I blurted out 50,000 words in one month and got that icon on the right hand side of this blog as a gift.
It's not a novel, actually.
Will tell you more about it when I have more time (meaning I am able to nick working hours more conveniently, because I find it more enjoyable to blog during work time).
Meanwhile, do not just sit there gaping at your screen. Give me a congratulation kiss.
Ah there you go. Thank you.
Good girls.
And boy.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Monday, November 21, 2005
ANOTHER RUBELLA SURVIVOR
I spent last week at home, shuffling between bed and the computer, burning in a 38.9 degree fever, nursing a splitting headache, breaking out in a scarlet rash. I was down with rubella, and all common senses seemed to be knocked out of my head for once. I wanted to stay in the shower all day and had my body washed down with a steady gush of ice-cold water, I wanted to take paracetamol and acetaminophen at the same time, I wanted to hunt down the person who had infected this disease to me and killed her with a stone.
I abandoned coffee for days, lost interest in chocolates, and began having a curious paracetamol fetish. I cursed a friend who had the nerve to text me saying “You have a whole week to play The Crims at home. You sure have a wonderful life,” and then without thinking went to the computer, connected to the internet, and started playing The Crims. All while looking and feeling a feverish scarlet monster.
Ah.
These are some new things I learnt during the week:
1) Wikipedia is a reliable source of information. Everything it says about rubella is true. I had all the symptoms listed there, I had exactly the medicine it said to be the only medication available for treatment prescribed for me by an internist. I began recuperating at exactly the time it said I would. So I wasn’t too far off the mark when I chose to put excerpts from Wikipedia into my scientific journal and my lecture materials. I shall do that more often in the future. But please do not tell my department head, because the poor man has enough problems on his hands.
2) I can tell that I am down with a rather serious illness when my brain starts pumping up really bright ideas to spend a week in bed: by studying electronic engineering fundamentals, or rereading modern physics, and writing a popular physics article about light’s dualism longhand. On the other hand, I can tell that I am on my way to a full recovery when the very same brains starts pumping up dreams about fried sausages and hot panadas, and really bright ideas to spend a week in bed: by reading Tintin (all 16 of them) and writing my novel longhand.
3) I found out that I actually loved writing that much: No matter how uncomfortable it was having to deal with a high fever and splitting headache and burning rash all over my body, I made it a point to work on that stupid 50,000-words novel I wanted to finish by the end of the month.
4) Writing alone has been my consolation, my therapy. But six hours into the first day in bed, I missed my lecture rooms already and I found out that I actually loved lecturing that much.
5) I am blessed with a job I love, something I wouldn’t mind to spend hours in, and sometimes it takes something as nasty as a rubella to make silly thick-headed me to realise just how lucky I am.
I abandoned coffee for days, lost interest in chocolates, and began having a curious paracetamol fetish. I cursed a friend who had the nerve to text me saying “You have a whole week to play The Crims at home. You sure have a wonderful life,” and then without thinking went to the computer, connected to the internet, and started playing The Crims. All while looking and feeling a feverish scarlet monster.
Ah.
These are some new things I learnt during the week:
1) Wikipedia is a reliable source of information. Everything it says about rubella is true. I had all the symptoms listed there, I had exactly the medicine it said to be the only medication available for treatment prescribed for me by an internist. I began recuperating at exactly the time it said I would. So I wasn’t too far off the mark when I chose to put excerpts from Wikipedia into my scientific journal and my lecture materials. I shall do that more often in the future. But please do not tell my department head, because the poor man has enough problems on his hands.
2) I can tell that I am down with a rather serious illness when my brain starts pumping up really bright ideas to spend a week in bed: by studying electronic engineering fundamentals, or rereading modern physics, and writing a popular physics article about light’s dualism longhand. On the other hand, I can tell that I am on my way to a full recovery when the very same brains starts pumping up dreams about fried sausages and hot panadas, and really bright ideas to spend a week in bed: by reading Tintin (all 16 of them) and writing my novel longhand.
3) I found out that I actually loved writing that much: No matter how uncomfortable it was having to deal with a high fever and splitting headache and burning rash all over my body, I made it a point to work on that stupid 50,000-words novel I wanted to finish by the end of the month.
4) Writing alone has been my consolation, my therapy. But six hours into the first day in bed, I missed my lecture rooms already and I found out that I actually loved lecturing that much.
5) I am blessed with a job I love, something I wouldn’t mind to spend hours in, and sometimes it takes something as nasty as a rubella to make silly thick-headed me to realise just how lucky I am.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
ON ONE OF YOUR POEMS
Dear Poet:
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I merely spend a lot of time in front of my computer this holiday, trying to churn out a novel, actually. You know that I am no resourceful person, and my idea of getting inspirations for the novel is to grope around my hard disk for half an hour everyday.
Yes, you heard it right. Much as I’d like to say that I find inspiration during my solitaire walks through a narrow beaten path away from my neighbourhood, or during an enchanting conversation with a charming stranger over the internet, the fact remains that there is nothing romantic with my idea of seeking an inspiration.
Anyway.
As I groped around earlier today, I found this poem you gave me a long time ago. As I remember it was inside a black floppy you put on my desk one night, and on the label you had written “Cream and Stuff and Everything Nice.”
During that time, you and I exchanged floppy disks almost every night. I was showing you my mediocre short stories, and you showed me not only your stories both in English and Indonesian, but also my favorite: your beautiful poetry, written in impeccable English, ingenious craft I had never imagined could be spun by a native Indonesian. One day I gave you a disk full of my favorite poems, because I didn’t have any more short stories to show you. (I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t quite a productive writer as you were.) The poems included works of Juana Ines de La Cruz, and WB Yeats, and on the label of the disk I had neatly written “Cream and Stuff and Everything Nice.”
So finding a black floppy on my desk with a label that bore the exactly same words kinda intrigued me. I stared at your slanting handwriting, pondering what was your idea of “cream” and “stuff” and “everything nice.”
And here was I what found inside that floppy:
AN ENIGMA
Might it be a sin, august damsel
Myriad moves fulfilled to flee conjugal carousal?
Believing it will last, being beguiled it’s a must
Colourless life looms lurking to lam me to dust
Alleviating kisses, damsel, much I long for
Offered blissful bosom for my head to anchor
Crystalline eyes like those in days of yore
Entirely engulfed me bringing forth sweet sore
Wonderful tigress of one and twenty
Especially born in the eighth lunation
Apostlebird sang in the annus mirabilis of four and seventy
Satisfactorily educated with Science of Forces inclination
Enthusiastically yet pursuing the path of Muse
M.A, 28/6/2002
A hint: read consecutively first letter of the first line,
second letter of the second line, etc.
With my limited English, at first I didn’t quite get your meaning. All I knew was this: you had strived to put not only my name, but also every personal fact of mine into this beautiful jewel of poetry. I gaped at it for a long time
When you called later that night, asking whether I had read the poem, I giggled nervously saying yes, I have, and by the way, how many girls have you ever written poetry for?
And your replies were ‘where have you been all my life’ and ‘you should have crossed my path sooner’ and I thought about roaming the earth for the rest of my life thinking of endless ‘what-ifs’.
Do you remember all these?
Dear Poet:
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I was merely groping around my computer’s guts looking for inspirations for my novel when I stumbled upon your words.
What do I know?
Reading your words is a much enjoyable way to get inspired compared to long solitaire walks, and an enchanting conversation with a charming stranger over the internet. Reading your words reminds me to the feeling I got when I was much younger, when I had just woken up one morning and remembered that it was the start of a long holiday. It is comparable to listening to Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring and Canon in D and Air in G String and Moonlight Sonata. And actually that is what I am doing now, listening to all those, feeling happy and serene that we had the chance to meet each other and do things as stupid as exchanging floppy disk every night.
Do you know?
I have a folder here inside my computer, full of your stories and poetry, and I think I am gonna print the poems you wrote for me and stick them on my desk so that I could look at them from time to time, especially when I am down, which happens a lot of times lately.
Dear Poet:
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I was merely groping around my computer’s guts looking for inspirations for my novel when I stumbled upon your words.
And suddenly I thought of you, and the way things that could go wrong, always would.
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I merely spend a lot of time in front of my computer this holiday, trying to churn out a novel, actually. You know that I am no resourceful person, and my idea of getting inspirations for the novel is to grope around my hard disk for half an hour everyday.
Yes, you heard it right. Much as I’d like to say that I find inspiration during my solitaire walks through a narrow beaten path away from my neighbourhood, or during an enchanting conversation with a charming stranger over the internet, the fact remains that there is nothing romantic with my idea of seeking an inspiration.
Anyway.
As I groped around earlier today, I found this poem you gave me a long time ago. As I remember it was inside a black floppy you put on my desk one night, and on the label you had written “Cream and Stuff and Everything Nice.”
During that time, you and I exchanged floppy disks almost every night. I was showing you my mediocre short stories, and you showed me not only your stories both in English and Indonesian, but also my favorite: your beautiful poetry, written in impeccable English, ingenious craft I had never imagined could be spun by a native Indonesian. One day I gave you a disk full of my favorite poems, because I didn’t have any more short stories to show you. (I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t quite a productive writer as you were.) The poems included works of Juana Ines de La Cruz, and WB Yeats, and on the label of the disk I had neatly written “Cream and Stuff and Everything Nice.”
So finding a black floppy on my desk with a label that bore the exactly same words kinda intrigued me. I stared at your slanting handwriting, pondering what was your idea of “cream” and “stuff” and “everything nice.”
And here was I what found inside that floppy:
Might it be a sin, august damsel
Myriad moves fulfilled to flee conjugal carousal?
Believing it will last, being beguiled it’s a must
Colourless life looms lurking to lam me to dust
Alleviating kisses, damsel, much I long for
Offered blissful bosom for my head to anchor
Crystalline eyes like those in days of yore
Entirely engulfed me bringing forth sweet sore
Wonderful tigress of one and twenty
Especially born in the eighth lunation
Apostlebird sang in the annus mirabilis of four and seventy
Satisfactorily educated with Science of Forces inclination
Enthusiastically yet pursuing the path of Muse
M.A, 28/6/2002
A hint: read consecutively first letter of the first line,
second letter of the second line, etc.
With my limited English, at first I didn’t quite get your meaning. All I knew was this: you had strived to put not only my name, but also every personal fact of mine into this beautiful jewel of poetry. I gaped at it for a long time
When you called later that night, asking whether I had read the poem, I giggled nervously saying yes, I have, and by the way, how many girls have you ever written poetry for?
And your replies were ‘where have you been all my life’ and ‘you should have crossed my path sooner’ and I thought about roaming the earth for the rest of my life thinking of endless ‘what-ifs’.
Do you remember all these?
Dear Poet:
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I was merely groping around my computer’s guts looking for inspirations for my novel when I stumbled upon your words.
What do I know?
Reading your words is a much enjoyable way to get inspired compared to long solitaire walks, and an enchanting conversation with a charming stranger over the internet. Reading your words reminds me to the feeling I got when I was much younger, when I had just woken up one morning and remembered that it was the start of a long holiday. It is comparable to listening to Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring and Canon in D and Air in G String and Moonlight Sonata. And actually that is what I am doing now, listening to all those, feeling happy and serene that we had the chance to meet each other and do things as stupid as exchanging floppy disk every night.
Do you know?
I have a folder here inside my computer, full of your stories and poetry, and I think I am gonna print the poems you wrote for me and stick them on my desk so that I could look at them from time to time, especially when I am down, which happens a lot of times lately.
Dear Poet:
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I was merely groping around my computer’s guts looking for inspirations for my novel when I stumbled upon your words.
And suddenly I thought of you, and the way things that could go wrong, always would.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
THAT WRITING THERAPY
I have long known that writing is a good therapy for my unbalanced soul. When my girlfriends chirp away happily about their successful raids of a certain department store, I usually note that I am no stranger to that happy feeling that flusters their cheeks and raises their voices that teeny bit higher. Only that happy feeling, for me, derives not from finding the perfect pairs of jeans (oh where art thou?) or that perfect tone of eyeshadow. It derives from hurting my butt by sitting in front of the computer for at least one hour, and whipping out a piece of writing that I call perfect. (The one that I call perfect is not necessarily what my English teacher called perfect.)
It takes a disciplined mind to be able to write everyday, boy, don't I know it. A long time ago I prescribed myself a page a day to ease my mental illness, and I can never fulfill that. I simply do not possess the teeniest bit of discipline to save my life.
Now that the National Novel Writing Month is here, I wonder whether I'll finally get down to that one page a day. Or 1,677 words a day, to be exact, because I'd have to finish 50,000 words in 30 days. That is a lot more than a page a day.
It's already November 1st, the first day, and the day is almost over, and I still haven't written anything resembling a novel. I don't have any plots in mind either.
Still I am willing to jump headlong into this writing month blindfolded. Will I or will I not be able to string 50,000 words together by the end of the month, I do not know.
But I know that the simple act of trying will do me good, so good that by the end of the month, I will emerge with a slightly mended soul.
It takes a disciplined mind to be able to write everyday, boy, don't I know it. A long time ago I prescribed myself a page a day to ease my mental illness, and I can never fulfill that. I simply do not possess the teeniest bit of discipline to save my life.
Now that the National Novel Writing Month is here, I wonder whether I'll finally get down to that one page a day. Or 1,677 words a day, to be exact, because I'd have to finish 50,000 words in 30 days. That is a lot more than a page a day.
It's already November 1st, the first day, and the day is almost over, and I still haven't written anything resembling a novel. I don't have any plots in mind either.
Still I am willing to jump headlong into this writing month blindfolded. Will I or will I not be able to string 50,000 words together by the end of the month, I do not know.
But I know that the simple act of trying will do me good, so good that by the end of the month, I will emerge with a slightly mended soul.
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