Lumpur, that would have wooed my artistic passions and spoiled me rotten, in the process.  I  shall a little later on, be travelling to Australia.

I intend seriously get back to blogging with book reviews and interviews that I have promised a few. I have not logged in to Facebook since Tuesday evening and like to think that I have made a successful temporary escape until I have got my blogs and writing life, back on track. You would be most likely to understand if you observed how vibrantly I used to post links on books, writers and the publishing industry and also, interact with others.

Eventually, I sensed that energy was slipping down the wrong route and could not shake off this despondency. I encountered the sudden sharp ache of my solitary writing world which I must add, was once-upon-a-time rather enchanting; and from where  left to my own devices, I had long discerned a serene marriage to  my inner voice. My tight-lipped Muse had now begun to feel left out and finally, summoned me furiously.

And so as I tweeted yesterday, I now find silence and time finally afforded me, like prodigal diamonds, once lost in the dark but now eagerly awaiting the sound of my footsteps.

I have also managed to clean up the first half of my sidebar up to the part, that currently displays the novels & poetry, I have read so far.  The child in me that has read voraciously from childhood, has been reborn all of this year, but how that actually happened, I shall never know. Perhaps she never really went away. Still, what my sidebar list says to me, is that such a wonderful life may be had from life's simplest joys.

Captivation

Today, I fell in love with the books I bought, the glorious bookshop that housed my waiting stack so lovingly and the enchanting spring sunshine that trailed a welcome parade with colourful performance theatre and musicians in tow on Grafton Street, Dublin, which I like to think was conjured up, just for my books and me.

I may have been stranded somewhere romantic for a South Pacific Christmas, had my quaint surrealism counted for anything. But there, I was swinging my weighty little haul in a handy books bag, with miraculous strength...such are the celebrations of enthusiasm, delight and the tempting allure of a whimsical cafe culture, invented from dreams and imaginings.

I am the true bookaholic. How could I not be by now, with the vibrant burst of my uncontrollable artistic passions, for all the world to see. I think nothing of shopping for books and world art cinema, every other day, as a more feminine individual would hoard up on shoes and bags. But then again, I too, was once like that while working as  a frenzied fashion magazine journalist in Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. 

Now,  I play the sedate if not sporty dresser, preferring to read my novels with sober devotion and watching my films with apt diligence, that none may exist of a guilt trip. This afternoon, as my broadening interests would so shamlessly lend themselves, I picked up some valuable vintage Penguin paperbacks which I shall talk about another day, a fair bit of classics too that included John Conrad's sea stories and jungle adventures...think Borneo and a tome of the most delightful G.K. Chesterton omnibus.  My bookish interests and choice of subjects are growing ever the wider, no thanks to the constant travel that insists on broadening my horizons, by default.

To all, I stay enraptured.

Which is why I think from tomorrow, I shall aim to open an additional blog/site with a more serious intent than my Typepad one, could ever from now, earn a reputation for. 

I'd like to have more stringent categories that signal my present bookish tastes which now lie in the broader fields of adventure in the way of explorations, voyages and expeditions. I'm also reading a fair bit of science...especially one that would purport itself to Nature.  Today, I picked up Peter Forbes' Dazzled and Deceived, a major work on Nature, that won itself the Warwick Prize recently. Then there is Angela Saini's Geek Nation.

I find my reading interests determined to spread itself out like a fan that may still lie half-opened and poised for a dangerous stretch of the unknown. I've grown interested in Inuit (Eskimo) culture and also literature from the Far East, Asiatic, Africa and especially and always, the most overwhelming of all; the vast Middle-East region. Where films are concerned, I'm currently watching West European cinema.

Typepad is a subscribed blog and it earns fantastic listings on Google Search and also allows the blogger to receive immediate personal support, in the way of difficulties.  But common sense tells me that a free site would likely preserve my work for the entirety, long after I'm gone  from the world and no one would need to remember to pay subscriptions on my behalf.

Of course, my Typepad still goes on and the other site would be far more professional and industrious with a sharper critique. I'll run those posts here as well. I really would from now, like to build up a serious portfolio of thoughts, reviews and even the odd literary journey.  I've never had this inclination before on any of my older blogs. Of course, travel helps the individual evolve much faster than someone who prefers the quiet life in a parochial community. I have been on both sides of the coin and really marvel at the difference of my hedonistic days now, that have become so beautiful and peaceful and where  layers of thought and emotion, continue to revel in their riotous carnivals, with each ensuing day.

Credit: This wonderful picture of books is courtesy of the ever-generous FreeStockPhotos.

Back in the Game

Caption: Picture for display only

I'm still trying to get my books blog or rather, how I want to reflect my life publicly as a writer from now onwards, sorted.

At the moment, my mind would will itself to masquerade a merry whirlpool  spun to an inner zealousness, while prompted by a noisy happy gush of excitable torrents and the thick of a maddening crowd, lost in its scrabble of half-finished stories and reflective encounters.

Not for me then, I'm afraid, the long languid pose of a tranquil ocean that may shy away from a surf.

I'm still trying to get my act together and it's satisfying to know that at the moment, I'm managing well.  Yet, there is to be no rest for me as I had earlier hoped, while in Dublin. While I aim for hedonism, my passions still count for diligence and hard work.  The irony of freedom is that my only chance of relaxation now will be on an international flight, armed with a familiar caressing turbulence, a good book and headphones.  My next destination is Australia and I shall be landing upon my once favourite haunt, at the peak of winter in the Southern Hemisphere.

At the moment, with all the confidence of a traveller safely imbued within my spirit, and with my first little book of poetry and prose, Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam nicely published in England last Christmas - please see sidebar - I'm now returning to my old life as a creative writer and this mission, I'm glad to say has happened naturally.

I'm reading voraciously, watching some good world cinema and am now making an effort to concentrate on my books blog. It's a glorious spring and the outdoor beckons but the call of my writing voice is stronger. I'm also hoping to contribute to critical reviews especially with my thoughts on translated Arabic literature, as I once used to.

Honestly, I am one of those who really would appreciate being holed up somewhere, so that I could write. At the moment, I'm working on my next book but have discovered several half-finished stories, I had attempted on, while on a sudden burst of creativity in 2008. I have also dug up a long lost stage play, about 1/3's of the way already written. This proves a forgotten inspiration and over the years, I have lost many scenes.

I am regaled, excited, nervous and while working seriously on the next book, cannot wait to get to others. Last night, the state of my writing table aptly reflected what I had become. There were two laptops on my table...one which I no longer use but holds all my earlier stories. Also, it has its own charm and hoards more amateur memories. Then there is my sturdy HP. My Sony Vaio is not being used at the moment. A quick  glance also revealed a couple of reference books lovingly scattered about, a mug of half-finished coffee, pencils, pens, a cell phone,  reading glasses,  headphones and scribbled notepaper.

To my side, lay my beautiful bookshelves. At night, I tossed and turned, while generally I have no problems with sleep. I was mulling over the book I was now working on, to an extent of unneccessary stress and nervousness. But I loved the feeling and this mood of slight irritation and aggravation, I had now found myself in. I used to wear this very hat, once upon a time and while in earlier years of travel when I had lost the inclination to write, had longed for this phase to return. But now, here I am in Dublin finally shrouded by a perfect writer's environment and days of peace which feel strangely, renewed, rejuvenated and cleansed.

I'm back in the game.

Credit: Picture of old-fashioned writer's desk, courtesy of My Dear Desk.

I'm Back

Dear Readers,

I'm finally back to my superb temporary Dublin season of books and films. I'm finally back to writing on my blog again. I think my last post had been February 2 or thereabouts.

My absence had lent itself to a certain circumstance. You would never know me to stop blogging otherwise, for a length of time. Last November, I went through a certain betrayal from a fellow writer, I thought was my friend. Someone much older than myself, female and whom up to that point, I had respected greatly. Some shabby actions conducted against me behind my back, really threw me off.

I think it hurt more because I had been so generous in my support of her in recent years. But this episode which has now in the present turned to thankfully, nothing more than a shadow in the past,  also helped me greatly in making me a stronger, wiser soul. I had good friends around  - from different countries - who were there to listen and with a little help from my Christian prayers,  I finally got over it. I went through the shock of this betrayal for months - I think up to early March and my feelings of pain were greatly intensified during the time.

I couldn't write and sought escape only in books. But my travel at the time, was a wonderful ointment for distress. Travel especially to difficult continents, keeps you alert and on a high energy drive.  I'm a veteran at this so it really helped that I was at airports and in planes a lot. I was in Malaysia, Singapore and Tanzania, but I also did fly to different cities within Malaysia and East Africa.

While in Tanzania for five weeks, I took part in my favourite adventure sports and also continued with my personal charity work in the slums, that in turn, took up a great deal of time.

 So let's just say the downside was that:

a) I found it painful to write or talk about books in my blog for a good few months from January to March. I found it difficult to blog about anything at all.

b) I wasn't able to promote my newly-published book at the time, titled Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam, which had the good luck of being taken up by a small publisher in Britain. I stopped everything.

c) I was often subdued and not my usual merry self.

d) For a time, I also became ill from the shock and couldn't eat much.

 

But now for the Wonderful Upside of this Experience:

a) I became wiser, more attuned to the idea of mutual respect in all my dealings, even if they were just brief acquaintances.

b) I became more cautious in my choice of friends.

c) I no longer support unethical writers especially if by grace, I have excused their dishonest actions that have affected me directly in the past and on their part, they have continued to show no remorse.

d) I knew who my real friends were and stayed admirable of those who were loyal or willing to make a stand for me.  The rest I realised, painful as it may be, shouldn't matter in my remaining years.

e) I had more good friends than bad. I had friends everywhere who cared - those who knew I wasn't my usual self. This proved a great buffer point for me, on the subjects of calmness and inner strength.

f) While I had stopped promoting Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam, I found Google to be an excellent promoter for me. At this moment, if you google my title together with my author name, you'll find an excellent choice of international listings from online booksellers including nine Amazon countries. Not all authors published by small publishers, get lucky in this way.

g) I sought so much escape in my lovely lovely books that I bought a great deal of world literature , all the time I travelled and just can't wait to share my thoughts on all these marvellous titles with you.

h) I also renewed my love for world cinema and while Iran and the Arab nations - especially Palestinian cinema stay my passions, I have been watching some art films attributed to the Chinese and India and also of late, French, Italian and Greek. I'll be penning my thoughts on these films.

h) I'm starting once more, to promote Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam where I abruptly stopped off and am now, writing my second book.

i) I'm grand and back to my usual cheerful self.

PS: April 8th 2011: I forgot to add that one vital thing I did learn from this episode was to never discredit an admiring reader. Oh...how little one knows that with multiple book lists that abound these days, readers are increasingly difficult to find. Oh...you may get someone who pays to read you for the first couple of rounds but a reader who lasts the course with a writer....that's no easy feat at all. And for that reason alone, I shall always pay respect to any one at all who reads and likes my work for the long haul.  Such a camaraderie with all its shortcomings, is a still a gift and priceless.

 

Update

Dear Readers,

Sorry, I couldn't return.  I was ill in Kuala Lumpur with some food poisoning,  almost all of last week. I ate something wrong, although I'm sure I focussed on the most ordinary meals  in the cleanest of places and I think this is the 3rd time, its actually happened after a direct Ireland route.

I also found that unlike before, I needed a good few days to adjust to the climatic conditions. The severe humidity constantly felt like thick billowing smoke wafting all about me, while in the outdoors. I was decidedly uncomfortable.  I think this too, had a lot to do with the sudden change from being engulfed by sub-zero temperatures, for several straight weeks in Ireland.

To make matters worse, the 24-hour wireless in the hotel I'm currently staying  at, wasn't functioning. In the past, things have always been perfect. As a result, I had to rely on internet cafes as I prefer a big screen when writing. I found the closest internet cafe, offering a rather poor system and would have had to catch a train downtown, if I wanted to write all that I did on the web. Naturally, I wasn't feeling well enough, to summon up the enthusiasm.

During this time, a small string of tweets on Twitter was the best that I could manage. I also stopped Facebooking for awhile, although I hope to be back on it soon.

 Well, things are much better now. The 24-hour wireless at this little quaint hotel, has been thankfully restored to its old efficiency. The food poisoning's gone and  my vibrance returned. I've also collected my flight ticket for Africa, made the desired hotel reservations, sorted out the currency exchange, shopped for the usual outdoor gear at my favourite British India boutique - that spots just the right adventure clothes for African safaris - and attended to other oddities. I only brought one luggage with me, so that's not much to pack at all. I still have a few days handy before I leave.

I'm glad I didn't waste time during my unexpected interlude, but read a fair bit. In the last week alone, I finished four books. This being two big novels titled  Lyrics Alley by Sudanese novelist, Leila Aboulela and Leaving the Heart Behind by Malaysia's Joan Foo-Mahony. I also read one other short story collection, revolving around the elite Straits Chinese culture in Malaysia, called Kebaya Tales and written by Lee Su Kim as well as a recent Singapore publication comprising slightly erotic short stories, called Love and Lust in Singapore.

Now, I was to have gone to Singapore myself today, but wisely decided to postpone my trip until my return from Africa. The sunshine is back in Kuala Lumpur and gone are the murky days and overcast clouds. Everything looks and feels far more brighter than otherwise.

At last, I feel compelled to write. I still owe my publisher, two manuscripts. Yesterday, I picked up another Malaysian travel memoir called A Backpack and A Bit of Luck by Zhang Su Li. I felt drawn to reading this writer, who thrives on catching unexpected detail from a sensory approach. In this aspect, my reading would be considered diligent industry,  as I wanted to catch some idea of a vivid structure as to penning travel stories, especially when one travels erratically like myself and all kinds of unexpected things happen in-between.

February promises to be a hectic month for me but I am so up for the exciting ride, especially in the knowledge that my work will heap satisfying rewards in the future. I shall pen a few notes before Africa but will probably wait till I get to my next destination and start again, with my book posts.

January 28, 2011

Lady Bug Note Generators

Note

Dear Readers,

I have no blog post for today, but have written a post in my other blog, Voyage on a Page, pertaining to thoughts on travel. If you would like a read, please do click on the link. I shall have a post on books shortly.

Voyage on a Page

Dear Readers,

I have another Wordpress blog, called Voyage on a Page, that doesn't just involve books. It will hold more of my writer's personal notes, upcoming projects and travel news. However, it was opened only recently and I haven't written much in it as yet. It is so new that I also haven't yet introduced myself or my book. Still, this is ideal to describe my upcoming travel movements & activities.

I chose the colour red during the time of the snow blizzards. Perhaps subconsciously, everyting around me seemed to look too  white. I tried to change the layout, appearance and colour last night but that simply failed to work for me. I feel the bright red shade, does carry a sparkling memory of December, when my partner Des and I spent many good times together. It carries a little of my once-upon-a-time soul.

We got to know each other all over again, as he helped me through many dodgy pavements, that were covered with ice, for days and days, that turned into weeks.  So naturally, there is that romantic element. When I travel and I look at the red site, I shall remember Des, wherever I am.

I have held back from opening an author's website as yet, because I am capable of so much more than just this one book. I only made a recent comeback to writing. Hence, I shall wait a few more months and with more achievements, I feel my website would better reflect my ideals. But for now, a working Wordpress site is ideal. Typepad should be solely for books.

I'm Almost Set to Fly

Caption: Pictured is one of the books that I shall be taking with me, to read, possibly in the plane or my hotel room. It's a collection of culinary adventures worldwide, from those in the know and published by Lonely Planet. You can find out more about A Moveable Feast here. I am really keen on tying my journey, to a broad theme.  Perhaps creating a personal passage based on the celebration of colour or literature... but something quite significant and I'm still racking my brains about it.

Dublin 13-1-11: Today at noon - because I often write into the wee morning hours - I woke up to the scent of an invisible rose. My spirit felt light and  serene, my dawn rest seemed perfect and I knew it was time to fly.  I love this inner  wanderer's element when it may appear almost surreal, that far from settling on flight dates a good few months in advance; it is my calendar that mulls over my time and routes, just a week or days beforehand. 

That as a traveller, my suitcase should never be properly unpacked, that I must always be going to somewhere, having first arrived from somewhere else.  How I have managed a home in spite of my nomadic madness, is amazing.

A January dusk is a beautiful thing and strolling along the shoppers' pavements  today, I was aware of how the world was finally intent on spinning again without fuss, busy rising now, into the shape of a shiny new era. Like a  feisty baby eventually agreeing to be cajoled for yawns by a favourite lullaby;  the weather too had now started to behave itself, while  establishments and schools, began whirring into motion without fuss.

Clearly, it was time for me to go.

I am often in my element as a passenger, in airports and on planes. In the last few months, I had missed the excitement of a fervent and restless  bustle that highlighted an atmosphere of  energy and liveliness.   Once more, I would pace the soft marble feel of the departure lounges or  boarding gates, that would capture the rhythm of my footsteps, as I journeyed on against the grain of convention, feeling terribly elated.

In this I meant, moving away from predictability and so avoiding the clutter of airport baggage and surge of crowds, as may be often found, during summer vacations and festive holidays.

I'm so excited about travelling yet again for the umpteenth time...I can't even explain it. The emotion makes for a thrill that thumps at my senses. I am almost like a child,  a night before a trip to the ocean or even Disneyland.

My memories of these last few months are almost perfect. One delightful thing the snow blizzards have taught me, while measured against a barren wintry landscape of ice for miles around, is to celebrate the vibrance of colour. And for the first time, I shall also take my  published book back to Malaysia.

Now, speaking of books, which is what this blog should truly be all about, I don't think I'll have time to read any for now - maybe just one. .. and the next opened pages of a novel, should then find me already, at the airport. I do see myself  on a plane, a week from now, so that's not too far away.

But please don't give up on this blog yet. God willing that if all goes according to plan, I should be in Dubai at the start of March, for the Emirates Festival of Literature. And then I shall be able to blog all about my favourite translated Arabic literature. And also, to buy stacks of books.  Now, you may understand why I shall be leaving Ireland with a light suitcase.

Than and Now...

Dublin 10-1-11: When I was younger, still resided in Malaysia  and hadn't yet bumped into a mischevious wanderlust bug; I conjured up all of   my bookish/writerly dreams that were fastidiously drawn to a merry hilt, with a gallant imagination and a little help, from the British Council Library in Kuala Lumpur.

The library section of the British Council in Malaysia is now tragically closed but during its heyday, proved a thriving establishment for enthusiastic book lovers, all of whom stayed eager to indulge in a fair show of splendid literary works from Britain. We were allowed to reserve the newest titles in good time, which meant a reader's keen desire could easily be met.

Clearly a bookworm, I turned up as sure as day, come rain or shine with which to sum up my cheerful attendance, with as much regularity as I dared muster.  Without a doubt, I longed for those intriguing bookshelves that proved a consoling solace to propping my chin up, during a couple of tough situations that surrounded me.

Sometimes, I would even bump into old acquaintances at the library. We would make our way afterwards to the nearest cafe, down the hilly slope and up a busy thoroughfare.  Then like unperturbed wanderers from a Garfunkel song, we stayed into the long afternoons,  lost in coffee and chat.  Oh...for the good times! This normally turned out to be  the start of the weekend.  Still, it was a spell when I taught English in a college in Petaling Jaya, during a pleasant interlude, that proved one of the kinder aspects of my life.  I remember a thankful, flexible schedule. 

These times constituted for a couple of years when I went through a phase of spending almost all of my hours, with my nose happily buried in a book. I swished my skirts up to a high song. I danced, entranced, enthralled, enchanted and charmed by turns, at all the different worlds that opened up before me...at  the bunches of flowers  placed in my braids and thrown at my feet, by varied characters who partied and turned my rather humble home, into a boistrous and cheery Italian garden affair!

Call the moonlight, whistle up the serenades, hum to a guitar strum...why, they were all there!

Today, I look back upon this wistful season, as a personal chapter, heralding bliss and the embarkment of my first journey into the inner self.    Now, I realise that I had wilfully devised an industrious routine that worked excellently.

The library would only ever allow us four items at a go, including audio.

I slipped into a habit of picking up a contempary novel for the first one.  That would be my cherry on a cake, so to speak. I received endless pleasure from reading all of the late Dame Iris Murdoch novels, Kingsley Amis, his son, Martin Amis and several other memorable works, including those by Jean Rhys, Elizabeth Jane Howard, Margaret Drabble, Penelope Mortimer, Rose Tremain etc.

My second item would be poetry...this would result in slimmer bound volumes by Sylvia Plath, Vernon Jarrell, Muriel Spark, Ted Hughes, Peter Potter, T.S. Eliot and so on. My third item alternated between a stage play and an English classic. It was the moment for a luxurious dab,  akin to something as beguiling as forbidden scent.   Here, I would consider a literary experiment. 

In this classification, I read almost all of Charles Dickens, Mrs. Gaskell and the Bronte sisters.  I also tried modern classics like the  staid Elizabeth Boven and the dry caustic wit, to be found in the novels of Ivy Compton-Burnett. 

My fourth item would be subconsiously deemed a learning curve... I decided that this would be a chunky biography or any other work of non-fiction, that led me into the yet hidden ,private lives of novelists, short story writers and poets I admired.  In this category, I settled for devouring almost all of the beautiful moving letters and diaries penned by Virginia Woolf and her husband Leonard and also the biographies of the Beatles and Beatrix Potter - the famed children's writer, as a chosen few.

I would stick to this invisible timetable, with each borrowed pile and they would circle my soul  in cycled rings, steadily measuring up a dutiful efficiency.

I feel a little long in the tooth now but as my memory would so will me, here then were my swift remembrances.Perhaps the fact that I had to return these books...that I was only allowed to behold their beauty for no less than a priceless minute on borrowed time; was what made my precious stacks, all the more enticing, urgent and necessary.

Oh, what a lovely, carefree time that, the entire episode would sum up my idealistic nature to be; one that was now more sober with its many lingering introspections, but at the time, a  simply capricious mood, that would direct and coax me on to my present hedonism many years later.  Now, that I recall initial episodes and the time of friendships that wound around this fleeting spring, it was here that my dreams for books and travel, although very much a fledgling, began to seriously  sprout wings.

 Now in Dublin and on the brink of travelling to a few authentic cultures, I think I should embark on this method again. Dear readers, my reading timetable has gone completely awry. Worlds upon worlds have opened up, nestled in tempting habitats in my heart, staying close to each other, urging me on to greater adventuring and discoveries.

Now, the difference was that on that occasion many years ago, I remember being deeply passionate about British literature and staying puritanically exact with my reading choices  that did not divert from being studied and meticulous. Yet, I literally had myself a ball.

Supposing now in 2011,  I imagined that my library was not my own. And that the bookshops were all enjoyable spots, for my taking in some way or the other. I think with my interests so eclectic and bravely panned out, I should settle for the following:

10 book items at a time - at this moment, my interest wears thin on audio and plays. Notwithstanding, here's my perfect reading stack for 2011.

1. A desired contemporary novel published in Britain.
2. Either an Arabic/Turkish Diaspora or Translation - Novel/Short Stories
3. Either an South Asian or European Translation - Novel/Short Stories
4. Either African or Far East Literature - Novel/Short Stories
5. Either an Iranian diaspora or Translation. - Novel/Short Stories
6. Poetry (contemporary/pastoral)
7. English Classics - might choose a novelist & complete a series.
8. Work of Non-Fiction Pertaining to Biographies, Letters/Diaries.
9. Work of Non-Fiction Pertaining to Explorations, Voyages & Expeditions.
10. A little Arabian folklore...

This list demonstrates my broad and enduring interest in literature at the present time. This has resulted from my own inner joys, a destiny moving without complaint in the way I have cajoled it to, while embodying a spirit of thanksgiving and just my infectious thirst for life...to taste my days abundantly, in the way that I have chosen to live them.

It's really quite interesting. I've also decided that I'll be flexible in the sense that if I feel enraptured by my own reads or spiritually drawn to certain stories - and this has happened before, for instance,  when I first stepped into translated Arabic literature in mid-2008 - then I'll throw caution to the winds and just continue reading on that specific theme or subject until the warning hint of exhaustion wears me down - not in a harsh way at all, but one just knows when it's time to stop.

 

One Technique Creole Taught Me in the Art of PenningTravel Literature

Dublin 6-1-11: While lost in the rapt mood of a hushed, exciting eternity that threw itself into the tidy rolls of a new calendar date, I read and finished  Creole a 153-page novella, translated from the Portugese by Daniel Hahn and orignally sketched by the award-winning writer José Eduardo Agualusa; at one  swift sitting in the early morning hours, of New Year's Day.

I was held in awe by the seductive quality of the story and the lingering tenderness of a character's yearning, the kind-hearted aristocrat turned impulsive adventurer of the high seas; Fradique Mendez, who would eagerly tie his fate to the bliss of imagined romantic nights and fluid kisses, once  landing upon the shores of Angola.

Engaging myself with this brilliant book, that served to concern itself both with the end of the Portugese slave trade and an unexpected love  affair between the impetuous Mendez  and the unruffled but enchanting Ana Olimpia - a former slave girl - that stretched from Angola and Brazil, to Lisbon and Paris, then as hearts would be so tested; I too held my breath for the couple's sake; that their romantic fictitious destiny and because the era of the late 19th century proved a dangerous time; be kept safe.

Still, this is not a review although I will say that the plot spelling nail-biting drama and adventure, is narrated in the first person by Mendez himself and later, Olimpia in a series of letters to various sources but especially from Mendez's hand in numerous diary episodes to his grandmother.

Olimpia is saved from her slave-girl's fate by marriage to her wizened old master bearing property and all the right desires in his humble hopeful heart, with which to educate Olimpia in languages and necessary academic subjects, that she may prove a prized asset and one rightly beheld of his enduring adoration.

Sadly, he dies. This is followed by a sudden sorry state of affairs and  a series of chaotic, colourful encounters. Mendez will eventually win her heart and she will give him a good marriage, although she may from time to time appear from the outset, a little distant, well-humoured and  kindly  in disposition perhaps one more akin to a morose charwoman, rather than that of a flirtatious exotic lass, whipping up the teasing mercurial passions of a woman in love. 

The other half of the plot deals with the complex, political acumen of the slave trade facing its murky end and the eventual drawbacks, arising from the shocked rebellion of certain slave traders, smugglers and masters.

*******

Creole turned out to be a marvellous blessing for me in getting down to brass tacks for my art.  Its heaped a shiny enthusiasm on my new fervour especially towards the writing of travel literature, for a new book I'm contemplating.  There are my planned Kilimanjaro memoirs but I want something  a little more brazen to the occasion. I'm just trying to decide on the region and theme.

In this respect, I have been engulfed by mirthful reflections one way or the other, since my first book of verse was published so unexpectedly two months ago. I've been searching myself, wanting first of all to indulge in a creative writing process, that celebrates a highly broadened, liberal platform of my accompanying Christian faith. It helps that I am naturally an optimistic individual but also a sober realist, when a specific situation calls for that conduct.

From Creole, I learnt that descriptions that make for a narrator's  modest flaws and clumsy episodes would work just as well,  in transporting a reader, in  that splendid striking way, to an effective sense of place. This, without the usual enticement of a persuasive cajolery, bordering on the lure of allurement.

For example, Mendez's description of Victorino, the ancient-seeming slave master who first married his beloved, Ana, is described, not with neat politically-correct imaginings but hence in the exact straggly way that he was seen to have been.  "...He was tall, slim with a long face, a very wild, very white beard which cascaded down over his chest, an excessive contradictory character, whom I heard..." - Creole.

Now, this had me brimming with happiness, because how often the very erratic and eccentric characters, I myself have met in East Africa or even better still, Zanzibar, have been so similar in personality, not with appearance but with that recognisable wildness.

Another terrific example for instance of show-and-not-tell is of how Agualuso would paint a party crowd, far more the enthralling spectacle than a masqueraded affair and not as you would suspect, drawing on dapper outfits.  "... I was invited to the Governor's Ball... an event of great splendour, noise and show... In the halls of the palace you can see honest traders mixing with exiled criminals, children-of-the-country with blonde European adventurers, slave owners with abolitionists, monarchists with republicans, priests with masons..." - Creole. How wonderfully I snapped the picture... right on cue!

And of a bossy wicked lady, a huge, lumbering woman who kept alibino girl slaves for a sadistic hobby..."A mouth drawn so wide, that the teeth wander round it/in a state of agitation..." - Creole. Now, if this didn't remind me of Alice in Wonderland's barking Queen of Hearts. I shuddered a little to think of  this loud nervous woman, that may have been just about to pounce on me.

Agualuso also taught me of how physical beauty could be demonstrated to a dazed, willing reader  by the use of vivid imagery...and of how each exquisite feature that represented a woman's being, could possibly be drawn out with deliberate charismatic slowness...step by step, like an artificial flower being crafted with painstaking effort....a petal at a time.

Over here, Mendez describes his first impressions of Ana. "There have been moments in my life - dusk falling on the Alps, an evening in Asmera when I surprised a jaguar, right in front of me, ready to pounce, there have been moments which made me feel the proof of God... ....when I first saw her, I felt the very same emotion." - Creole.

I can't wait to employ these valuable lessons in storytelling for my own tales. Creole was of course, fiction but how realistic the descriptions of travel and adventure, of peoples met and places savoured. Now travel literature accounts for memoirs that are real, but then as they say, isn't truth itself stranger than fiction. Employing the same tricks would make truth rise to its worth...beguiling and captivating without really trying.

Feature: Nature's Gifts Don't Wait for Christmas

Dublin 1.1.11:  Oh, what delicious gifts December brought me.

I speak not of the honeymooning pair of winter wrens, who have taken up residence in the compassionate trees, laid out in gardens of old-fashioned houses, a stone's throw from where I live. 

Then a few icy weeks ago, the tiny birds' only chattering demands were for somewhere warm where wings could tenderly cover heads all huddled close and nested properly,  in between the comfy branches that entwined themselves as crooked blankets.  This, during  the carefree intervals  between those naughty blizzards

Now, to demonstrate gratitude and when a jovial mood would so prevail, they do indeed choir up the dawn every single day, atop the highest twig, swishing their short tails about, challenging the mighty gale and playacting a carnival dance.

I speak not also of another pair of lovebirds if you will; two merry blackbirds with their sunny beaks who welcomed the wrens, the female with her buxomy speckled chest, offering not jam or tea but a repertoire of birdsongs and gossip, chirped about in low, mellow tones tut-tutting about nine to the dozen - of course, I could hear every single cheep -  a thing or two about the annoying snowfalls. They too seem intent on romancing the silver skies when the ice fails to find its place.

Again, I speak not of two lovable cats with jolly bells around their  plump necks, who pad along the same trails every evening - all the time, one a stranger to the other - before disappearing into a wooded thicket  where a respective elderly mistress's stroking hand awaits, together with a crackling  fireplace and a milk bowl at supper-time.

But excercise too must be taken faithfully and so, these cats come their appointed time, must pad the ice, frost, snow or mud  with awkward gaiety, formed from habit and not at all, necessity. 

Before the winter set in, a cunning fox was to be seen dashing out the carpark, scared to death of flashing headlights but quickly regaining its composure and pretending a regal gentlemanly stroll, once it caught me spying out the window.  Well... I never!  Of course, I was doing no such thing but simply drawing the curtain that enfolded itself, from the dark dusk.

Perhaps then it was the ethereal landscape of a street I had now resided in for 3 years. A street that had in the blink of an eye, mischeviously harlequined up a harsh, romantic landscape for its Noel card scene. Oh...the long stretches of ballgown white! A dainty flutter  of a showy flake here  and a swish  of light dusting there.  Too much powder splashed on, just about everywhere. It turned out that was nothing but snow and ice for miles on end.

In fact, how perturbed the retired ginger tom would demonstrate its stout strut to be and how fearful of the snow queen, the beleagured sooty one as it anxiously surveyed the strange spectacle before making its daily leap up a stone ledge.

And I drank it all in, this beauty of nature's champagne that was given to me for free...

***********

Perhaps then literature called one icy morning when the world stood still, the snowstorm had stolen away momentarily and there lay treacherous ice everywhere. The television news had warned people to stay indoors, unless essential travel proved necessary.

My street had turned into a Christmas card, complete with tinselled glitter, courtesy of the blurred sunlight. Smoke from the chimneys, church bells peeling in the distance, restful snowflakes like icing bedding on the old-fashioned rooftops, snow doing their clumsy ballet spins on shrubs and trees, lamplights and parked cars...anywhere really, that a frozen carpet would choose to gatecrash in its lofty brazen manner and make a luxurious rug look small.

What an ethereal landscape! All around me, the bewitching scene spelt of a rugged romantic beauty.  All my childhood winter tales came flooding back.

I thought I would take a walk to the shops so I wrapped up warm and I went. With each footstep, the pathways became a little more slippery. Finally, I telephoned Des. Things were already becoming a lot worse.   I was already quite a distance from our apartment. It took Des a good 15 minutes to where I bravely stood, if one counted waiting for the lift.

Later, I would learn that many people fell and suffered fractures. That one of the Dublin hospitals had to open an additional theatre, just to ward people with bad falls. The clinic further up my street, attended to dozens of outpatient treatments than was the norm, I was told. I managed to do the wise thing, not to move any further but to stand where I was and wait for Des. He was far better than I was, at manouvering the dodgy pavements.

It was at that moment, that strange early hour of the afternoon when I finally saw Des walking towards me, calling my name and smiling... fair-haired and grinning broadly and I, held against such an extraordinary landscape with mannequin-ed patience, fell in love with three things all at once.

I fell in love with my street and my apartment. I fell in love with my suburb, lock, stock and barrel.  It had carved a special December story just for me and one that I would remember always, no matter where the world would find me in years to come. When in Malaysia and Africa, I would recall each flake with endearment. 

In that split second, I would fall head over heels in love with Des all over again, that pleasing beating of my heart armed with awed gratitude and  slip-sliding without its roller skates. My gentle hero on his way to rescue me.  I felt wound into the rhythmic motions of an Enya song.

And believe it or not, at that very moment I fell headlong in love with Artic literature!

I held on to Des's arm and we walked on slowly to the shops. He taught me how to watch out for the dangerous jagged sections and that what appeared seemingly harmless, was obviously not so.

I felt alive and rejuvenated with a new feminine energy. I was in an Enya song. I had stepped into a painting, from where as an artist, my palette brimmed over with whiter shades of pale.

Our scenery was totally alien to anything I had seen of my three years  on this homey Dublin street. The sky masked no end. Light snow was still falling to a blustery.  Few brave souls had ventured out in these sub-zero temperatures.

We were all so tightly wrapped up, only sanguine faces could be spotted.  Of course, this wasn't Dublin's normal winter gear at all. The mood turned sublime.  I felt a hushed peace with all the world but as we walked arm in arm, I could think of only one starry-eyed thing to say to Des:

That 'as soon as the ice thawed, I would be heading out to the bookshops to buy a collection of Artic literature.'   I shone  in my Pingu moment.

 

*********

Now, I must tell you that as a child I had loved Artic literature. Stories of the Eskimo (Inuit) people and their wonderful igloos would offer eternal celestial imagery. My father would buy me picture books and regale me with ticklish stories of penguin, seals, whales and the clumsy walrus.

 Later, life took over and I forgot all about those times.

I was a zealous reader deeply into British fiction.  In restless years, I felt spiritually called to it. There were many occasions when contempary British novelists would challenge my perceptions and broaden my waiting soul with daring visions of the unknown.  Such a tonic could only mean that my intuition for serious reads worked very well for me.

You see, I know my own mind very well. I'm a voracious reader but never been too good with other peoples' recommendations or compelled at any time at all,  to pay homage to nominated book lists, worshipping them as the gospel truth. 

If I do become party to these things as many readers love to engage themselves with, I lose a sense of my own inner voice. But when I make a book journey alone, my choice of titles become my greatest friends and teachers. This is how I've always lived out my destiny as a writer and reader.  Wait for that affectionate spiritual voice...that says...these are the stories for you, the worlds the universe would want you to enter.  My destiny has never failed me.

 In 2008, in Ireland, I became quite suddenly drawn to translated Arabic and Persian literature. I was watching an Iranian film One Night by Niki Karimi and I was bowled over by the  simmering atmospheric encounter of a Tehran night in the town. I entered the enchantment of the Arabian world of poetry, cinematic arts and folklore like a child spellbound by rows of transient lights. There has been no turning back. Once I embrace a passion, my passion learns to love me for a lifetime. And so it has always been. Now, that was in 2008.

Finally, here it was again, that thrilling bit of excitement that handcuffed me to literature and rocketed me to the skies. I have developed an interest in the environment...in the whole idea of global cooling. Perhaps I caught more than a safe touch of the Artic wind but now, both Antartica and the North Pole fascinated me. I had toyed with the idea of Eskimo folklore last year but now, I couldn't wait to find out more.

I did go to the bookstores just before the New Year holidays and I picked up two fascinating books. I'm a careful buyer and there was a specific science to why I chose these two books.  The bookshops will be opened once more tomorrow, so I'm going to buy more.

My focus this year will have Artic literature added on to it. I'll just show you the two books I bought for now and explain them in a new post in a day or two. They really deserve a post of their own.

How enthralling that if it wasn't for that fleeting instant on that day to the shops,  I would never have stepped into this surreal new door.

I'll just tell you one thing though. That I was the only woman, in that bookshop section the other day, looking for books on the Artic Circle.

You never know, dear readers, when life will suddenly dab you with its stardust, but nature's gifts thankfully, never wait for Christmas.

And so for me, it all happened when I  stood there, on that  glassy stretch of ice, on that strange early hour of the afternoon when I finally saw Des walking towards me, calling my name and smiling... fair-haired and grinning broadly and I, held against such an extraordinary landscape with mannequin-ed patience...

 

Credits: Free picture of wren, courtesy of ReusableArt.com. &

Picture of blackbird looking into nest from HowStuffWorks.com

 

My 2nd Reading Challenge: Foodie's Reading Challenge 2011

I found Margot's words to be terribly wise when she said that the whole aspect of a reading challenge is to push ourselves beyond what we think we can do. Thus, I'm signing up for her Foodie's Reading Challenge 2011. You can catch all the  juicy details by clicking on the link.  Basically, this flexible challenge allows for all kinds of food writing ie. cookbook, memoir, a novel that may be centered around exquisite dishes; just about anything that leans towards a mean mouthwatering curry or  a delectable pudding. I already own some exciting epicurean literature.

In this context, I'll dare myself for the Bob Vivant level.  Even studying four books would be an accomplishment for me. I'm new to this and would have chosen Nibbler but I really want  to push myself beyond a predictable scope of thought.

In the last year, I've experienced a gradual interest in culinary journeys... I adored Jamie Oliver's culinary travels through Italy but my favourite had to be Britain's celebrity chef, Gordon Ramsay and his televised series featuring ,The Great Escape.  Here, he had meandered along like a brave trooper to the little known regions of India and created an energising memorable journey, what with his many sizzling encounters with wary tribesmen and the apprehensive territorial chef on the street.

So here I go once more, with the humble omelette to cheer me on.

My First Reading Challenge for 2011: Into the Old World Reading Challenge

I am looking forward to vibrant reading challenges in 2011 in addition to personal writing projects and travel. After much careful thought, the first one, I'd like to sign up for is the prospect of a delicious encounter with endearing older reads in Into the Old World Reading Challenge. A marvellous title that tempts me already into running down a noisy time tunnel promising adventure and colourful escapades.

The challenge is being organised by the Splash of our Worlds & My Love Affair with Books blogs.

The challenge runs from January 1, 2011 to December 31st, 2011. The idea is to read books that may have just been left on the shelf a little too long. Anyone can participate, even non-bloggers and the reader is allowed to add or delete titles as they go along.  Any book published before 2009 will be accepted. Do click on the Challenge Link above, to find out more.

We have to present an initial list so here is mine... a list of 10 to start with, but in no particular order and I shall plunge into the lot as the mood wills me.  For this challenge, I shall stick to titles already on my shelf, and what a splendid idea as agreed, earlier, that a bit of spring-cleaning may be had in the process.

1. Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter.  (1984)
2. Clear Light of Day by Anita Desai  (2001)
3. The Crocodile Fury by Beth Yahp (1992, Australia)
4. Dreams of Water by Nada Awar Jarrar (Lebanese author, UK, 2007)
5. My Father's Notebook by Kader Abdolah (Iran, UK 2006)
6. The Moving Toyshop by Edmund Crispin (first pub.1946 & 2007 editions)
7. Almost Transparent Blue by Ryu Murakami (1976)
8. Anthills of the Savannah by Chinua Achebe (1987)
9. Once Upon a Time in Malaya by Chong Seck Chim (2005)
10. Abraham's Promise by Philip Jeyaretnam (Singapore, 1995).

Round-Up of My Blogging Year for 2010

This was the first year, I held a serious books blog. My other blogs of the past - which honestly I  can no longer relate to as travel has changed me so much - held varied content; vignettes of my writing in earlier years,  interviews with authors, superficial travel musings, little paragraphs from the airports and  even some general book news in addition to book reviews.  I think they served more as journeys for the pursuit of visions instead of the busyness of fulfilling one.

My destiny after all did not make things easier. It would will me to wear quite a few hats by default.

I am a writer. I am also a traveller. I do climb mountains from time to time. I have spent long days observing the wildlife. I have spent so much time in airports and hotels, I can no longer even retrace my footsteps or start to count a fraction of my flights as passenger. I love downtown bookshops and curio shops.  And I am finally and I say this with a whoop and joy...finally...I tell you, looking forward to writing up on my first literary journey. And how exciting is this!  In the meantime, I do  also adore poking around in cafes with character or any other kind of avenue that may hold a colourful eccentricity or motley bunch of people.

Naturally, with such an erratic menu on my plate,   my  early blogs often found me in search of the self.  And then with Typepad...

In mid-March this year, I signed up to Typepad and began writing serious thoughts and reviews on different aspects of literature which gripped me. I was so inspired by the brilliant British and American book bloggers, whose writings I truly adored.  I developed a real interest in the idea of developing my own reviews.  It helped that I was a regular commenter on the Guardian Books Blog  2 years in a row.  Those commenters do read and know what they're talking about.  Naturally, the whole episode proved a fascinating learning curve.

 I still couldn't get this blog's essential themes  together, however.  Almost all this year, I hadn't yet learnt to draw on a balance  between gregarious outdoor activities  and basking in  an intense novel which may have trailed my fancy at the same time.

I was in Africa three times this year alone and also last December. I was in Australia in March. I was in Singapore twice this year. I was in Malaysia four times as well this year. Often, I was too caught up in other ventures to blog. Yet, even this has managed to survive albeit a fair amount of clutter.

I have managed to write up quite a bit on my favourite subject of world literature and throw in a few films from world cinema.

By this point, I knew I wanted to be a writer but what kind? I knew I wanted to write stories but of what genre? I knew I wanted to feature specific cultures but could I be actually sure which these were?  I knew that travel gripped me but it wasn't of the 'travel blog' variety...been there, done that, bought the T-shirt kind of travel. I probably held a sturdier plan...I wanted to know a certain land for instance, until I couldn't know it anymore. I wanted to feel highly intimate with a couple of regions in particular, that we might dance together. I had a thing for oceans but only where they met me, on  a certain shore.

Then after my return from Africa in September, I was made a publishing offer that once more turned my life upside down. Suddenly, it was all about my book.  My title, Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam, sailed with gay abandon into this very carefully thought out blog and hijacked my first serious book-blog base. Instead of talking about my favourite Arabic writers, I was swept up on deck by the thought that a vast number of international online booksellers had taken my little poetry on and suddenly...it was right out there for the world!

Then came the snow blizzards that almost paralysed Dublin city. We were snowed under a lot of the time or otherwise, it felt like it and this to say nothing of the stubborn treacherous ice, lapping the days up, while helped along by sub-zero temperatures.

So there went too, my carefully-assembled Christmas reads, my one saving grace for the blog. For a long time, I just didn't feel like coming back to it. I felt it had lost focus. One thing I learnt about myself pretty well in this time...that I was an individual who thrived on precision and clarity. Without an exactness to all my ideals, I was lost.

Finally, I thought I would open another site. Now, this is not the decision of a wanderer. I would still keep and eventually build up this Typepad blog. However, while endearing to my eye, it had also become terribly cluttered.

In the meantime, I had not been able to build an author website for my book  also, because of our severe weather.  In any case, I often saw a website - as demonstrated by scores of other authors - as something that had the dire potential to remain stagnant. So for now, after mulling and having a clear idea of what I wanted to do next year, I knew I needed the personality of a blog to keep me focussed and going.... at least for the moment.

I have always had this love/hate relationship with Wordpress but never had I come to appreciate it so much as I did now. I would open a Wordpress site where it still held clear mastery over my most important need, 'Categories.' I decided it would hold different columns.  There would be my book, upcoming travel notes and book projects and also works-in-progress. Naturally, there would be reviews a-plentiful on books and films as I intend to make reading the same top priority, as I did in childhood.

Well, just 2 posts into my brand new Wordpress site called Voyage on a Page and I was ready again for Typepad.  That tells me that I do know myself pretty well at least and understand clearly, what works for me. Thankfully, so.

In this sense, because 2010 marked a 12-month season of a few important things coming together, I am not able to give my reads the justice they deserve by showcasing a round up of books read. But I'll be ready at the end of 2011.  Let me keep my fingers crossed for this.

Next Post:  My New Reading Interests and the Books I Plan to Seek Out in 2011.

The Bride by Austin Bukenya

 

Dublin Dec 27:  This afternoon, I read an East African play, The Bride sketched to meticulous poetic detail and hoarded by serious social innuendoes, befitting an  era that spelt complexities for a nation's sharp pursuit of a Woodstock freedom in the 60s and 70s. 

It was a time, stresses Austin Bukenya in his introduction, that African plays were viewed an an entertaining form of  exotica for the West. He doesn't say so in as many words - one is immediately aware of Bukenya's carefully measured tact in all he writes - but I rather got the picture.

The Bride was first presented as a public performance by the Ngoma Players, under the direction of Nuwa Sentongo, at the Nile Hotel, Kampala in January 1973.

 The Uganda-born playwright, Austin Bukenya, a longtime novelist, poet, critic, accomplished stage actor and sportsman and  who has in the past also taught Literature and Languages at universities in Nairobi and Kenya, is fastidious about the creative performances of The Bride, should anyone decide to stage the play.

I first picked up this small book at an old Tanzanian bookshop  in Dar-es-Salaam, early this year.

The Bride was originally based on a short story, Two Husbands One Night by L.M. Kimaro, vol.1 of Darlite, a literary journal published in Kenya in 1966. Bukenya would reclaim his own version  of a play sketched to 4 movements, as a 'broad experiment in creativity' and serving as a yardstick for an East African society, determined to find itself.

In the first movement, the story opens up to drums, music and a fervent dance by Lekindo and his merry band of friends. They  skip around for the moon and attempt to conduct an initiation ceremony. Lekindo who's projected as sensible and clever, is in love with the virginal Namvua.  She is late and he is anxious. His tension reveberates through the scene. Namvua possesses a tidy role as principal dancer, in the initiation ceremony, under the big bright moon.

The tragedy here is that the young maiden is held in prejudice as a 'foreigner.' Her father  Merio, was one; a man who sprouting up from a different tribe and region, had longed for acceptance, but been appropriately shunned by the village folk.

Namvua found herself treated in equal terms as a pariah. She was not allowed circumcision  with the other girls.  Later, the rest of the  womenfolk would declare her to be not yet reborn into womanhood. They would turn toffee-nosed, considering themselves higher mortals. In fact, it is her long delay now, that causes a group of girls to spit insults  in the meantime and demand the spotlight as principal dancer. The girls, refer to Namvua as a she-goat or cow.

Lekindo and his loyal friends will have none of this.  Arguments break out between the young men and women. Through his defence of Namvua in poetic if not heroic speeches, Lekindo  stoutly holds his ground. When Namvua arrives, it is clear from her excuse, that she has had to sneak her way, through another route, dodging two elders - elderly men considered wise men & decision-makers -  chatting and blocking the foothpath.

 The girls continue to fight as Namvua dances. Later, the group disperses and there is a moment of tender conversation between Namvua and Lekindo, before he takes her home. The conversations highlight Namvua's difficulties with regards to  social status in her rural African community and Lekindo's struggle to command his village's as yet, impalpable compassion.  This is not helped by Lekindo's father, Shundu, who marches in angrily and thunders a lecture. Lekindo stays a true friend to Namvua, even at the risk of greatly angering his father.

 The second movement is terribly comical. This scene highlights a temple and a shrine of the idol, Wanga whom the local folk worship.  In Movement Two,  the priest, a  colourful character and longsuffering husband to his sly wife, Mkumbu, is busy buttering a rich villager, Lesijore. He offers blessings in the hope of receiving a fat donation.

Later Mkumbu turns up and Lemera plunges into what a reader suspects; a habitual groan of moaning for an heir.   The temple's wealth has to be passed down. Mkumbu insists they already have a son.  The son turns out be an old skull  -  the relic of Mkumbu's dead son - whom Mkumbu still calls Lettie and carries with her everywhere. She cares for the skull with the same tenacity and tenderness as any mother would employ for a living child.  She appears as a woman seemingly either cast by a spell or locked in terrible denial.  It is clear to the reader that Lemera holds no sentiment for the  old skull but is eager to pacify Mkumbu. The couple hatch a plan together.  Why not marry Namvua to the decaying object called Lettie, where  the old Lemera would then  conspire to sleep with her to get his heir.  The promise made to Namvua's father, Merio is an effective one. The village would accept him and his family as one of theirs, thereafter. I found great humour in the dialogue, that despite tradition, ancestry or belief, a marriage would hold similar problems.

Movement Three highlights a thrilled Merio, so pleased with the proposal that his family is to be accepted at long last, by the village folk. He indulges in Lemera's earlier gift of beer heartily and proceeeds to tell his wife, Tutu, a thing or two. Tutu is shocked beyond words that her daughter is to marry a skull  and laments the fact that she will have no happy extended family, with a bunch of grandchildren milling around her.

Much earlier, also in Movement Three, Lekindo had chanced  upon Namvua in the outdoors, while the latter was busy collecting firewood.  There ensured  a bit of a tease and banter.  Their gentle romance is affirmed, nary a bit of wistfulness on her part. However, Lekindo was bent with curiosity as to what sudden affliations, Namvua's parents had conjured up with Lemera and Mkumbu. Why, he had witnessed just the day before, jolly scenes of the two couples, appearing in jovial episodes together, suggesting an astonishing goodwill and friendship. Namvua swears she knows nothing. Lekindo believes her but is determined to find out more.

The fourth Movement opens with Namvua waiting with apprehension, to marry her husband in the bridal chambers. There is the sound of drums that signal his impending arrival. Crowds start to gather. In conspiratorial whispers, Namvua's aunt, Sikitu, opts to give Namvua, some lengthy maternal advice about marriage and encourages the nervous girl, to go ahead with the wedding. Namvua is already lonely and can't believe that she would find herself surrounded by strangers, she's not quite sure she'll like. Sikutu laughs it off, remembering her own lusty moments on her first wedding night, where she screamed and wailed for her parents and fought, clawed and scratched everybody with furious intent, until she had to be tied to her bed, to await her husband.

Suddenly Lekindo dashes into the room with his friends and attempts to rescue Namvua. Namvua had no idea that she would in a matter of minutes be betrothed to a skull, awaiting its lively fate in a bowl. She had been given the vague impression of inheriting the wrinkly Lemera for her husband. In the event that Lekindo and his friends would soon confront the surprised audience, they agree to use not spears, sticks or force but words of peace and tolerance to achieve their means.

However, Lekindo cannot resist smashing the doomed 'Lettie' to the ground once and for all, and turning the skull to smithereens. The mournful Mkumbu starts wailing as she gathers the pieces together, and Lemera gives way at the end of it all, to allow Lekindo to marry Namvua instead.

Bukenya sketches The Bride with a deft hand, almost showcasing his play as a lengthy narrative poem. In this aspect, he has advised actors to recite conversation in its most ordinary manner, where if recited with poetic imaginings, the play may go a -wandering.  Imagery is spoken in everyday encounters as if it may have been pronounced as the most normal thing to do.

In the First Movement, to warn against waiting for Namvua, one of the jealous girls, Kajiru says to Lekindo, 'The dance is cooling upon our breasts.'   When Tutu tries to advice Namvua about the birds and bees in the Third Movement, fearing her  bewildered daughter knows nothing, she later discovers to her horror that Namvua has learnt all she needs to know from her best friend, Lekindo.

Tutu mutters with disdain, "Oh, you gods and spirits that bore me, Come here, Namvua, let me look at your eyes and your breasts. Open your breast. Has this Lekindo? Has he...touched you? Tell me Namvua... I have never known a dog that protects meat between its teeth. Tell me and I will tell you all the secrets of the plains."

And back to the First Movement, which I find most enchanting, Lekindo questions unease and anger, "Is this the age-group of fire, that is going to burn away the dead leaves of stupidity which have accumulated upon the plains since Wanga (deity) fired the sun in the sky..."

I was held riveted to the play. I forgot I was reading dialogue and with the right amount of dramatics amounting to tension, joy, music, excitement, nervousness, shock, fear and a wry humour encased in all the right parts, I could well have been watching a film and never once felt bored.

Thoughts & Impressions on The Discovery of Jeanne Baret

Dublin, Dec 26th: On drawing the thick, long curtains tonight, I was glad to see the snow thawing quickly and the accompanying ice, fast giving way to slush and pools of water. I can't wait to be outdoors in warmer weather very soon.

I am eager for the bookshops to reopen their doors, after the recent Christmas break, that I may plunge with relish, into pleasurable quiet afternoons.

Once more, I shall stride eagerly to the bookshelves that wait with the accustomed patience of a saint, to surprise me with intriguing routes for inspiration and self-discovery.

This, from peering happily at titles that line the spines of exciting book covers and dreaming strange breathtaking dreams, lest a pirate befall me with songs of tragedy or misfortune and a mermaid slyly cajole me back to sanity.

My first purchase order this week, shall be a work of European history, an impressive new biography I discovered today, on the web.

The brilliant author, Glynis Ridley, tackles the remarkable expedition of Jeanne Baret, in The Discovery of Jeanne Baret, (Random House, Hardcover, 304 pages Dec 28,2010, USD$25).

The fearless Baret, a French botanist lived out her wiles rather dramatically and daringly in the 18th century. She was after all, the first woman to sail around the globe, happily disguised as a 25-year old male assistant to her secret lover, the Royal Botanist and Naturalist Philibert Commerson, earlier commissioned for an overseas expedition, that involved the painstaking collection of botanical specimens.

Still, Ridley writes that even after much practice at masculine tendencies and gestures at the marketplaces in Paris, Baret's identity would be held without a moment's hesitation, in strong suspicion by her shipmates - one of whom chose not to like her - a fortnight after sailing on the high seas.

On reaching Tahiti, the Tahitians became immensely curious. This led to further uncomfortable episodes that involved one probing Tahitian and the truth was finally revealed.

What I find so alluring is the seductive air of mystery, that lingers throughout and the prolonged if not, slightly flamboyant adventures of the lady, who received the marvellous blessing of having tasted the lure of the high seas.

I Have an Additional Books Blog

I have an additional books blog for the moment, called Voyage on a Page.  It's so new, it only has one post up and I haven't even filled my profile yet.  It has a definite theme and will hold all my travel notes for next year, updates on my own book as well as my increasingly varied challenges with world literature as many new doors, open up quickly for me.

I also just need a respite and a discipline to continue with blogging, to keep my thoughts on books, alert... and to nourish my own creative writing.

I lost my inclination for blogging some weeks ago with the snow blizzards that took place. I did not have the luxury to involve myself with the Christmas reads that I had so carefully collected.  Also, my increased involvement with a new paperback, Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam, published from an offer given me at such an extraordinary time, just took over the days and hours.

Because of the snow blizzards, I was unable to make an author website. I was thankful that I already had a good web presence. But as I watched my book seeeming to hijack my books blog in the most innocent way, I eventually lost all interest.

Most people have very structured lives. They live theirs to a familiar schedule and know what they'll be doing at each time of a day with secured family commitments and responsibilities.  I could leave Facebook for months and return and quite a few people for instance, would still be doing and writing the same things as if I had never left. Even their blogs adhere to an obvious routine. Which is a very good thing all in all.

As for me, I live a free-spirited life. I wake up anytime I want and can breakfast at any time of the day, I  choose.  But this add for another kind of frustration. By this time next month, I don't know how many planes I would have already taken, time zones turned upside down...all sorts. Because of this bohemian lifestyle, I'm  exact with the little details that shape my goals ...those that are capsuled by my unusual freedom that can only be counted as immeasurable. With that  very precision I employ to take care of my interests and now one that is steadily drumming in my ear, I find that I just can't come back to blog  for the moment, at my clearly cluttered Typepad blog. I seem to have lost the focus for it temporarily. And focus is the keyword for my life. It's what helps me go up mountains. It's what helps me know my own worth, without relying on approval from anyone.

Meanwhile, I've always had a love-hate relationship with Wordpress. Next year, I'm going to live every moment, chasing my dreams in the most exhilarating way. Chasing dreams and making good memories with literature, films and travel. I think Wordpress has the capacity to accomodate all of these...my travel notes...my varied interests in books, films and so forth. It's Category columns are the neatest I've ever seen charted out.  And there has been so much progress now in Wordpress, with all kinds of added features for audio, videos etc when there wasn't any of this before.

So just for awhile, until I get back into the swing of things. I shall blog at my new Wordpress blog, until I feel the need to return again to this Typepad blog which I love dearly and has given me some excellent listings on Google. I just need a short break from it and will move from blogging between Typepad and Wordpress.

A Few Links

First, a few updated links for my new paperback, Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam:

 

My title's listing on the UK's Book Depository. Purchase from this site in England would include free worldwide delivery to many exciting countries including Malaysia and Singapore. Just click on the attached link.

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My author interview with The Asian Writer UK.  Please note that the last question on New Year Resolutions, has my answer above it, with the question left unattended at the bottom of the answer.

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My author interview with VAANI, a south Asian writer's organisation in England. Unfortunately, there are some obvious spelling mistakes - to me at least - in the introduction. Have tried to alert the editor but no response. I suspect she's on holiday.

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A delicious blog post titled Soft Sod by my American friend, Jefferson on this real-life encounter of how my book caused him complications with a lovely blonde, he had met on the off-chance, at a favourite cafe, two days ago.

 

Update

Dear Readers,

We are back to savouring an Artic blast with Siberian winds coming in directly from Greenland and Norway. I am running all my errands and buying things I need outdoors, in daytime temperatures of 0 degrees Celsius as an average read. But not to worry. We are all wrapped up really warm which in addition to the festive window displays and outdoor Christmas trees, lets off a powerful feeling of surrealism.  I am a little astonished in that rather heady way, that tricks me into thinking,  I'm  moving in slow motion, in the thick of Christmas card scenes.

I have had to buy myself far thicker coats with hoods, shawls, hats, all sorts. Tonight, there was a light dusting of snow in Dublin and tomorrow, I shall have to gingerly avoid the slippery ice in parts. We are better prepared now, learning the art of quickly filling up the larders with provisions we simply can't do without. The electricity bills are all paid and the heating's top class. The only painful thing for me personally lies in the dressing up.  Oh my...and then later in a department store...the fitting rooms.

In fact, today the air was so very cold and crisp, I found myself walking for miles in town. I became terribly nostalgic believe it or not, for mountain air.

Yet, Dublin certainly knows how to make merry with musicians, theatrical performances and mini Christmas choirs that tend to spill out onto the popular streets, no matter the biting chill. One hears the sound of music everywhere.

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In spite of it all, I have managed to get my book off to a pretty good start. I have an author interview coming up shortly on an established writer's site and at this moment, am filling up the answers to another interview, also for a writer's site and there are a few more on the way. Of course, I shall place all the relevant links here.

My book is to be stocked at one of my favourite bookstores in Dublin but I shall have to do a little paperwork and return early next week. My little pile of books are already safe in their hands and of course, there will be other stores too.

I am out now on so many online bookseller sites, I've lost count. Particularly with the Scandinavian countries, that appear fascinating to me personally.

I realise that I am probably the only Malaysian writer at the moment - or else, one of a very few - who is currently writing while engulfed by European influences and breaking out in the European markets, with other European writers as my competition. And no, I don't mean I'm writing for a Western audience. That will never be the case with me. I am too passionate about my own authentic stories, no matter how erratic they may sound. I stay a Malaysian writer in every sense of the word.

But because I am published by a small independent British publisher as opposed to a large mainstream one, my distribution route of which has  been arranged solely by my publisher, appears to be concentrated on the world's big reading markets. So my title is being sold in the States, in several countries in Europe and so far, India, South Africa, Japan and Australia.  At the end of the day, anyone can order from an international region including the nine Amazon sites as well.  My readers appear to be far more universally spread out, then concentrated on homeground in the Far East where I was born.

Now, this happens naturally as well because I'm a traveller and have a motley crowd of friends from all over. Whereas unlike other Malaysian writers published abroad, my presence may hardly be felt on homeground or at least...that's how it seems  to me. I find this thought arresting and somewhat strange but interesting.

It is quite hard to work in this severe winter, so my promotions  will be organised differently in other places, namely Africa, next year. At the moment though, I have got off to a very good start. I lost a fair bit of weight running about. I was quite stressed out but also very happy. 

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I have missed talking about books and soon it will be time for me to fly to Africa. I just have to find a way round my books blog again. I also intend to open an author website, but may create a temporary one for the moment. In this way, it will be really easy to see what's going on with Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam.

Note

So sorry that I haven't stopped by but have been running around so much for my book lately, to catch up on overdue tasks, from the aftermath of recent snowfalls.   Hopefully, you will soon see some good results. I will be back with posts from tomorrow.  Or will tell you more about what's going on then. My reading seems to have just flown out of the window for the moment as I adjust to these very early and exciting days as an author. I am definitely glad that I got published on a whim, by a stroke of good luck. It's far easier on my spirit and my book also gives a stronger validation to my life as a writer. It straightaway defines my art and literary interests without me saying too much. More tomorrow.

After the Snow

Well...after a good few days, the thaw is finally taking effect.   Now, where there were once high layers of snow and later, treacherous ice at my doorstep which turns up as  the ground floor of the apartment block on where I stay - I am on the upper floors - at least today, 95% of the ice has melted away. We had members of Ireland's defence forces, coming in to help shovel away the snow. Urgent assistance was metered out for several cars stuck in the drive and also to break the ice which proved a mission in itself.

During the last 11 days or so when we were mostly snowed under, I lost the rhythm of my focus.

There were arranged book promotions for which I had to postpone and neither could I read, watch films or enjoy my translated Arabic literature in ways that I am used to. The city looked  an enormous hospital... the outdoors... as  if it was swathed in bandages and pedestrians terrified at  the idea of fractures from crashing onto the ground; appeared the walking wounded.

Yet Dublin handled the snow blizzard crisis excellently. Men from the army eg. those who served in Bosnia and were used to harsher climates, helped career women like countryside nurses and home carers with urgent house calls in isolated estates.  Residents were reminded over the evening news,  to look in and offer assistance to their elderly neighbours. I observed a fair amount of community goodwill, common sense and compassion that helped save the days and make them less painful.

Strangely during this time, I wrote far more intensely than I have in a while. I burrowed myself in my writing, not as a conscious choice but for the fact, that Nature acted the passionate Muse. Words came to me for all kinds of ballads and poems on the subject of winter and I wrote easily and swiftly. Here I was in the thick of it and glad, that at least, I was able to take some form of creative ability, so as not to have wasted the hours. It helped of course, that the landscapes were ornately beautiful...and in so many ways especially at odd hours like the twilight or midnight, breathtaking and magical. I would happily blame the change in colour shifts, shadowy patterns and scattered glows for the surreal enchantment.

I guess I lost focus because I didn't see it coming.  I was born in the tropics and where I have lived in Melbourne, Australia and London in the past, winter was always luxurious and convenient, gentle, mild and kinder on the senses. I would place the illustration of pressing on the buttons of a microwave as opposed to slaving over a hot stove.

I still do miss the wicked bay winds of a Melbourne's September  month. They were so powerful that while walking on the roads, someone's spectacles could be flung a good few yards away or a little girl's nicely-fastened clip, torn out of her hair. At night, the winds rocked the trees and howled like banshees.

The mountain summits in East Africa are known for their heavy snowfalls, but that's a sport. You dress for the ride, you pay for the hedonistic adventure...you regale in the very idea of being brushed with snow while rising to commendable heights as something, out of this world. A climber can turn back anytime he wants. Or if one persists with the snowy climb,  then consider this nothing more than a temporal episode.  Soon one will be on the way down to  sunshine and all good things. It's a  different feeling where preparations have been readied beforehand and snow serves as a pleasurable escapism to be enjoyed with friends.

Yet, drama has its way of gripping me. I am an adventurer...I travel erratically and in a daring fashion. The laws of attraction could never find a better victim than me. In March this year, while visiting Melbourne after a gap of a few years, I found myself standing knee-deep in the middle of a 'mini ocean' on Elizabeth St. in the business district. There were sudden thunderstorms and rain popping out of nowhere and this, armed with a severity that hadn't been evident for more than a 100 years.  I was talking with a friend in a shopping mall and then the mall started to fill up with water. People were screaming and running out. Later, while wading through the flood near Swanston Street, I experienced a dazed hypnotic effect with all that sea of water suddenly swirling about me.

Earlier on this year in Tanzania, while I was on an express coach on a rural route, we came across a bus that had exploded just 20 minutes before. Suddenly, I was faced with bodies and scattered limbs of children and women lying everywhere. My fellow Tanzanian bus passengers went into fits of weeping and wailing. The driver stopped to find out what happened and many got down. After 10 minutes, we had to get up the bus again and move quickly out as mobs of people from nearby villages had heard of the crash and deaths and were coming to see what they could loot. We ourselves had we stayed, would have been in danger. As a foreigner, I would  have been robbed. For all our sakes, the driver puffed on his smoke, had a chat with onlookers and then sped off quickly.

What will next year bring? I honestly, don't know.

Today for the first time, I see the wet pavements with new eyes.   Suddenly, they appear as the world's eight wonder.  Now, my soul serves the oddest thanksgiving as I celebrate the pavements on which my footsteps sing.

This weekend, I shall be outdoors, looking at the shops, catching up with my long  overdue Christmas shopping - I haven't been into a bookshop for ages - and getting my own poetry book well into the post for those who have been so patiently waiting to review it.

Note

Dear Readers,

My blogging will resume to normal tomorrow and I will return with a post early in the morning (Wednesday). My work - my writing and my reading and also the few number of things I am required to do for Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam - were all stunted during the snow catastrophes that practically had many of us trapped, where we lived.  I would say, that after 11 straight days of Artic weather, that the weather is steadily improving and I am now relieved that everything is returning to normal, in spite of the current cold conditions.

Ironically, during such a time of frustration and oppression caused by an otherwise peaceful, natural environment, I stayed highly inspired by the very landscapes that often provide for my Muse. Thus, I managed to compose a whole series of lively 'snow poems' written while I myself was in the thick of it. My writing during this time flowed easily and in spite of my annoyance, was able to use my imagination,  to observe beauty in everything. As a result, in some strange surreal way, my Art would seem to flourish.

 

Short Poetry Recital

Dear Readers,

Here is a recital of 3 short poems from my new book of lyrical writing called Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam. Thank you to a very special Irish poet, Noel Sweeney who reads them over some cool New Age music, composed and played by Latvian musician, citōg. Sounds surreal on headphones!

My work for this book has been badly delayed and halted by both the recent snow blizzards and currently, the threat of treacherous ice here in Dublin. Hopefully, this week will pick up as everything thaws.Thankfully, this title is still considered an ongoing distribution process in the UK, although it's already available on all of Amazon's international sites and also Barnes & Noble in the US.  Let this recital be counted as the first step to a new journey of the senses.

The Silence, Fried Egg & The Dancer, by Susan Abraham, read by crá, sound by citōg. by PoemOfTheWeek

Note

Dear Readers,

So sorry. Been terribly depressing...these snow blizzards and dangerous ice all over the place. I am caught in the thick of it.  So much of my work got halted and delayed. Hopefully, everything will thaw all the quicker and this week will steadily pick up.

Tomorrow (Sunday, Dec 6th), I shall make a real effort to return to blogging. Don't give up on me. I have missed writing about books although the snow has well consoled me as a fervent Muse and feeling guilty, led me to an inspired flight of ballads and poems, steadily dancing in my head.

 

 

Note

So sorry I haven't blogged for two days. Just working very hard on the promotion of my little book and trying to tie up the loose ends of the second one. Incidentally, although it's about to snow here in Dublin - the outdoors feels festive in that still, hushed way - I am as right as rain, athough I thought that I had been exposed to some cold and may have fallen ill yesterday. Thankfully, this did not happen.  Have to go downtown but will be back later to post my thoughts on whatever takes my fancy, later on today. Meanwhile, have a wonderful Friday.

Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam out now on Barnes&Noble & Amazon Books

Its still early days yet but my first book of lyrical writing, made up of poetry and some short prose, selected from an autumn publishing round by YouWriteOn in England, is up on Amazon US & Barnes&Noble,  already. 

You can also find my book on other Amazon sites like Amazon UK, Ireland, Japan, France and Denmark.

Do always type in the title. As it turns out, there are quite a few Susan Abraham's around the place who have already published books. I've arrived late in the day.

Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam is still a three-quarters way into the distribution process, before I can possibly view it on the UK bookseller databases.

There is no image available on Amazon as yet. Otherwise, the book is good to hold; it spots very good quality paper, inner typeface and superb binding. Also, the colours are much sharper than what you see here in the scanned copy.

This is very much a spiritual endeavour for me. I was actively writing and publishing work like poetry and plays in my early twenties.  Then I stopped to become a professional writer - first a copywriter and later a magazine journalist, where I truly found my niche. Then I gave up mainstream life to travel and write bread-and-butter copy with which to support myself. I really became quite the adventurer and finally, even took up mountaineering as a serious hobby.

Today, I am a seasoned traveller but not of the holidaymaker norm. Nothing like that.  I have been to obscure regions for several years now. A tourist would beat me hands down.  My style has been to visit old quiet regions and return to them again and again, until I know these foreign places intimately. Now, I have friends everywhere and sometimes make a roundabout turn, just to catch up.

Dar-es-Salaam is an old ancient port that ties in a lot with Zanzibar. This particular book is made up of little bits of poetry and short lyrical prose that I have been composing with such joy, on Malaysia, Ireland and Tanzania.  At least now, I feel I have a record of so many scattered bits of memorable writing, gathered neatly together in one place.

I'm only sorry I haven't started promoting the book  yet. However, I've decided against the grain to rush it as first of all, I consider this a specialised work with its own niche market. I also view my journey with this book, as an  enriching and celebratory one. I wanted to make sure for personal  reasons, that I would have a few commercial professional links to assign this book to. Now, I feel good about it and can go on and make plans for my own style of promotions. I have drawn up a programme for this already, so hopefully no reader will be in the dark too long.

I do find it a blessed relief, that after occupations with professional writing and a lapse of some years, that my creative writing has finally gone on commercial record and so soon after my comeback.  This much to my own surprise.

The same UK publisher is also waiting for another selected title. Now, that is commercial fiction and I'm tying up loose ends, hoping to finish it all before Christmas, so that I can pack my bags and jump on the next plane to Africa. But more on that in the next few days.

Costa Book Awards UK Shortlist 2010

Dear Readers,

Will have a post later on in the day. I'm a bit late with the news but meanwhile, here is the Shortlist for the Costa Book Awards 2010 - a popular literary prize in the UK.  The shortlist link forms part of the fuller website over Here.

Oh...the Wistfulness of a Tender Hospital Romance

Last Saturday, while dashing about with alacrity and all the while, pretending an  unhurried dignity, with which to finish my shopping  and meeting the post at the eleventh hour in Dublin, I couldn't resist popping into the stylish Chapters bookstore on Parnell Street,  to pick up Love on Ward B, (Prion Books Ltd., 2008)  a collection of six hospital nurse picture library romances, I had spied only the week before.  Now, with a startled longing, I once more nurtured a forgotten teenage deviousness in proclaiming the hidden candy floss of a dewy-eyed romance, necessary to curing all of life's ills.

This sunny orange-y collection featuring gossipy nurses, grumpy patients, no-nonsense matrons and Adonis-type doctors, revolves around the brazen adventures of freckle-faced Sally Brown, a  stunning blonde at the General Hospital, who in her spirited role as the humble probationary nurse, patrolled her wards with clockwork instinct together with her colleague Maureen Evans, while hatching a host of  sparkling secret plots to match.

The lively picture stories from Pearsons Library which each sold for a shilling in the early 1960s  - the Hospital Nurse series was first run in 1963 - and were appropriately titled Naughty Nurse, First Love, Man Crazy, Cure for Diane, Live and Love and Blues for a Beat Boy, feature exceptional charcoal-like sketches for each story cover and skilled drawings of endearing old-fashioned winter coats, moonlight serenades, a sports car zooming into the sunset, well-heeled restaurant diners, steamers rolling off into the ocean, frocks, mink coats and the classic lingering kiss. Oh yes... and I did glimpse adorable illustrations, made up of urgent teaspoonfuls of medicine plus hospital beds and trays peppered about the cheerful strips.

Now, I bought this fat jolly read for purely sentimental purposes.  Not that a woman needs to be reminded of that odd enchanting romance, destined to sprout a 1,000 wings for the merry, somersaulting heart, now and again.

My new picture book may as yet promise to act as a salve for the now slightly beleaguered if not older, human spirit. What illuminated childhood memories the rosy stories bring about.

My mother, a teacher at the Convent where I studied in Klang, Malaysia was strict in some ways but strangely liberal in others. In my in-between years from when I was 12+ and had begun to abandon my Enid Blyton collection for those enigmatic Pearl S. Buck novels, I first encountered an unholy interlude where my mother in her sudden phase of nostalgic maudlin frivolity, let me dangerously peruse several stacks of Women Weekly Romance Magazines, each one featuring the formulac 64 pages of passionate prose.

I can still remember with a quiet smile, some of my enduring heroines what with an unsavoury mix of vixens, floozies and dishy heroes thrown into the fray; and all engaged in impressive  syrupy scenes, that I daresay, may have unconsciously shaped my own life at some point, before common sense set in.

My poor schoolfriends on the other hand were banned from reading such books by both parents and the no-nonsense Irish nuns that ran our Convent. These books were easily available as a powerful influence from our nation having survived an earlier British rule. A lot of our literature  featuring magazines, the classics, all manner of fiction and childrens' stories, were imported directly from England. My friends used to tuck their forbidden paperbacks in between the duller pages of textbooks.  They would then read as much as they could during recess. One had always to be careful as prefects would inspect our satchels during intervals and confiscate all the no-nos. School punishments could well include detention, gardening in the hot sun or worse still, cleaning the eerie toilets.

This book reminded me of a post I had written somewhere on the web, a few years earlier. Have managed to trace it. The Junk Bookstore at Jalan Tun H.S. Lee is still a memorable must-see for lovers of antiquarian literature, who find themselves in Kuala Lumpur. It's situated on an ancient street, that long filled up with Chinese traders eg. wholesalers and provision shops. A visitor may find himself dodging gunny sacks and silently bewailing the noisy, rackety buses snailing past.  On the contrary, the bookstore itself is a silent haven while spotting shiny dark glass for newly-renovated doors. The passing pedestrian that may pop up a swaying drunk,  is unable to peer inside.

The Junk Bookstore, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

Pictured here is an illustration from the women's fiction my mother and her friends read in their time , in this case from an old Her World magazine, published in the early '60s.  The short billowy dresses they wore with matching coloured bags and earrings and the fashion magazines they snuggled up to.

Looking back, the days felt transient and more ephemeral. Such is the starry-eyed atmosphere that engulfs the Junk Bookstore, Kuala Lumpur's popular antiquarian bookshop and promotes its reputation as a thrilling, intimate haunt.

It's a captivating little place and may yet prove tighter than a mansion's alcove with its poky corners that hoard literary treasures in the vein of an ancient toyshop clutter.

After all, its matchbox size ensures a silent warning that, you may just stroll in at the risk of of a book-pile precariously perched from somwhere in the forgotten past, collapsing onto the floor in a thunderous heap. And do be careful climbing up the staircase that you don't suffer a thump on the head from a secret sloping wall, bent on mischief.

In spite of the limited space, the shop is famous for its colourful shelves of second-hand books that drag out all the romantic flavour from the world's rich Colonial past. Think of it as an Aladdin's cave with boxes of mixed-up oil lamps, for any literary enthusiast seeking mystery and adventure.

There are hundreds of detective novels - for instance, the startling range of a Perry Como series featuring Film Noir blondes and cigar-smoking thugs, - thrillers, limited local editions of Malaysian/Singaporean women's magazines from the Sixties, romances, comics and all kinds of other amusing paperback fare. Sentiment is heaven so carry more tissues than usual whenever you visit this tiny haven.

The Junk Bookstore, 78, Jalan Tun HS Lee, 50000 Kuala Lumpur, Tel: 603 238 3822. - susan abraham

Personal Note

Dear Readers,

I will be back with a book post or more news, tomorrow. A terribly bleak winter's day for a Saturday morning I admit, but I shall just have to go out and make things happen today.

I collect no brownie points for still lagging behind on the Christmas cards trail.  I also want to buy a couple of interesting books I spotted at a bookshop, currently awash with its Christmas classic collections and have made a mental note to send on by registered post; a few choice copies of my little book to individuals.  Then I have to firm up plans for my book promotion.  I intend to customise this effort. Hopefully, my title will be up on the UK sites, for display, sooner rather than later. At the moment, one can only twiddle one's thumbs and wait for it to show. My title is already in the distribution process. 

I also have another piece of book news in the offing and will share that, a little later. Still hugging that bit to myself.

As an aside, I shall  call friends in Africa today.  No doubt, they will be ecstatic at the news, that I finally got something published.  They've been bugging me like no one else I know.  Some of my writings are about Dar-es-Salaam.  Even though the contents appear lyrical, the situations I sketch, would  easily prove familiar and endearing,  to those in the know.  After all, when I was in Tanzania in August, the publishing opportunity hadn't yet come my way. I didn't know about the publishing round then or that my title would be selected for publication in  London, just like that.

Things have happened very fast as if my destiny was simply too impatient to have waited any longer. And not that I mind of course. The phrase It's a Wonderful Life now begins to hold serious appeal. I would consider that philosophy, with an improved meditative mind. I am finally in a rather gingerly way, ready to bid adieu to 2010, having nearly slipped out of the year, decked in surprises and smelling of roses and while, still puzzled at my abstract shower of scent.

My good times are a little overdue but thankfully, I am in fine fettle to enjoy them. With some jagged difficult years in the past where I had to battle situations alone, I  became somewhat adept at roughing the risky treks and wading through mudpools, in solitude. Such an apt analogy may well be placed while reflecting on the astonishing wonders of a singular  preseverance.

I think the bottom line for a special wisdom that I have subsequently followed, is that one simply can't slide into a parochial situation and hope for the magic of dreams to unfold, while observing the good tidings of others; those who dared summon the courage to step out of the mainstream. It would be like huddling in a wheelchair and waiting for someone to ferry me, to the finishing line of destiny's post. I could never conform to the timetable of a comfort zone. I am someone who would rather leap off the safe chair when no-one's looking and make a run for it, to the stars.

I may be bringing up my travel plans. My first international destination in 2011 would be to Tanzania and Zanzibar, to see my beloved friends, do a little mountaineering, a couple of game drives and let the good days unfold. I plan to spend quite a bit of time in the Middle East next year, celebrating travel and literature and devoting time to writing my own stories.

 

Perth Writers Festival 2011

The Perth Writers Festival will be held in early March 2011, on the grounds of the University of Western Australia.  With the exception of workshops, almost all of the programme, including the list of writers in attendance, have been confirmed. 

Here is the Website.

I have also added details of the Perth Writers Festival 2011 to  my earlier post on Upcoming Literary Festivals in early 2011.

Early Update on the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival (Oct 5-9, 2011)

There was a recent  article in The Japan Times written by Jeff Kingston, who talks about Bali ready to 'beckon the literary tourist.' Naturally, this overtone would bear an almost complete reference to the highly popular annual Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, founded by the  friendly and vibrant, Janet de Neefe.  The festival programme itself is said to 'offer a culture in paradise.' I met de Neefe once before at the Singapore Writers Festival.

The interested or perhaps I should say bookish reader is advised to block out the upcoming October 5 to 9th dates in 2011, for some 'top-class literary tourism.' Next year's festival theme is called Nanduring karang awak - meaning 'Cultivate the Land Within' and this, taken from an old Balinese poem.  Do read the rest of the engaging article, over Here.

Singaporean novelist Wena Poon's novel Alex y Robert sees a WH Smith Promotion next February

Wonderful news about Singapore born-America based short story writer and novelist, Wena Poon, having her first novel, Alex y Robert, being on the UK's famous bookstore chain, WH Smith's promotional slot this coming February 2011.

To read about a forthcoming Wena Poon book event in Singapore which I blogged about and also where I share quick personal thoughts on her novel Alex y Robert, please click Here.

For more information on Alex y Robert, please click Here.

Note

Dear Readers,

It's Wednesday today. I'll be back later with a bit of book news or reviews. I also have two novels on hand, on which I'm writing literary journeys, for this blog.

I'm quite excited about my own little book of lyrical writing. I was told by the publisher yesterday, that my title, is already in the distribution process in the UK, so just waiting for the commercial links to go up, before I proceed with promotions. I'll be making an author website for it and other things.

I'll also be going to Africa soon. Probably, straight after Christmas.  But I'll still be on this books blog, no matter where I am, except perhaps when I'm mountaineering, or on isolated game drives (safaris).  These have stayed endearing hobbies in recent years.