Still Being Random

For as long as I can remember, there is one thing I have ever wanted to do, and do well. And that is to write.

Someone simple-minded might say - "You can write." To which I will only reply - "If that is what you believe, then you have never read."

At one point in my life, I contemplated writing for a living. And I'm sure many friends in my circle of friends have thought the same at one point in their lives as well. However, my father being the practical man that he is questioned my dream then because no money would come out of it. How would I be able to maintain my life? He had a point. If I had stood my ground, I might have ended up in a job I might have begun to hate while earning pittance. That might not be so bad if I had never wanted anything in my life. But looking at my current lifestyle, I'm glad I never took up writing as a livelihood.

Having said all that, I still would like to write. I did once dream of writing a novel but my attention problem would never have let me finish the novel. I once started something in longhand (is there such a word?) but after I reached the end of the second exam pad, my attention waned and I moved on.

I've written many short stories and planned (and outlined) even more. Yet, they all remain in the library of my mind, doomed to collect dust there until such a time that I might pull them out again.

The problem I have is that, when I was a child, I read adult books. I finished the entire Hardy Boys collection (at that time) by the time I was 11. Then I jumped to books like Jane Eyre, Gone With The Wind, Wuthering Heights, anything by Edgar Allen Poe and such books. Of course, I also discovered Mills & Boons, from which I learnt many odd phrases and many weird things people do when they're in love and denying it. I also discovered Barbara Cartland and wanted to be like the ladies in her books. They were not as helpless as Nancy Drew, really.

The other part of the problem was that when I got to young adulthood, I began to read teen fiction. So I was doing things in reverse. People have wondered how I could read so fast. When you've gone from Gone With The WInd to some teen fiction, the reading gets way easier. That, and this speed reading session I took once. Also, the only thing that could hold my attention long enough was a book.

I read so much and so fast that it felt really wasteful to buy a book. Anything thin would be devoured within half a day and anything thick was completed within a few days. So, it was with great relief (on my parents' part) that I got a membership card to the British Council library. I borrowed three books each time and returned them well before the due date of two weeks.

I guess all this influenced my writing style. When I started to write short stories later, I got a lot of help from my English lecturer in college. She guided me through a lot of bumpiness. She was the first person to tell me about choppy storylines and cliche plots. She taught me to write draft after draft after draft after draft. She was also the one who told me to write a story then leave it until I'd almost forgotten then go back and read it like it was for the first time. And if I didn't understand or couldn't picture what I wrote then I had to rewrite or edit it. I once wrote a 2000-word paper for her without research and with only a few editing. The facts were already in my head and I had started writing the story in my head from the moment she gave us the assignment. It took me three days to write it. I'm not sure if it was good or bad that she never returned it to me. She gave me an A and tried to get me to go one level higher - script-writing. I did it for one term, wrote a script, took part in Drama classes and then discovered I'd rather direct and produce than act. That script was also submitted to her and never returned. That's when I also read Death of a Salesman inside and out, cover to cover. That book is a wonderful example of script writing.

But my love is still in story writing. I don't write like it's a movie or a TV show. If I wanted that, I'd write scripts. I write a little like Leslie Charteris - lots of descriptions, explanations and just some dialogue. Teen fiction and romance require lots of dialogue. Adult fiction have just enough to enhance the story. I would love to write like Leslie Charteris. His Simon Templar is so witty, charming and absolutely divine.

So I'm not saying my writing style is bad. I'm saying it's my style and influenced by what I read at an early age. Despite my love for romance books, I can't write romance. It's too tedious. I show romance by behaving it, not just writing it. It rather explains why I don't write love letters. My romance sound whiny to me. Imagine how it sounds to others.

While I can sometimes come up with the most appealing phrases, I get a little shaky at world-building. I can picture but I cannot seem to describe it. Yet, while I know I'm not the worst, I also know I have got a lot to learn. Some people get deflated when their stories require too much editing. I'm not that arrogant. However, too much editing allows my mind to wander. Before you know it, what started out as a murder mystery ends up being a fantasy with a pinch of romance and just a teeny dash of horror.

Maybe I should just stick to short stories. And I get a lot of my inspirations - amazingly - form my students. They say the oddest things which make the oddest connections in my mind. So if I get bizarre suddenly, you know why.

But I love reading Leslie Charteris books. Books by British authors surpasses those by American authors in leaps and bounds and vocabulary and wit.

I sigh and I wish and wish...

Could someone tell me if there are any copyright issues or even issues of any kind in regards to a story that has been published online e.g. on a blog?

I thought I once read somewhere that it can be difficult to get a story published once it has been posted online. I might be wrong but I really would like some clarification.

This question is the reason I stopped posting any stories I wrote. I am actually elbow-deep in two stories of different genres. I posted part of one online but I stopped after reading something about copyright issues somewhere. I just can't remember where now.

So I'm afraid to post anything. I'm worried that I might one day take up my father's offer to publish my stories and discover that I can't do so.

Last night, my muse showed up and bit me in my big, fat behind.

So I withstood her pain until I had time at 2.00 p.m. today. Then within half an hour, I added 1,500 words to my story.

And my fear now is that my muse still refuses to be silenced.

So I guess I will hit the keyboard again when I can. Tonight.

I have a great plot for a story. It came to me the way many strong plots come to me. Through my emotions. It's the same as when I can only write my best poems when I'm depressed or very angry.

So a plot came to me. When I write it out in a story (and I will regardless of how long it'll take), it will project all the anger and frustration and hatred into one relatively short story. It will be brutal and definitely not for children.

My best stories never have a feel-good feeling. Unless that feeling is revenge.

I don''t write romance or paranormal stories. My target audience is never children or idealists. I aim for the all-too-human in all of us, our anger, our hatred, our frustrations and our coldness. I can write about organised crime because when I am angry. I can carry out whatever I set out to do with a coldheartedness that will chill the polar bears. (And I love polar bears. Especially armoured ones)

The reason I can go without showing emotions is because I channel it into the stories. I don't yell and scream and get hysterical because I plot and curse. And I really mean curse in every sense of that word. For everyone who has wronged me, I have cursed that they get everything they deserve back in kind. Eventually, somehow, somewhere, some time, they will get it.

As for my story. It's just one of my curses written in prose.

Not for the faint-hearted. There will be blood spilt and lives shattered.

Just the way I love my revenge.

Nobody actually knows when the Anteater first began its journey down the walk of its cuisine. Everyone, who has ever been plagued by ants, has always voiced their disdain and annoyance. So whenever anyone mentions the thought of eating ants, or even the indifference of having eaten ants, most people would react in a horrified manner.

Yet, for the Anteater, none of this mattered. It was finally home from a tiring day going about its business. All it wanted to do was curl up in its lair and rest its mind. The only way it knew how to do this, though, was through reading. Oh, not many people knew that an Anteater could read! Then again, how many of us have ever thought to ask the Anteater if it could read? If we had ever had the presence of mind to ask, it would surely say 'Yes!'.

So the Anteater lay down in its favourite patch and read its current reading material. While it read, the Anteater decided to dip its claws into its trove of goodies. It was smug and enjoying all the good things of the day. After a long, grueling day at the grindstone, earning its keep, the Anteater felt it deserved this downtime.

So the Anteater ate as it read, decidedly content and refusing to even entertain the thought of stopping or moving to do anything else. Once in awhile the Anteater noticed a smell. It was a hint but enough to be noticed. It was the smell of those tiny ants that bite and leave a mark. Those same ants were also known to smell bad. But the Anteater thought it was from its treasure trove of goodies.

Until it felt a little bite on its claw. Instinctively, the Anteater sat up and swiped at its claw. Frowning in displeasure, it looked into its bag of goodies and saw ants crawling in the bag. Then it realised one thing. All this while, it thought that the goodies smelled of ants. As it turned out, it really WAS eating ants!

And you know what makes it worst?

The Anteater was ME!

The school sits quietly near the center of the city. It's not a very big building but many have admitted that it can look overwhelming. Even on its most active days, the school looks almost deserted, giving passers-by the idea that maybe it's not a school or maybe it has a different schedule from other schools.

Yet, on the inside, the school bustles with activity and noise. Children running from room to room although running is very much against the rules. But, how can one tell boisterous, hyperactive children that their very instincts to run and scream is wrong?

During the day, the school sits in relative silence when the lessons are going on. But as soon as the bell rings, chaos breaks out like a fiery stallion finally released into the wild. Walking along the corridors become more dangerous than walking into the path of an F1 car during a race. The only safer alternative would be to stay within the classrooms but anyone who does so gets deluged by screams and bangs and booms that seem to permeate the walls. The city of London during the Blitz might have felt the same way in comparison.

Then, after school is over, it gets quiet all over again. Dusk falls and the security moves in for the night. The gates are closed and the night goes on as everyone goes about their way; heading home to rest and relax and maybe prepare themselves mentally and physically for the next day.

The roads outside quieten down as the night goes on. The cars lessen and the noises start to die down. The houses on either side of the school become dark as the residents bed down for the night. The night creatures arise to do what Nature intended them to do.

There are times when the school becomes truly only a silent, looming building. Occasionally, the security would switch on all the lights, flooding the building with a semblance of life. But the classrooms remain in darkness because it would take too long and too much energy to go through them all.

But sometimes, a light would flicker in the room at the topmost floor. Nobody is in there but the light would go on and then switch off after a few minutes. Sometimes even after a few hours. Some people have justified it by saying the security might have done it. But the security changes over the week. Unless there is a rule that they must switch on the lights in that particular room, there is no known reason for the lights to behave as they have.

At other times, some teachers have returned at night to finish some of their work. They would be in their classrooms, marking books or papers or finishing off some reports on the computer. A lot of times, they have reported that the night security brings his children into work. They can hear the children running up and down the corridors, sometimes banging on the doors as they go by. When the teachers later head out for the night, they make a comment to the security about it and he gives them the odd look. He has no children. He's not even married. There's nobody else on the premises other than him and the teacher. He has seen no children that night. But the teacher definitely heard them.

Sometimes, even during the day, a girl is seen in the upper floor. She looks out the windows as if lamenting her own inability to be outside. Other times, she's looking into the classrooms as if wanting to be inside. She looks curious. She wants to know what is going on. Yet, she is trapped where she is. Unable to leave yet finding no reason to stay. Sometimes, she's invited into the classes to watch but she is warned not to touch or disturb. Maybe she is grateful because she does as she is told. She watches closely. So close that a more sensitive person could feel her. She never sits but she reads over shoulders. Maybe, just maybe, for the moment, her curiosity is satisfied and she has learned something. But eventually, she goes back to her window and looks out. Sadly. Trapped once more.

Only a few know of this. But more shall know soon enough. The school is getting restless. Its usefulness is coming to an end. The building is slowly losing all its insides. There is a newer, younger version of it. Soon, it will stand empty and silent. It will truly be deserted. It is not happy to be left behind. Sadness fills its walls. A tinge of anger permeates its structure.

It shows its anger more than its sadness. It sits there, heavy, making things difficult for the people who are walking in and out, carrying its insides out to the trucks. At night, it manifests itself, locking toilet doors, forcing the people in the toilets to kick the doors open to get out. It throws the remaining tables and chairs as if trying to exorcise its own anger at being left behind.

Today, it stands silent. Large. Alone. Maybe it is biding its time. Maybe it has something planned. Maybe it is hoping it, too, could move along with its insides.

The children may be silent. The girl may still just be waiting in increased desolation. Maybe.

We can only wait and see.