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M.Chu
Singapore
31 Posts |
 Posted - 22 Nov 2004 : 01:05:14
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Be glad to hear from you on your attempt to write a first novel.
On my part, save for some further polishing, I've managed to complete my first novella, White Magnolia , comprising 16 chapters for personal satisfaction (Non-self publication would be a bonus).
If you care to read on, here is Chapter 1 - Selegie Cafe:
Sylvia arrived first for her rendezvous with Sakura. She entered an archway and walked passed a few sets of aluminium chairs and tables, which were placed along the external wall of a café. The wind generated by the strong whirls of ceiling fans drove her hair into a flutter. Unfazed, she kept her hair down with one hand as she headed for the main entrance of the café with its maroon-fabric and dome-shaped awning bearing the name, Selegie Café, in gold letterings.
Upon stepping onto the spotless and shiny terracotta flooring on the inside of the cafe, Sylvia removed her sunglasses and took in the whiffs of cool air generated by the humming air-conditioning system. She stood still for a while to let her eyes adjust themselves to the relatively dim interior kept aglow by cosy-yellow wall lightings as opposed to the scorching sun outside. It was like a sort of homecoming for her as strains of Kenny G’s saxophone intoxicated the atmosphere.
She felt at ease and looked forward to some relaxation. Only a short while ago, she had been battling her way through the heavy Saturday afternoon traffic in her metallic green Renault’s Clio before turning to the right and escaping from the chaotic din of roaring and rushing vehicles pouring into Upper Serangoon Road. She ordered a regular chilled Mocha and a slice of scrumptious Black Forest cake. She collected her teaspoon from a self-service stand, and chose a table with four empty seats at a corner.
The air-conditioning felt just right for her, and the music was soothing. Taking her seat, she sunk her teeth into her first scoop of the cake and savoured the ingredients, which blended into a delectable mix of creamy sweetness in her mouth. The mocha was sufficiently rich and did not disappoint with its distinctive flavour of Colombian coffee beans. Instantly, imagination or otherwise, the infusion made her feel lighter and more alert. Sylvia got up effortlessly from her seat, turned around, and walked towards the magazine rack, which was affixed to the wall near to the cash register.
She wondered when Sakura, her newfound Japanese friend, would turn up. Their initial acquaintance was made at New Frontier Computer School where both of them were embarking on a Web page development course. They got on well from the onset with each other as well as with their other two project team members, Linda and Miriam. On discovering that she was relatively new in Singapore -- having arrived here by herself not more than three months ago, Sylvia decided to be hospitable and helpful towards Sakura.
There were quite a few magazines on the rack, including Times, Newsweek and Home Décor. Sylvia chose The Arts Magazine. Back at her seat, Sylvia pored over the Editor’s column with relish, much like the way she devoured her cake. She then leafed through the other pages to see what else might catch her fancy. Suddenly, she felt a gentle tap on her left shoulder. Sylvia turned her head and saw Sakura standing beside her.
Sakura, looking bubbly, said, “Sorry, I’m late.” Very quickly, she unloaded her HTML textbook and purple Apple notebook onto the table.
Sylvia looked at her with a smile and said, “Konnichi-wa.”
Sakura drew apart from the table and extended both her hands downward to present herself, like what a trained model might do, to show off her adornment. Her new hairdo was like dried grass weaved into a messy ball of flaming orange. She wore a pair of hip-hugging denim; a white, frilly, cotton mid-riff blouse; and a pair of beige leather sandal with a strap at the back. Her toothy grin was as evident as ever. Her looks were plain, unlike the pixie-like faces of actresses or models appearing in commercials for Japanese products.
“Well?” Sakura asked with a big smile. “How do you think I look?”
Sylvia, shaken mildly by the unexpected riot of orange, composed herself quickly and said, “Your hair looks great!” Though she was accustomed to see strangers with their hair dyed in bright colours, Sylvia never expected that one of her friend might do so; Sakura had to be the first.
Sakura, still smiling, said, “It’s awfully great because it costs me a tidy sum.” Looking satisfied with Sylvia’s admiration, Sakura retrieved a dainty white hanky from her right hip pocket and dabbed it on her brow, face and arms to remove tiny blobs of perspiration.
“Hot day, isn’t it?” asked Sylvia, seeking more for an assent rather than an answer.
“Reminds me of summer in Japan. The big difference is that it’s more humid here in Singapore,” Sakura said. “And, less interesting.”
Sylvia said, “It’s either hot or wet here.”
“Exactly. In Japan, we chart our lives round the four seasons. Our food and clothing, and, one could say, just about everything else is tied up to each of the season,” said Sakura while she pinched out a red leather wallet from the back pocket of her denim.
“Do you want another drink, Sylvia?”
Sylvia looked at her half-empty cup of Mocha and said, “No, thanks.”
“Excuse me, while I go and get a drink,” said Sakura. She walked sprightly towards the service counter like a dessert fox bent for an oasis.
Sakura came back with her mouth clenching a piece of drinking straw and her right hand holding a tall glass, which was covered with condensation at the sides and filled with pristine ice-cubes soaking in a pool of soothing-yellow lemon juice. She sat down, plunged the straw into her drink and took a long sip.
Lifting up her eyes from the magazine, Sylvia looked at the drink and gushed with, “My, my, that drink really looks cool.”
Sakura drank some more before letting go of the straw and smothered her lips with her tongue. “It tastes a bit like magueritta what with all these sweat on my lips. Wanna try some?”
“No, thanks.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Sakura sipped some more of the drink with quiet desperation. Gratified, she said, “It’s more zesty than some of the canned calamansi or lemon juice by Sagiko, Pokka or Fruit Tree.”
“Very well suited for our hot weather,” said Sylvia. “When I was young, I used to stick a sour plum into a half-pealed calamansi and sucked them in unison.”
Sakura clenched her teeth and shrugged her shoulders to mimic a shiver. She then held up her right arm and scrutinized the hair to see whether they were standing on their ends.
Sylvia laughed and said, “Don’t be such a hyper!”
“I must try your plum-and-calamansi concoction, some day,” said Sakura with a broad smile. “It sounds like good fun to me.”
Sakura looked with heightened interest past Sylvia, and asked, “What do you think of that guy’s hair?” She held her gaze and directed her chin slightly upward towards the dispensing counter.
Enthused by the prompting, Sylvia took a glance over her shoulder. She saw a guy waiting at the counter with his lady companion. He had a tassel of braided, jet-black hair held upward by a sky-blue, cloth hair band.
Turning back to face Sakura, Sylvia said, “Local celebrities -- she’s an actress and he’s a rapper.”
“Do you know them?” Sakura wanted to know.
“No, I don’t. Just read about them in local magazines and newspapers. I think she’s really nice and pleasant; no airs and very down-to-earth.”
Sylvia turned to take another look. She saw them collecting their drinks and pastries. Thereafter, they headed to the patio outside of the main entrance.
“What about him?” asked Sakura.
“Hey, I don’t really know that much. From what I do know, through my reading, that is, he is highly dedicated to his act as an entertainer. And, yes, if you ask me, his hairdo suits his personality.” Sylvia continued, “They’re already engaged and the grapevine has it that they will be getting married in December of this year. Six months from now is not a long way off considering the amount of hard work required to plan for their big day.”
“It’s part and parcel of tying the knot, unless one opts to forgo the wedding ceremony-cum-dinner altogether,” said Sakura, dourly. “So, Sylvia, do you believe in marriage?”
Sylvia broke into a weak smile and said, “I do, but ….”
“But, what?”
“I think it might be too good to be true for me.”
“Oh, but marriage can happen to almost anybody,” said Sakura. “I suppose it could be a worthwhile endeavour.”
“Yes, if both parties are committed to make it good. Otherwise, why even bother to get into a relationship in the first instance, right?”
“I don’t believe in marriage,” Sakura spoke rather forcefully, with bitterness glaring through her eyes.
Sylvia was taken aback by Sakura’s glare. After some thoughts, Sylvia tried her to be as tactful as she could and said calmly, “It may not be everybody’s cup of tea. But, I know of many happy marriages amongst the folks I know. You know, so many of my university classmates have gotten married that I’m beginning to feel left out. Left behind. And,…”.
She stopped as Sakura was holding up her left hand with palm facing outward like a traffic policeman stopping the oncoming traffic. “You’re not listening to me,” Sakura said firmly, but without any hint of malice.
Sylvia felt indignant at being charged unreasonably for, of all things, failing to listen. It was the first time anyone had spoken to her that way. She felt like protesting that she too had right to be heard, and that there was no written social law to insist that others were obliged to hear out to what another may be dishing out. She reasoned though that the present scenario, possibly, signified a deepening of their friendship where they could be frank with each other and shed some inhibitions, much like removing layers of an onion in order to get to the core, and insist on the right for empathy. So, Sylvia said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Sakura remained silent for a while to find the right phrase.
Sylvia looked at her quizzically and wandered whether Sakura was about to turn childish and sulk.
After she sniffled her nose, Sakura said, “I mean, look at my parents. My father was a salary-man, a wage earner in Japanese-speak, and spent much of his weekdays at work. He hardly spent time with my mother and I, except over the weekends. And, what happened? He died not long after the company retrenched him. His life was with the company. My poor Mom was very saddened, fell ill and died six months afterwards.” She paused momentarily before she said, ever so tamely, “And, I alone am left.”
Sylvia listened intently throughout, having been jolted by the admonition earlier on. She then waited in silence together with Sakura. It was the art of listening to a person’s heart, she figured. The lull and occasional shrill of voices from the other customers who were immersed in conversation resonated in the background like the incessant ebb and flow of waves by the seaside. It was nigh time to retreat and reflect on the profundity of life.
Finally, sensing that it was appropriate, Sylvia said, “I’m sorry to hear about your parents.” She proceeded to place both her hands across the table and onto Sakura’s hands, which were clasped together on the table. “How are you now? Are you okay?”
Sakura looked up and managed a brave smile. “Thanks for listening Sylvia, I’m okay. It’s been three year’s since my mom passed away.”
“I’m sure it was tough on you after that.”
“Oh, I stayed on for a few months in my parents’ rented apartment before moving on to stay with an aunty on my mother’s side who was also living in Yokohama. She was very kind and understanding, and treated me like a daughter. She had two boys of her own. They would return home from their company hostels in Osaka and spent the weekends with her. I don’t know if both my cousins are going to get married any time soon; it’s very costly to buy a matrimonial house in Japan.”
“Why then uproot yourself to Singapore?”
“I got on well with them all,” said Sakura. “Maybe I just wanted to get away from the past. Or, maybe I wanted a more challenging environment. I was teaching elementary Japanese to foreigners in a training institute which was located only a train-stop away from my aunt’s flat. Both ways, the train stations were within walking distance. What more could one ask for? But, it was pretty much the same thing, day in, day out. I felt stifled.”
“Yours is a huge country. Surely, there were lots of wonderful opportunities out there and a myriad choices for you to hand-pick.”
“On the contrary, it was actually rather difficult to settle elsewhere or change job. I felt like a fish out of water. People always asked what prefecture and town you came from, who were your folks and all the other stuffs. And, then, they would form an opinion of whether or not you can fit in. Unless and until then, don’t even bother to entertain the thought that they might accept you to be a part of their community. Take it from me that it was worse than a fish being auctioned off at Tsukiji. I don’t want to be discarded fish, do you?”
Sylvia almost blurted out some words but somehow managed to kill them off before they could clamour through her mouth. She felt triumphant for having mastered the earlier admonition to hear things out when another person is holding court. Out of the blue though, the thought of asking Sakura ‘What am I supposed to say here?’ did popped up. Sylvia parted her lips and broke into a weak and unconsummated laughter.
Sakura didn’t get it and came again keenly with, “Do you want to be a discarded fish?”
Seeking for inspiration, Sylvia quickly recapitulated an image of the haul of whopping tuna at the Tokyo Central Wholesale Market, which she had seen in a dated issue of National Geographic, and said, “If I were a bluefin tuna, I would know my true worth and not settle for anything less.”
“Hmm. Speaking of which, you’re truly a pretty good catch in person,” Sakura, surprising Sylvia, pounced with a gleeful smile. “You have a pretty good height above my 1.60 metre, a radiant and smooth-complexion face, well-and-even-toned limbs and a graceful deportment. Also, your dressing is immaculate but not ostentatious, practical and comfortable.” Sakura was on a high and went on with her pronouncement, “If I may say so, you look like a luscious magnolia in full bloom and redolent of goodwill and well wishes to all and sundry who come close enough to inhale your scent.”
Sylvia raised her eye-brows, grinned sardonically, and said, “Very flowery.” She could well have debunked everything but decided otherwise as she was wary of disheartening Sakura, who had spoken in earnest.
Sakura went on to finish the last portion of her lemonade. She then looked up from her drink and asked, “Any favourite flower?”
“A red rose; the English variety.”
Using her left arm which was pivoted on the table, Sakura propped her chin on the palm of her hand, and said somewhat dreamily, “I like orchids and surmise that they grow extremely well in the rainforest of South-East Asia, especially on the mountain ranges of Sabah and Sarawak.”
“Singapore, also, without the mountain ranges,” Sylvia added.
Retracting from her digression to flowers, Sakura nosed her way further in and had to ask, “So how come you’ve not tied yourself down yet? Don’t you have a steady?”
Sylvia’s cheeks flushed a tinge and she quickly placed her right index finger onto her lips. “Hush! ”
But, her listener didn’t buy-in. Sakura looked past Sylvia, spanned to her right -- like one would when using a camcorder, and proceeded to view round her own back. She saw that every table was taken up by huddles of lovers and a lonesome few who were reading either a magazine or a book. “It’s alright, what. Who’s listening in, anyway? There’s nothing in the least indecent or criminal about the state of your affairs, in general-speak. So, what’s there to hide?”
Sylvia, in what may have sounded like a confession, said, softly, “I’ve nothing to hide, but I much prefer to keep things on the quiet. There’s really no need to make much out of it. Don’t be like a teasing Rumpelstiltskin. Life can go on with or without a man in my life. Aside from my Dad, of course.”
“But, I went on without my Dad. And, my Mom,” said Sakura.
“Eventually, I’ll have to go the same route too. Let’s give a toast to life.”
Spontaneously, they raised and clinked their cup and glass, and motioned to drink, but ended up laughing at themselves upon realising that they had nary a drop of their drinks left.
“Shall we have something else?” asked Sakura.
“Let’s have strawberry sundaes and get started with your lesson,” said Sylvia “Later, we can decide what to do if we finish earlier than expected. I’ve got a dinner appointment with my parents and their friends at 7.00 p.m.”
They enjoyed the ice-cream, and had a fruitful time together as Sylvia patiently explained how frames could be created using HTML commands on the Apple notebook. Sakura found Sylvia’s instructions to be clear and easy to follow, filling the gaps of what she had missed out both in the classroom and when studying her textbook and lecture notes. To ensure that Sakura got it, Sylvia made her repeat hands-on after each of her demo. With such good progress, they even got on with cascading style sheets and finished the topic as well within an hour. By then, it was about 5:00 p.m.
Sakura wanted to visit the Singapore Art Museum and Sylvia suggested that they take a stroll there. They breezed along the cement pavements against the flow of traffic branching off from Stamford Road and Orchard Road. Along the way they ogled at two sleek Porshes kept on display adjacent to the security counter at the lobby of LKN House. Sylvia pointed across the road and regaled that there used to be a stretch of old shop houses selling a variety of stuffs including ornamental fish and cassette tapes. There was even an A&W Restaurant back then, which Sylvia recalled fondly of its coney dogs, Papa-, Mama- and Teen-burgers, and chilled root beers served in over-sized mugs. Sylvia noted thankfully that the famous nasi padang restaurant along their walkway did not disappear to make way for developments but has found a new home at The Rendezvous Hotel.
“They serve very good nasi padang,” said Sylvia.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Indonesian dishes served with rice. My Dad said that Padang is actually the name of a town in Indonesia from where these dishes hailed.”
“Not for me if it’s too spicy.”
“Not to worry. When you have stayed long enough here, your taste bud will be able to take on more and more exotic fare. I know of many Japanese working in Singapore who have now acquired a penchant for green chilli seasoned with vinegar.”
Turning into Bras Basah road, Sylvia revealed that this length of road was previously lined with shop houses selling sports goods and second-hand books in the 1970s and early 1980s. But, they were all gone now.
The Arts Museum was well-kept and cool. Sylvia explained that the building was formerly the premises of a school -- St. Joseph’s Institution. They walked briskly, stopping occasionally, to take a closer view of the paintings and pottery being exhibited. Sakura observed approvingly that so much efforts were done to preserve notable old buildings and in the process, the memories of Singaporeans.
From there, they parted company. Sakura headed for City Hall MRT Station while Sylvia turned back to Prinsep Street for her Clio.
END OF CHAPTER 1>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The following are just some excerpts which I hope would encourage you in your endeavour.
On Writing A First Novel
Paul Heng wrote for two hours every evening to complete his first book in eleven months. He said, "If you want something bad enough, don't just sit around. You will have to work on it to fulfill your dream."
"I don't know why so many writers, unpublished and published, should find this so hard to grasp: the novel is about other people. A first novel must always be about other people. The function of a novel isn't self-expression: it isn't to sort out your life, it isn't to change society. Above all, it isn't about you. You must use your own experiences, direct and indirect, but only as the purposes of the story dictate. You must realize that you yourself don't matter. Only the work matters. You have to get rid of yourself, or at least try to." -- an excerpt from 'How To Write A Novel' by John Braine.
"When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature." -- Ernest Hemingway
"The novel, especially the first novel, is a work of love and a challenge of your spirit. Don't treat it as anything less." -- Raymond Obstfeld
E.L. Doctorow said that: "Writing a novel is like driving at night: You can only see as far as the headlights reach, but you can get all the way across the country like that."
"There is no best-selling formula: There is a common denominator of best-sellers. It is a well-constructed story. Every line must have a hook planted to lead the reader on to the next, every chapter must end with a surprise, a predicament, a big hook. The end must be a true end, all the book must be epitomized in the last paragraph. It must be what the book has been aiming towards, the target it has been planned to hit."
"Every worthwhile accomplishment has a price tag attached to it. The question is always whether you are willing to pay the price to attain it -- in hard work, sacrifice, patience, faith, and endurance." -- John C. Maxwell
"The secret of success is constancy of purpose." -- Benjamin Disraeli
"Ability is what you're capable of doing. Motivation determines what you do. Attitude determines how well you will do it." -- Lou Holtz
"As is our confidence, so is our capacity." -- William Hozlitt
In high school, Tom Clancy, the best-selling author of the Jack Ryan books The Hunt for Red October, Patriot Games, and The Bear and the Dragon, knew that one day he'd see his name on a book cover. He says it took him twenty years to finally see that, "but I managed to get that dream accomplished, and then I got very lucky."
While running his own independent insurance agency, Clancy wrote The Hunt for Red October. A member of the U.S. Naval Institute. Clancy learned the Institute was about to enter the fiction business as Naval Institute Press. So he drove the book to Annapolis and drove home. "A few weeks later, the publisher expressed interest and so I've never had a rejection slip."
The Hunt for Red October was published in October 1984, and on 24 March 1985, Red October came in at number ten on The New York Times best-seller list. His advice to aspiring writers is: "Keep at it! The one talent that's indispensable to a writer is persistence. Your must write a book, else there is no book. It will not finish itself. ... If it is entertaining people will read it, in case the critics never told you that ... But fundamentally, writing a novel is telling a story."
(Source: The Complete Handbook of Novel Writing, Chapter 44. Copyright © 2002 by Writer's Digest Books)
Scottish physician A.J. Cronin (1896 ~ 1981) was forced by illness to take leave of absence from his medical practice. He then decided to write a novel. But when half done, he became disheartened and threw his manuscript into a garbage can. Totally discouraged, Cronin was walking the Scottish Highlands and saw a man digging in a bog. As Cronin talked with him, the man said, " My father dug at this bog and never made a pasture. But my father knew and I know that it's only by digging you can make a pasture. So I keep on digging."
Rebuked and remotivated, Cronin went home, picked his manuscript out of the garbage can, and finished it. That novel, Hatter's Castle, sold three million copies.
-- an excerpt from 'Let's Keep Digging' by Vernon Grounds which appeared on May 16, 2003 of Our Daily Bread, Copyright 2002 RBC Ministries.
"Writing a book is an adventure: to begin with it is a toy and amusement; then it becomes a master, and than it becomes a tyrant; and the last phase is just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude- you kill the monster and fling him to the public." -- Winston Churchill
"Writing your first novel is a daunting task. It is a dance, a balancing act, between your inner-editor, and that part of you that, for some inexplicable reason, wants so badly to put your story down on paper." -- Palmer Owyoung
Fancy a three-hour long Western? In which the Native Americans speak their own language and we have to read subtitles for almost a third of the movie? At the beginning of the 90s, by which time the Western had been declared dead for twenty or thirty years?
Well, Michael Blake set out and completed the novel, Dances With Wolves, following a friend's advice to the effect that it is relatively easier to find success with a novel than with a movie-script. The reviewers hailed the writer as an overnight success and quipped: "Yesterday he was working in a Chinese restaurant, now he's collecting awards." True, but there's nothing overnight about it. His journey was one of single-minded perseverance and dedication, of a discipline and dedication strong enough to to keep him writing after his friends and family, and even he had begun to doubt that success would ever become a reality.
That friend? Kevin Costner.
-- adapted from a scriptwriting book I had read; did not record down its particulars then.
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Edited by - M.Chu on 22 Nov 2004 01:07:48 |
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mrlee28
Singapore
6 Posts |
Posted - 27 Dec 2004 : 10:37:56
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Hi Chu,
I'm just curious here. I wonder if you've published your story already? Just keen to find out how the local aspiring writers are doing. Thanks. |
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M.Chu
Singapore
31 Posts |
Posted - 29 Dec 2004 : 00:11:20
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Hi mrlee28,
Not in print yet. Had submitted to two publishers thus far; one said they are more into non-fiction but would gladly assist with the printing at my own costs while the other has yet to reply.
How's the going with your writings? Any publication yet?
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Edited by - M.Chu on 29 Dec 2004 00:16:11 |
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mrlee28
Singapore
6 Posts |
Posted - 30 Dec 2004 : 00:03:38
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Hi Chu,
thanks for the concern. No, not yet. I thought I was a spring all wind up ready to unleash my potential a few years ago. Now, I think I've over-wind myself and damaged the mechanism and the inertia has corroded and lost its spring. I derive some esteem from holding on to a stable job that feeds my family now; and keep my perspective optimistic by still aspiring to write. However, practice makes perfect and I haven't been doing that, so I've got to be honest to myself. I'm always inspired by people like you who have strong motivation and determination to just write it out.
Mr Lee |
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Ever dreamt of writing a first novel?
