nom de plume

When I was sixteen, my dad read my practice essays for 1119. That night at dinner, totally out of the blue (that was what I thought then, not knowing he’d read my stuff) he said I should consider studying journalism after SPM. He told me that I wrote well, and with proper training could probably make a career of it.

Wow. This was a Compliment, dad being already published himself. But I also felt violated, in a way. I kicked myself for carelessly leaving those essays lying around, instead of putting them away as I usually did.

You see, I become someone else when I write. I lose the reserve which paralyzes me if you were to meet me in person. I’m not sure I want to share that someone with anybody yet. I write what I want, and paper and pen don’t judge. Then I decide if it gets to be read by anyone else, or if it gets torn up and flung into the trash.

I didn’t get that choice when my dad read those essays. Those essays were strictly between Mrs. K and I.

I’m a horrifically private person. And to me, writers are brave, brave people. To put down in black and white your thoughts and fears, fantasies and opinions. Laying it all out there for people to see. And to judge. To judge you as a writer. And to judge you as a person. Even if it’s fiction and everything’s made up. Because it has to come from somewhere. I don’t like people knowing that much about me. Or thinking that they know that much about me. Even if it’s just that I’m friends with this person, or that I went to that school.

I didn’t do journalism. Obviously. But at uni, I took a semester of creative writing. Because I’d promised dad. And also because I wanted to. I loved it. But I dreaded the reading aloud part. The professor was great. She told us to simplify. Show instead of tell. Readers aren’t stupid, don’t spell everything out. Make eavesdropping a habit. And she said I should keep writing.

Tonight at dinner, dad said the same thing again. I should write. A book. A short story. Column. Anything.

I don’t know though. This blog is difficult enough. And it’s already anonymous.

groan

I’m so full, it’s disgusting.

reformed

I’ve just been reliably informed that wearing leggings in KL makes you ah lian. Am quite annoyed by this, because I love my leggings. But apparently, ‘cool’ people don’t do that.

Er, hello? So you’re saying Hollywood is not cool-lah? And New York street-fashion very ah lian is it?

Actually, this isn’t the first time I’ve been told something like this. The first year I was in New York, I happily joined the locals and donned street fashion. I loved it. It was eclectic, and funky, and there was a sense of freedom in dressing that was very new to me. It was all about self-expression. What you saw on celebs or in magazines, you could get at the stores or the street markets. And you didn’t look just like everyone else.

But when I came back to KL that summer, it was completely different. People looked at me funny and I felt self-conscious all the time. What was cool on the streets of New York city was ah lian in KL (oh, the irony!). I spent the rest of the summer in jeans and baby tees. Just like everyone else.

I realized then, that we have it all wrong. The ‘cool’ crowd, for want of a better description, are conservative and conformist. They’re the ones in the ’safe’ spaghetti strap top and jeans and the beaded necklace. Everyone looks alike. Same goes for the guys. Even now, almost a decade later, they’re still wearing the same thing, albeit slightly updated. These people are the first ones to make snide remarks about anyone who doesn’t fit their definition of cool. They pride themselves on the fact that they’re trendy and up-to-date. I should know, I used to be one of them.

But think about it. New York. Paris. Milan. Hong Kong. Tokyo. Fashion capitals all. No hint of KL in there. See what I’m getting at?

So, Hong Kong fashion…. or KL fashion? The fact that ah lians are willing to take a chance and be different makes them cooler and more fashion-forward in my book. After all, that’s what fashion’s about isn’t it? Individuality and having the confidence to be true to your own style.

I’m willing to bet my leggings there are more like-minded people out there. People who love their leggings but don’t wear them for fear of being called ah lian.

Well, so f*&king what?

It’s high time this changed. We need to stop worrying about what people think and just wear what we want. We need to stop judging people based on their outward appearance and the language they speak. And most importantly, we need to hold our heads high, and wear our leggings loud and proud!

um.

So. I’m back in KL. It’s great to see family again. And friends. And everything familiar and comfortable.

Then why do I feel so foreign?

perfection

A professor in uni once told me my work was perfect.

“Too perfect, in fact. And perfect is boring.”

Use the grid. Understand the principles. Once you have something that is well-balanced and harmonious, take one element and nudge it a little out of place. Make it feel ‘not quite right’. This is how you can create tension. And where there is tension, there’s energy. And the piece comes to life.

When everything is perfect, it’s too safe. Because you are following all the rules. When you put a little of yourself into the piece, it becomes unique to you. All your experiences from your past, your opinions, the way you see things, will lead you to make that one decision.

Know the rules. Understand them. Then break them. Because by then, you will know which one to break.

walk this way

KL-ites are a mighty privileged lot. No one walks ANYWHERE. You drive to the mall. To the shops. To see friends. To the mamak. Almost everyone’s got a maid. Or cleaning help, at least. Food’s cheap and always available. And laundry… LAUNDRY is done at home!

I am feeling like such a pampered little brat. And I’m enjoying every single minute of it!

Back in New York, I do my own laundry. Which isn’t in the apartment. I’ve to lug everything down five flights of stairs to the laundromat, and then lug it back up again when I’m done. When I go get groceries, it’s the same thing. And I WALK. Walk to get groceries. And walk back with them. Walk if I want a day of shopping, and then walk back with the goods.

And yes, I walk to work. Everyday. Sure, I get lazy and take cabs.

But that’s not the point. The point is, if I lived here, I’d be DRIVING. Instead of walking.

i’m never gonna make you cry

KL radio is awesome. Makes me feel like I’m in college again.

‘ello? Why the songs all still the same lah?

it starts

Wednesday night at Laundry with the SocialButterfly. It was nice just sitting there shooting the shit. There was a football game on, so it was quite a crowd. We just yay-ed and boo-ed along with everyone. Sajalah. Not like we knew what was going on. We were too busy gabbing.

Got a little lost trying to get to the car since all the exits were closed. Finally found our way down, then got lost trying to get out to the highway.

I guess alcohol really does kill brain cells.

what happens when you move away

My room is now the de-facto storeroom.