Robert Raymer's Blog, page 18

Thanks, Steve, and thanks for your lessons of success

Been reading so much about Steve Jobs lately, wondering how one man can change the way we live.  I live in Borneo and up to a couple of weeks ago, I was probably one of the the last people on the planet with a college degree and a decent income who had never, ever owned one Apple product.  Not that I didn't want one, just never got around to it for one reason or another.  Then my wife, bless her heart, told me she wanted to buy an ipad.  I scratched my head and thought, why?   Although I knew about them, I had never really seen one in operation.  Besides, my wife rarely had time for her laptop, so why an ipad?  The following week, she came home with one, and I asked her point blank, "What are you going to do with it?"

She had no idea; if she did, she wasn't telling me.  But I knew her, and I knew she would find a way, and the next day, after consulting a friend of hers at work who had one, she started to download things on it, and soon our two boys, age 7 and 4, were flocked around her as they played games, both fun and educational.  They also had illustrated children books read aloud to them.  The possibilities for ipad, even in Borneo seemed endless, and my wife was just getting started.  She even took it to bed with her and then placed it safely on the nightstand.

I admit, I felt a little jealous.  I was losing my wife and my whole family to ipad!  How could I compete?

Then Steve Jobs died.  Like any good American (or any good citizen of the computer and internet-connected world), I followed his career from the beginning, the ups and downs.  Amazed that he got booted out of Apple, the very company that he co-founded.  Talk about being stabbed in the back!  Loved Toy Story, and all the Pixar films. Amazed that he was back in Apple, on top.  Then the new products came, changing how people communicated with one another, how they did their work, and how they listened to their music.  Basically, I was extremely impressed how one man can change our world and then be taken from us so quickly!

But Steve Jobs will never be gone.  I felt his spirit last night, as all four of us, for the first time, lay in our bed with the ipad and had Hansel and Gretel read to us.  The children were a little anxious when the birds ate the bread crumbs and Hansel and Gretel lost their way.  Then the witch planned to eat poor Hansel, and all seemed lost.  But, through a surprising turn of events, Hansel and Gretel found their father again.  They had made it back home.  Our boys were relieved, happy and sleepy, too.  So was I, but then it dawned on me this morning that Steve Jobs had made it home, too.  In more ways than one.  He had made it—before it was too late—into our home here in Borneo as well, and for that I am eternally grateful.  

Thanks Steve for the inspiration.  My children also thank you for Toy Story and for ipad!  Don't worry, Steve, even in Borneo, we'll keep your spirit alive for the next generation.  Our kids will insist upon it..

*   *   * 
Later this morning, call it fate, I came across this article by Carmine Gallo, which I'll share in case you missed it.  Not a bad way to start your day...

Steve Jobs and the 7 Rules of Success [image error] By Carmine Gallo 

[image error]Steve Jobs' impact on your life cannot be underestimated. His innovations have likely touched nearly every aspect -- computers, movies, music and mobile. As a communications coach, I learned from Jobs that a presentation can, indeed, inspire. For entrepreneurs, Jobs' greatest legacy is the set of principles that drove his success.

Over the years, I've become a student of sorts of Jobs' career and life. Here's my take on the rules and values underpinning his success. Any of us can adopt them to unleash our "inner Steve Jobs."

1. Do what you love. Jobs once said, "People with passion can change the world for the better." Asked about the advice he would offer would-be entrepreneurs, he said, "I'd get a job as a busboy or something until I figured out what I was really passionate about." That's how much it meant to him. Passion is everything.

2. Put a dent in the universe. Jobs believed in the power of vision. He once asked then-Pepsi President, John Sculley, "Do you want to spend your life selling sugar water or do you want to change the world?" Don't lose sight of the big vision.

3. Make connections. Jobs once said creativity is connecting things. He meant that people with a broad set of life experiences can often see things that others miss. He took calligraphy classes that didn't have any practical use in his life -- until he built the Macintosh. Jobs traveled to India and Asia. He studied design and hospitality. Don't live in a bubble. Connect ideas from different fields.

4. Say no to 1,000 things. Jobs was as proud of what Apple chose not to do as he was of what Apple did. When he returned in Apple in 1997, he took a company with 350 products and reduced them to 10 products in a two-year period. Why? So he could put the "A-Team" on each product. What are you saying "no" to?  

5. Create insanely different experiences. Jobs also sought innovation in the customer-service experience. When he first came up with the concept for the Apple Stores, he said they would be different because instead of just moving boxes, the stores would enrich lives. Everything about the experience you have when you walk into an Apple store is intended to enrich your life and to create an emotional connection between you and the Apple brand. What are you doing to enrich the lives of your customers?

6. Master the message. You can have the greatest idea in the world, but if you can't communicate your ideas, it doesn't matter. Jobs was the world's greatest corporate storyteller. Instead of simply delivering a presentation like most people do, he informed, he educated, he inspired and he entertained, all in one presentation.

7. Sell dreams, not products. Jobs captured our imagination because he really understood his customer. He knew that tablets would not capture our imaginations if they were too complicated. The result? One button on the front of an iPad. It's so simple, a 2-year-old can use it. Your customers don't care about your product. They care about themselves, their hopes, their ambitions. Jobs taught us that if you help your customers reach their dreams, you'll win them over.

There's one story that I think sums up Jobs' career at Apple. An executive who had the job of reinventing the Disney Store once called up Jobs and asked for advice. His counsel? Dream bigger. I think that's the best advice he could leave us with. See genius in your craziness, believe in yourself, believe in your vision, and be constantly prepared to defend those ideas.

Carmine Gallo is a communications coach, a popular keynote speaker and author of several books including The Presentation Secrets of Steve Jobs and The Innovation Secrets of Steve Jobs. His latest is The Power of Foursquare (McGraw-Hill, 2011).

Thanks, Steve, and thanks for your lessons of success, too

Been reading so much about Steve Jobs lately, wondering how one man can change the way we live.  I live in Borneo and up to a couple of weeks ago, I was probably one of the the last people on the planet with a college degree and a decent income who had never, ever owned one Apple product.  Not that I didn't want one, just never got around to it for one reason or another.  Then my wife, bless her heart, told me she wanted to buy an ipad.  I scratched my head and thought, why?   Although I knew about them, I had never really seen one in operation, and she rarely had time for her laptop, so why an ipad?  The following week, she came home with one, and I asked her point blank, "What are you going to do with it?"

She had no idea; if she did, she wasn't telling me.  But I knew her, and I knew she would find a way, and the next day, after consulting a friend of hers at work who had one, she started to download things on it, and soon our two boys, age 7 and 4, were flocked around her as they played games, both fun and educational.  They also had illustrated children books read aloud to them.  The possibilities for ipad even in Borneo seemed endless, and my wife was just getting started.

I admit, I felt a little jealous.  I was losing my family to ipad!  How could I compete?

Then Steve Jobs died.  Like any good American (or any good citizen of the computer and internet-connected world), I followed his career from the beginning, the ups and downs.  Amazed that he got booted out of Apple, the very company that he co-founded.  Talk about being stabbed in the back!  Loved Toy Story, and all the Pixar films. Amazed that he was back in Apple, on top.  Then the new products came, changing how people communicated with one another, how they did their work, and how they listened to their music.  Basically, I was extremely impressed how one man can change our world and then be taken from us so quickly!

But Steve Jobs will never be goon.  I felt his spirit last night, as all four of us, for the first time, lay in our bed with the ipad and had Hansel and Gretel read to us.  The children were a little anxious when the birds ate the bread crumbs and Hansel and Gretel lost their way.  Then the witch planned to eat poor Hansel, and all seemed lost.  But, through a surprising turn of events, Hansel and Gretel found their father again.  They had made it back home.  Our boys were relieved, happy and sleepy, too.  So was I, but then it dawned on me this morning that Steve Jobs had made it home, too.  In more ways than one.  He has made it—before it was too late—into our home here in Borneo, and for that I am eternally grateful.  

Thanks Steve for the inspiration.  My children also thank you for Toy Story and for ipad!  Don't worry, Steve, even in Borneo, we'll keep your spirit alive for the next generation.  Our kids will insist upon it...

*   *   * 
This morning, call it fate, I came across this article by Carmine Gallo, which I'll share in case you missed it.  Not a bad way to start your day...

Steve Jobs and the 7 Rules of Success [image error] By Carmine Gallo 

[image error]Steve Jobs' impact on your life cannot be underestimated. His innovations have likely touched nearly every aspect -- computers, movies, music and mobile. As a communications coach, I learned from Jobs that a presentation can, indeed, inspire. For entrepreneurs, Jobs' greatest legacy is the set of principles that drove his success.

Over the years, I've become a student of sorts of Jobs' career and life. Here's my take on the rules and values underpinning his success. Any of us can adopt them to unleash our "inner Steve Jobs."

1. Do what you love. Jobs once said, "People with passion can change the world for the better." Asked about the advice he would offer would-be entrepreneurs, he said, "I'd get a job as a busboy or something until I figured out what I was really passionate about." That's how much it meant to him. Passion is everything.

2. Put a dent in the universe. Jobs believed in the power of vision. He once asked then-Pepsi President, John Sculley, "Do you want to spend your life selling sugar water or do you want to change the world?" Don't lose sight of the big vision.

3. Make connections. Jobs once said creativity is connecting things. He meant that people with a broad set of life experiences can often see things that others miss. He took calligraphy classes that didn't have any practical use in his life -- until he built the Macintosh. Jobs traveled to India and Asia. He studied design and hospitality. Don't live in a bubble. Connect ideas from different fields.

4. Say no to 1,000 things. Jobs was as proud of what Apple chose not to do as he was of what Apple did. When he returned in Apple in 1997, he took a company with 350 products and reduced them to 10 products in a two-year period. Why? So he could put the "A-Team" on each product. What are you saying "no" to?  

5. Create insanely different experiences. Jobs also sought innovation in the customer-service experience. When he first came up with the concept for the Apple Stores, he said they would be different because instead of just moving boxes, the stores would enrich lives. Everything about the experience you have when you walk into an Apple store is intended to enrich your life and to create an emotional connection between you and the Apple brand. What are you doing to enrich the lives of your customers?

6. Master the message. You can have the greatest idea in the world, but if you can't communicate your ideas, it doesn't matter. Jobs was the world's greatest corporate storyteller. Instead of simply delivering a presentation like most people do, he informed, he educated, he inspired and he entertained, all in one presentation.

7. Sell dreams, not products. Jobs captured our imagination because he really understood his customer. He knew that tablets would not capture our imaginations if they were too complicated. The result? One button on the front of an iPad. It's so simple, a 2-year-old can use it. Your customers don't care about your product. They care about themselves, their hopes, their ambitions. Jobs taught us that if you help your customers reach their dreams, you'll win them over.

There's one story that I think sums up Jobs' career at Apple. An executive who had the job of reinventing the Disney Store once called up Jobs and asked for advice. His counsel? Dream bigger. I think that's the best advice he could leave us with. See genius in your craziness, believe in yourself, believe in your vision, and be constantly prepared to defend those ideas.

Carmine Gallo is a communications coach, a popular keynote speaker and author of several books including The Presentation Secrets of Steve Jobs and The Innovation Secrets of Steve Jobs. His latest is The Power of Foursquare (McGraw-Hill, 2011).

The Novel Project: The Expatriate's Choice

Yesterday, after "The Woman on the Ferry" the excerpt from my Penang-set novel, The Expatriate's Choice, was published in the New Straits Times, I thought it might be a good idea to put that story in the context of the first chapter (since six pages precede it) and show the character's state of mind as he boards the ferry to Penang.
After a gap of five years, as I worked on other projects that have done well this year in the Amazon and the Faulkner-Wisdom Novel competitions, I finally picked up this novel, originally titled Tropical Moods.  Then over several drafts, I ruthlessly cut 100 pages out of it—one fourth the length, though in actuality about 10% of the words.
Here is my pitch:The Expatriate's ChoiceHaving your fate hinged on the erratic behavior of an expatriatewho has nothing left to live for cannot be good…
The Expatriate's Choice (82,500 words) was a semi-finalist in the 2011 Faulkner-Wisdom novel contest, the first book in a potential series set in Southeast Asia. The second book, The Girl in the Bathtub, was a short-listed finalist in their 2011 novel-in-progress category.                                   Set on a tropical island in Malaysia over a period of nine days culminating with the Chinese New Year, The Expatriate's Choice revolves around six desperate and lonely people whose lives are about to explode.  Distraught over catching his wife in bed with a former boyfriend, Steve Boston flees the US and arrives in Penang at the legendary E & O Hotel only to become entangled with a Eurasian woman.  The woman's own messy life has become even more com­plicated by her father washing ashore.  Her father's death is linked to a well-connected American expat­riate who's seems to know everyone's business and finds a way to use it against them.  When the expatriate's wife and his over-protective mistress both decide to leave him, Graver's past that he has carefully cultivated begins to unravel.  With nothing left to live for except an elusive treasure buried by the Japanese at the end of World War Two, the expatriate makes a choice—a series of choices—that affects all those around him, including Steve Boston who is caught smack in the middle with a gun aimed at his head.
Chapter one:
THE EXPATRIATE'S CHOICE1                                                                                Wednesday, 10 February 1988         The East has always attracted that strange beast called an expatriate, one of those lonely, alienated men who often have nothing left to live for.  Either they're hiding from their troubled past, seeking some self-indulgent pleasure, or searching for a mythical treasure—or perhaps a little of each, thus adding to their array of problems from the bad life choices that they've made.  One of my own bad choices, other than marrying Patricia four years ago, is fleeing half way across the planet from her.  The alternative would've put me into prison.        While boarding the ferry to Penang, I lag behind the other passengers, feeling a distinct uneasi­ness, an urgency that pene­trates deep inside me, some­thing I haven't felt since I was a teen­ager in my mad­den­ing quest to get laid.  Then I­ realize why I've come.  A cat, when ready to die, goes to a corner and waits.  I've come to my own corner of South­east Asia, or more precisely Patricia's corner, a tropical island off the west coast of Malaysia.        Death, when I think about it, does seem logical.  Already I've left my wife, left my business, left my country . . . . Is that the real reason I've come?  Is that why I'm here?  Not entirely con­vinced, I lug my oversized suitcase to the side railing where I playfully con­sider the options.  Drown­ing­, I conclude, would be the easiest . . . . There's no poison to find.  No weapon to procure.  No high place to seek out.  No special timing involved . . . . A ferry jump also smacks of­ intrigue.  Some young, ambiti­ous detective bucking for a promo­tion may suggest that per­haps I was pushed.  In any lang­uage that trans­lates into murder.  The local press will have a field day.  With an American involved—identified from the name tag on my luggage—the inter­na­tional wire service will pick up the story.  Head­lines will glare:
AMERICAN BUSINESSMAN DROWNS IN MALAYSIAPOLICE SUSPECT MURDER
        Even if the papers tone it down to FOUL PLAY, it will still grab people's attention;   maybe even Patricia's.  Someone may recognize my name or maybe even the name of our business and point it out to her.  At least here in Malaysia, like those expatriates from long ago, I can die anony­mous­ly, buried in an unmarked grave in some overgrown cemetery that people rarely visit, rest­ing in perman­ent peace . . . . Maybe, I don't even have to die.  Just fake my death.  Disappear.  Change my identity from Steve Boston to someone else.  Someone already dead.  Thus, no divorce proceed­ings.  No lawyers.  No past to deal with.  Just start from scratch here in Penang as a tropical virgin.        I wipe the perspira­tion from my forehead as I glance at the other passengers already seated.   An elderly Chinese man strokes the gray strands of hair sprouting from a chin mole; a stout, turbaned Sikh shuffles his thick sandaled feet; and a woman in a blue and gray sari with a gold ring through her nose nods at him respectfully.  Sitting in front of them, three school girls in matching tur­quoise pinafores giggle at two boys snapping chewing gum.  An Australian serviceman casts stern looks at the boys, while a pair of laid-back back­packers takes it all in.  Plenty of potential witnesses—about two hundred—to confuse the truth.        I can just picture the look on Patricia's pretty freckled face when she finds out where I fled to:  her beloved Penang, her birthplace, where she lived the first six months of her life, the daughter of an Amer­i­can couple who met and copulated in the Peace Corps.  My death will cast a pall on her trea­sured memories of having been an exchange student here and return­ing later with her boyfriend Martin.  The same Martin I caught her fucking in the back­seat of her car.  In our car.  All Patricia ever seemed to talk about was Penang.  But now she will no longer be able to think about her precious Penang with­out thinking of me.
        An old Chinese man munching on sunflowers seeds spits the shells onto the wooden deck.  He pauses to look at me but continues adding to the mess he's creating.  The throb­bing motion of the ferry as it leaves the mainland port of Butterworth ­only adds to my rest­lessness.  Lost in my thoughts, I stare blankly out at the sea.  Another passenger bumps into me but keeps going as if I'm no longer there.  Patricia used to do the same, as if I were a mis­placed chair that's constant­ly in the way.        I peer over the side of the ferry at the green water churning to white.  Pieces of wood, bits of styrofoam, and a colorful array of plastic bags are being sucked in by the advancing ferry and spat out.  Beige foam covers patches of the sea like icing.  Despite its filth and drifting flot­sam, the sea still holds a special allure.  Ad­mit­tedly I feel drawn to it, drawn to its eternal patience, its willingness to accept me on my own terms.  It'd be easy to yield to it . . . . If I concentrate hard enough on the same spot, I can even see my pitiful self in the water, see my image spiraling downwards, my arms fully extended above my head, my hands reaching, grasping for the surface as I sink deeper and deeper.        I find a foothold on the railing and step up to get a better look at the sea.  The ferry sud­denly lurches and I'm thrust forward.  To keep from being tossed over the side, I tighten my grip on the ledge, my knuckles turning bone white, and brace myself.  Heart thumping, legs shaking, I hold onto the railing longer than necessary before I ease myself back down.  I avoid the gaze of those around me lest one or all of them were watch­ing.          Spot­ting an empty seat between two Chinese men, I drag my suitcase and sit down with a muted thump, putting on hold any further speculations on this silly notion of suicide.  Really, I'm not in the mood.
        Lost in my weary thoughts, I absently study the Penang Bridge, off to my left, reputedly the third longest in Asia.  I've seen it before in Patricia's photos and coffee table books on Penang, though mostly while under construction.  Mid­way between the bridge and the ferry, an unusual bright­ness sears its way through the clouds.  The bright­ness grows in intensity.  Finally it reveals itself in its entirety, a ball so huge and orange I can almost taste it.  The sun's rays create an illuminated path along the sea that stretch toward me like an accusing finger.  Enter­ing the path, a red and black freighter trans­forms itself into a silhouette.  The sunlit water around the freighter shimmers in its wake.  A double-decker ferry, mustard in color with black smoke billowing from its stack, creeps toward us from the opposite direction as it returns to the main­land.  The ferry, like the one I'm on, has pedestrians on top and cars and motor­cycles below.  Thinking photo­graph, I reach for the camera inside my suitcase.  At that very moment the Chinese man sitting next to me spits on the floor.  The spit's sheen against the dull planks holds my attention longer than I prefer.  As I turn away, a glint of gold catches the corner of my eye.        The gold is draped around a dark slender ankle.  The woman's foot arches in and out of a black and gray low-heeled shoe.  In and out . . . in and out the foot goes.  It kicks itself free of the shoe, leaving only the toes inside.  The leg is crossed, the foot raised, and the shoe dangles precariously from its new height.  Up and down . . . up and down the foot goes.  The shoe, on several occasions, comes dangerously close to dropping, but each time, the foot arches, the toes straighten, and the shoe slides back into place, securely hooked.  The foot is lowered and the toes slip out, free at last.  All five of them celebrate by curling up and down and wiggling from side to side, soaking up the fresh air.  The ankle rotates clockwise, and then counter­­clock­wise.  With each move­ment, the anklet dances mer­rily around the owner's ankle.        The smooth curve­ of the attached leg draws my gaze up the gentle slope of the calf, up and around the bent knee to a white-pleated skirt.  The skirt leads directly to the thighs, to the hips, to the waist, where it abruptly ends at a navy blue blouse.  Midway up the blouse my gaze is blocked when an over­weight woman shifts over a seat.  I lean back and forward, and from side to side, but every effort to see around the woman is frustrated by the plumpness of her presence.        Having lost all interest in the photograph, I bide my time until I can see the rest of this woman, her face in particular, if only out of curiosity . . . .While waiting, I retrieve the map of Penang to familia­r­ize myself with the general layout of George Town, specifically the area around the jetty, Fort Cornwallis and The E & O Hotel.  I look up just as the owner of the anklet makes her way toward the center aisle.  As I surmised from her ankle, the woman is Indian, yet her smooth hair seems peculiar; in­stead of being black, it's brown, as if she's part Cauca­sian.  The hair doesn't look dyed but natural.  The woman, conscious that she's being watched, glances at me, revealing high cheek bones, slender nose, sensuous lips, dark alluring eyes, black as obsidian with a touch of mystery.  She epitomizes everything I've read and imagined about the East, except for the color of her hair.        Intrigued, I find myself rising from my seat to follow her.  Convinced that the luggage is safe since it's bulky and securely locked, I leave it behind and gingerly step over the old man's spit.  An Indian in his late forties enters the aisle a few rows ahead of me.  He's dressed shabbily in a torn yellow T-shirt, filthy blue sweat pants, and rubber sandals too small for his cracked and callused feet.  The other passengers turn and look at each of us in succes­sion:  the woman, the Indian man, and me.        Upon reaching the front of the ferry, the woman leans on the front railing and pushes her smooth hair back as she gazes out at the sea.  The Indian, to my surprise, walks up to her and whispers into her ear.  She cringes and shoos him away.  The man notices me approach­ing so he steps aside and lights a cigar­ette, all the while ogling the woman.        Since there's not enough space between them without me crowding in, and none on the woman's right due to some other passengers, I settle for a spot to the left of the Indian man, glad to have a closer look at the approach­­ing island.  Despite Penang having its own airport and a bridge linking the island with the main­land, the best way to arrive on the island, at least according to Patricia, is by ferry.  Only the ferry comes directly at the headland, creep­ing upon it slowly, thus allowing you the full experi­ence of discover­ing Penang as it unfolds:  its tropical ambiance, its colonial-era buildings, and its multi­racial cultures of Malays, Chinese, Indian, Eurasians, Arabs, Thai, and Burmese . . . . There are a lot more high-rise buildings than I hoped to see, including an octagonal monstrosity right smack in the center of George Town that dwarfs every­thing else on the island.
        My clothes flap in the sea breeze as I glance at the woman, still curious about her hair.  Perhaps she's part of the Eurasian community I've read about in one of Patricia's books, a descendent of the Portuguese that had settled in Malacca or Kedah.  Or maybe she's a product of mixed parentage, an offspring of a colonial officer and an immigrant from Sri Lankan.  Penang is famous for its mixed marriages.  As far as I can tell, other than a glance or two, she hasn't really noticed me.  Who does notice me is the Indian.  He draws in long and hard on his cigar­ette, suck­ing in the last remnants of charred tobacco.  He flicks the cigarette butt over the railing.  I follow its arc, lit red by the ash, into the sea.  When I look up, the man's eyes are fixed on me; his head cocked back with a grin.  His face is gaunt, pock­marked, his eyes milky, and his teeth yellow and decaying.  In a groggy, drunken fashion he swivels around and gapes at the other passen­gers, many of them gathering their belong­ings and corralling their children, preparing to disembark.        He turns his attention back to me and says in a hoarse, whispery voice, "I have what you're looking for."        Pretending not to understand him, I shift my gaze to the ramshackled piers jutting out from the shore.  Corrugated-zinc roofed shacks have been built on top of the pier; below, sampans rot in the mud and the sewage.  The moored sampans and rickety piers are reminis­cent of another era.  I can easily imagine the coolies unloading in­com­­ing cargo from the ships and carrying them on their bent-over backs.  And the Chinese, with their long black queues, waiting tirelessly­ beside their rickshaws for their British Raj passengers.  The British are long gone; even their name for Penang—Prince of Wales Island for the future George IV—was dropped in 1957 after Malaya won indepen­dence.  Remain­ing behind is the faded elegance of their colonial buildings standing sentinel along the shore.  But even these seem overshadowed by the octagonal Komtar, rising a full-bodied sixty-five stories to the clouds.  At its base, and com­pleting its phallic image, is a geodesic dome balled tight like a man's scrotum after a cold, invigor­ating swim.        The Indian clears his throat and spits into the sea.  He asks me, "You, English­man?"        I nod but don't bother to correct him.  Ignoring him as best as I can, I continue to study the approach­ing island.        "My name, Raja.  Your name what?  John?"        "Yes," I reply, glancing at him, reluctant to reveal my real name.  John is as good as any.        Raja clears his throat again.  He gazes once more at the woman and then heads back to an empty seat, dragging his rubber sandals along the bare planks, not bothering to lift his feet.  Just before he sits down, he casts one final glance at her, a look suggesting he not only knows her but is expecting some­thing from her.  I wonder what it is.        The woman continues to lean on the railing, her arm closely guarding a black travel bag strapped around her shoulder.  She pushes her hair aside and glances in my direction.  Notic­ing that I'm watching—perhaps she's been aware of me all along—she hesitates but then smiles.  The smile seems friendly, spontan­eous, and maybe even genuine.  It takes me by surprise.        I attempt to muster a friendly smile of my own, though I'm not all that success­ful.  Half of my mind is still on Patricia, on what she did in our car, and the business that I left behind.  The woman's dark eyes glisten as if sensing my ambiva­lence.  She turns away.  I kick myself for blowing it.  Mo­ments later, once again I glance her way.  She's rubbing her shoe against the back of the other leg causing the gold anklet to slide up and down her ankle.  Up and down . . . up and down the anklet goes . . . . My gaze travels to her matching gold ear­rings, gold bangles, and a gold watch.  No gold wedding band that I can see, though her left hand is partially blocked by the travel bag.
        The ferry aligns itself with the jetty.  More passengers stir in their seats; several in back are already advancing, hoping to get a jump on those still seated.  I keep thinking about the woman's smile, her hair, her anklet, and her restless feet . . . while trying to block out the disjointed thoughts about my past, about Patricia in particular.  I only want to think about this woman on the ferry.        More and more passengers come to the front, crowding the area, filling the gap between us.  I inch closer, but too many people are blocking the way.        The ferry docks and the remaining passen­gers rise.        "Move," I tell myself and the front gate yawns open.  I attempt to reach the woman if only to exchange another smile, but the surging crowd cuts me off.  Passen­gers bump into me from all sides.  I'm in their way, block­ing their path.  ­I try to follow the woman through the throng of people, yet there are too many of them separating us . . . . Before I know it, she's gone—I've lost her.        Reluctantly, I retreat back to my seat to retrieve my luggage, all the while scolding myself for not acting when I had the chance and for letting her get away.  At the same time, I remind myself that she's only a woman on a ferry.  Someone from a different country, a different culture, and a different race.        A complete stranger.        Several people give me irritated looks for going in the wrong direction, against the flow.  I apologize and try to keep out of their way.  Raja smirks at me as if I'm no better than him.­ Upon reaching the area where I thought I sat, I have to pause and think, was it here?  Or further back?  Something crunches under my shoe.  The shells from the sun­flower seeds.  I find my seat, but not my suitcase.  It's no longer there.  What the . . . ?  I search under the rows in front and behind and all around the area, but I don't see it anywhere.  I look for help, but the ferry is empty except for an old man at the far end sweeping away some debris.        "Where's my luggage?" I shout at him.  "Where's my luggage!"        The man squints at me.  He holds up his hand into the shape of a cup and wiggles it.        "Me no speak English.  Me no speak English."  He goes back to his sweeping. 
        I contemplate my predicament and can't help but laugh.  So this is what it's like starting from scratch.  One thing I do know is that I'm alive and well on Patricia's Penang.

The Woman on the Ferry, NST 28 Sept 2011

"The Woman on the Ferry" which appeared in today's New Strait Times, is an excerpt from chapter 1 from my Penang-set novel The Expatriate's Choice.  There are nearly 6 pages that precede this, which I'll post tomorrow, so for those interested, you'll be able to read the story in context.  The novel is set in 1988.

Announcing the Third Creative Wrtiing Workshop in Kota Kinabalu!

        As promised by the organizers at the second workshop in Kota Kinabalu in August '11:



CREATIVE WRITING WORKSHOP 3
with ROBERT RAYMER
 www.borneoexpatwriter.com/
       When:  Sat, 22 October Time:  2.00-6.00pm Cost:  RM120 Who:  16-90+ years old Where:  7th Floor, Wisma Anglican, Karamunsing Next:  Email or sms your name, contact phone number & email address to.................
Contact:         Jude Day – 014-3514298 / jude.day@gmail.com                        edit- improve - edit - improve - edit – IMprove
IMPORTANT DATES:
8 October – send a piece of your writing to jude.day@gmail.com for Robert
22 October – discussion of samples of writing:  what has been done well and how the piece can be improved. 
*You can come to the workshop even if you haven't sent in a piece of writing!

Guidelines – for submitting your work:·         A-4 paper·         2-5 pages·         Double spacing·         1.25-1.5 margins on all sides·         Times Roman 12·         Left justification only·         Page numbers·         Title and your name on each page·         Centre the title and add your byline.  For example:  byRobert Raymer Advice from Robert[image error]      Don't give up[image error]      Trust your instincts[image error]      Write 3 or 4 drafts before submitting your writing[image error]      Proof your work before submitting it[image error]      Enjoy the process!
Organised by the KK Theatre Group, SPArKS 
www.sparks.org.my
NOTE:  You can attend this workshop – even if you missed the others!
*Here is the full writing guidelines and our reasons for allowing those who had missed the other two workshops to participate.
WRITING GUIDELINES FOR KK WORKSHOPbyRobert Raymer
As was mentioned at the second workshop, choose one sample of your work only, either your first-person narrative from the workshop, or your "they found me" story (see Tina's sample), or if you wrote something else since the August workshop, or finished something that you started at the first workshop in April! The choice is yours.  Those who missed both workshops but are still keen to join and learn, then send in your best work.  If you still want to attend but opt not to submit your work and have it discussed (this is fine; it's a personal decision), you can still learn from the process, from the mistakes or over­sights of others or from what they're doing well.  I would recommend getting started on this right away so you'll have adequate time to go through it and revise it without rushing to get it done at the last moment—remember school?Please use A-4 (white) paper, 2-5 pages, double-line spacing, with 1.25-1.5 margins on both sides (and top and bottom) to allow plenty of room for corrections and comments.  Use Times Roman 12.  (No fancy fonts, which are hard to read and one side of the paper only!)  Either American or British spelling is acceptable—just be consistent.  And learn how to punctuate: one space after a comma, two spaces after a full stop (and only one exclamation mark no matter how exciting your point!).  Do not use full justification, which spreads out text unnaturally; use left justification only.  (These are standard guidelines for submissions to editors and for entering contests.)   Use page numbers and put your name/title on each page.  Center the title and add your byline (see above).  My Story, or My Narrative or They Found Me, by the way, are not titles; they're subjects!Trust your instincts while you write and don't give up so easily!  Ideally you should write three or four drafts before submitting it (I often print it out a couple of times to edit it again); each time you go over it, your writing will improve (and you'll catch more typos and mistakes!).  Writing is a process, a skill you can use for the rest of your life.Also proof your work, especially if someone else typed it for you.  Why be penal­ized for their careless mistakes?  Even if you already write well, take the time and effort to improve your writing by taking it to a higher level.  Apply the 12 Rules to Improve Your Writing Style handout that I passed out (there are plenty of other writing tips on the Internet or in bookstores).  Enjoy the process of writing and take what you write seriously (but not too seriously!); if you don't, why should anyone else care?Please sent this to me two weeks before the workshop (via Jude) so I'll have adequate time to go through them all.  (Afterwards, do not send revised pages/copies, new versions or new stories because that will just make the process messy and troublesome for all.  Nor do I want to waste an hour going through the wrong version or the wrong story!)  So only send it when it is ready.  For this round, I will not be doing a full edit, just making general comments for the workshop (concentrating on the first two pages where narratives/stories often go wrong); still this is time consuming and often requires me to re-read your manuscript a couple of times and think about ways it can be improved!  Also bring an extra copy to the workshop for you to make comments on!  And extra paper for notes and reminders and ideas while we're discussing the other work.  Since it's far easier to spot mistakes in other people's work than your own (even when you're making similar mistakes), please offer your gut-level constructive suggestions.  Others will appreciate it.  You can also learn from these comments and then apply them to your own story.After the next workshop, after you have had time to make any suggested changes, then I will be willing to do a full line edit with comments at a reasonable rate (based on double-space pages) for this and for any future work.  I have done this for years with students and even published authors.  This is also what I did when I first began to write—hired someone to help edit my work; we all have our blind sides when it comes to our own writing.  Again, this is optional, but highly recommended for those who really want to improve their writing.Looking forward to reading your work and seeing you again in KK for our next workshop. 
**Here's the link to the first workshop in KK ***If you know of other organizations or associations in Sabah/Sarawak/West Malaysia/Singapore/Brunei that would be interested in having me for workshop, please contact me via my website: www.BorneoExpatWriter.com  Thank you!

Cross-Cultural Education

Recently I found on-line links to two of my old articles, both dealing with cross cultural issues.  One is "When Tastes Collide" from the My Story section of Readers Digest Australia, April 2007.  This was reprinted from the international Reader's Digest April 2004.  Originally the article appeared New Strait Times back in 1992, a very early version of "Cross-Cultural Dinner" now in Tropical Affairs, about cooking spaghetti for my former mother-in-law, who spoke no English.  I sure got an education that day!

The second article, "How to Choose a College in the US after GRE", also originally published in the NST in 1993 from the days I was coordinator of the Penang branch of MACEE (Malaysian-American Commission of Educational Exchange).  Most students whom I was advising were clueless about how to go about choosing a college in the US (we have far too many to choose from and US is a huge country) so I thought this would be of great help to them.  In fact, I made it a standard handout for each student who came through our doors.  
This article has been reprinted numerous times on various websites and blogs and as a "guest" on RxPG back in 2006, even though I was totally unaware of it.  At least they gave me full credit.  Other places just took it and posted it as if they wrote it themselves!  I'm sure their heart was in the right place: they were trying to help students get a clearer picture of the whole studying in the USA process, including taking those dreaded GRE exams.
In additional to these I've found about a dozen other NST articles scanned from the original newspaper from the early to mid-90's, the original versions of those found in Tropical Affairs.  Back then, I was onto something and was pumping them out with regularly right up until I began to teach writing at USM.  After that, I mostly concentrated on writing novels whenever I wasn't backed up marking writing assignments.  
I admit I felt weird when I first came across all those NST articles, like a trip down memory lane, including some about my son Zaini when he was just a toddler.  Now he is turning twenty this year.  Where has the time gone?

Don't Monkey With the Monkeys!

Jason with monkeys at Penang Botanical Gardens
Recently while in Penang, we decided to play tourist with the boys and did the usual things, visited Penang Hill, posed with a python draped over our shoulders, road in a trishaw, ate a lot of food, and took photos of the monkeys at the Botanical Gardens.  The boys even posed by a band of monkeys that had spread across the road in front of us.  That's when the trouble began.  First the monkeys scared off Justin, age five, and then one started to take swipes at Jason, age seven.  The monkey kept advancing on Jason and it got awfully close before I charged in to distract it, to allow Jason time to escape.  Two monkeys then charged at me.  
I wisely backed off and showed my empty hands.  I thought that was that.  But the monkeys kept lunging toward me, their teeth bared.  We couldn't get around them since they blocked our path.  Jenny, realizing how dangerous this was becoming, urged all of us to back up and go another way.  The lead money kept lunging toward me, baring its teeth, and then the other would do the same.  I kept my eyes on both of them, as I carefully edged backwards, not trusting them, not wanting to trip and fall either. 
Finally we put enough distance between us.  When a sandal-clad, bear-size gentleman with a camera approached, I warned him about the less-than-friendly monkeys; his exposed toes looked like fair game.  He shrugged it off and thought the best advice would be to charge the monkeys to scare them off if they decided to attack him.  I told him that I tried that approach and they weren't particularly fazed.   Following my advice he did veer away from the road and then found a bench to sit down on and proceeded to take their photographs.  The monkeys gamely posed for him.  They did the same for us, too, before they changed their mind and went after Jason.


Mother and baby
Later, at another section of the Botanical Garden, we came upon the same pack of monkeys.  They were easy to identify since there were seven of them, plus one was carrying a baby.  They were on a fence, and when they saw us, saw me and Jason leading the way, they started to climb down the fence and made their way toward us.  Why us, I wondered, and then I remembered that earlier we first came upon this batch on the other side of the gardens.  They were climbing down a tree on top a small hill.  Jason and I had climbed it to get a better look at them and snapped some photos.  They obviously got a pretty good look at us too, and maybe they wanted some payback so they decided to block our path.  Monkeys, I've read about on numerous occasions while living in Malaysia, have a good memory and they will take revenge out on those who try to disturb them.  They say making direct eye contact is not recommended.
Having lived in Penang for 21 years, never before had I had any real problems with the monkeys, but there is always a first.   Later, I found out they had become quite aggressive over the years and many of the monkeys had been moved out.

As we got in our car, the boys still wary of the monkeys, and several of the monkeys still straddling the fence watching us, we decided to have our own revenge.  We noticed that the monkeys were positioning themselves by a guard rail near the exit of the parking area.  We slowed down as we passed by, and from the safety of our car, we all made monkey faces at the monkeys.  They were not impressed.  Of course we were being silly.  Yet we had such a good laugh and were glad to leave the Botanical Gardens in good spirits.
Not only did we make faces at those monkeys, we also had the last laugh.

Creative Writing Workshop in Kota Kinabalu (Round Two)

Robert Raymer making a point
On Saturday, 13 August, we had our second creative writing workshop in KK, "Turning your Personal Experience into a First Draft of a First Person Narrative." At the earlier Universiti Malaysia Sabah workshop we had an extra two hours but at the first SPArks workshop in April 2011 we didn't have enough time to do the subject justice, so it was good they invited me back.

More than half the participants from the first workshop had returned including Tina Kisil whose book Footprints in the Paddy Field was nominated for 2011 Popular-The Star Reader's Choice Award for nonfiction, Farida Shukoor, who initially contacted me in 2009 about coming to KK (I taught her son at USM), Jude Day who made the arrangements for both of our workshops, and Lo Sin Yee who again flew up from Miri and even brought one of his works for me to edit (as originally planned before we added a third workshop). There was also Mark Storey who had arranged the UMS workshop back in April.   Several others, however, missed because of either exams or Ramadan, something we failed to consider when we chose the date. Fortunately others filled the vacancies so we nearly reached our target of 24.
Making full use of the four-hour allotted time, we devoted three hours to the narrative that they chose to write, after generating 15 topics for them to choose from. For those who seemed to have forgotten that they had lived a full life of significant experiences, I read them something that I wrote for my creative writing students at two universities (and expanded it by a paragraph): 
Typical experiencesIf you're a typical student at a typical university, you've already accumulated hundreds of experiences that have made an impact on your life. You've made and lost friends; done things you're either proud of, ashamed of, or regretted; been punished for doing things you weren't supposed to; felt guilty over things no one knows about; been blamed or wrongly accused by a sibling, a friend, or a parent; been scolded (and punished) by a teacher for being late, not doing your home­work or being part of a noisy class­room; fought with siblings, friends, or enemies; been bullied by older or bigger children (including relatives); survived a crash in a car or motorcycle or bicycle; moved with your family to another house or lived away from your parents; been proposi­tion­ed by someone from either the opposite or the same sex; con­sider­ed running away from home (even if you only made it next door or to a relative's house); taken something that didn't belong to you (which you had either kept, returned or threw away); felt like you wanted to die because you were embarrassed or angry or frustrated; and grieved over the death of a pet or a relative.
For those of you who have taken part in extra-curri­cular activities such as sports, or choir, or belonged to some association or club, or have won an award, or have been praised for making something creative or for having a talent like singing or dancing or drawing, or have had the oppor­tunity to travel around your country or overseas, then you'll have plenty more experiences to write about.
If you're older than your typical student you've probably had jobs, been engaged or jilted, been married or separated or divorced, had babies, raised children, bought and sold or crashed cars, and even bought a house. Not to mention the thousand other life experiences you've had in your thirties, forties, fifties, sixties, and do I hear seventies?* * * I then asked them to choose one topic that they'll be working with for the pre-writing process. I kept stressing that they choose their topic carefully. A good topic often chooses you. Maybe there's an unresolved issue from your past that needs addressing. Some topics, I told them, especially if they had a traumatic experience like a death of someone they were close to, or were molested as a child (which is, unfortunately, increasingly common), will not be easy for them to write, but in doing so, it would be therapeutic for them. Later, if they wish to share it or publish it, others can benefit from it, as I blogged about regarding a short story that I wrote based on one of my relatives.
During the pre-writing process, I gave them plenty of prompts to explore and flush out, not only the details but also people's motivation and their emotional state. This forced them to think about, not just themselves and what they did or what happened to them, but also to consider why they did those things and why others acted the way they did. This was a real eye opener for them, to consider what all was going on in other people's lives and their own, thus establishing a cause and effect relationship.
Half way through, I asked them, "Had you written off the top of your heads, would you have considered any of this? Therefore your narrative would have been far different, not as fully developed, nor as interesting for those who read it." Before I finally let them write that first draft, when I had them raring to go, I asked them to outline the main points, which helps them to think through the narrative from beginning to end, thus improving its organization. This is often the stage that my students would back away from their topic, realizing that they chose one that really wasn't all that significant. It's always better they find this out before they invest several hours writing and rewriting. Even better, if they chose the right topic from the beginning! Sure enough one of the participants asked if he could switch topics!
After spending a full hour writing out a first draft (or taking it as far as they could), we took a break, then we dabbled with some fiction via the topic "They found me", which is the crux of many short stories and best-selling novels, easily adapted into children stories, thrillers, sci-fi, and mysteries. Two of my recent blog posts, on The Shack and the short story "Mr. Penumbra" are essentially "they found me" stories. In The Shack (which I recently read and Sin Yee brought a copy with him from Miri) in more ways than one -- in the beginning and also at the end, a series of them!
Usually, when time is permitted, we'll read samples, as we did for my two-day workshop with the Malaysian Nurses Association  But this time around we're saving them for a third workshop in October. Two weeks prior to the workshop, the attending participants will be sending me a typed version of either their narrative, their "they found me" story, or someone they may have started and finished from the first workshop, then I'll go over the first two pages as I did for the MPH-Alliance Short Story Awards workshops in Kuching and Miri when I was one of their judges (which I blogged about in the first workshop—this way I'll make sure I get only one from each!).
Later, if any of the participants are interested, I'll be editing their revised versions in November at a special rate, something I highly recommend, something I did when I first came to Malaysia and wrote the short stories that later became Lovers and Strangers Revisited, now being translated into French. And did it again when I first revisited the stories, even after they had already been published, many several times in several countries. As a writer, we do have our blind spots to our own stories, even when those stories are close to our hearts—the narratives of our lives—like those that we explored in this second creative writing workshop in Kota Kinabalu.                        --BorneoExpatWriter
*If you know of other organizations or associations that would be interested in having me for workshop, please contact me via my website: www.BorneoExpatWriter.com

The Month of August and my 500th Publication!

"Capturing the Spirit of Malaysia" published in the July-August issue of Senses of Malaysia, which I posted yesterday, is my 500th publication, and it falls on August, too.  I love August, my birthday month, which over the years has often been a good month for me as a writer.  August is a big month this year for Malaysians, too.  Not only is it the fasting month of Ramadan, but also its Hari Raya and then Merdeka! (Malaysian's Independence Day).
Last August Cha: An Asian Literary Journal accepted my 100th short story sale, "On Fridays" and even linked it with the blog, The Story Behind the Story.  Most of those short story sales have come from Lovers and Strangers Revisited (the French translation is due out very soon, originally slated for August, though it's looking more like September), including my last short story sale "Home for Hari Raya".  Just in time for this year's Hari Raya.
In August 2009, I had a short story, "The Merdeka Miracle" (written with Lydia Teh and Tunku Halim) published in the August issue of Going Places, an article "Becoming Malaysianized" in Pop Club (Popular Books), and then I won the 2009 Popular The Star Reader's Choice awards for Lovers and Strangers Revisited—a rather nice belated birthday present.
Of course for reporters and those who write weekly newspaper or online columns, 500 isn't such a big deal.  They'll reach that in 10 years, assuming they write nothing else.  My friend Mary Schneider, who I just met with in Penang and who writes for The Star (and has a birthday in August) has already passed her 700th column!  (Not easy to come up with all those ideas, she tells me.)  So I have a long way to catch up to her and I began publishing years before she did.  Hmm, perhaps I should look into writing a column of my own. . . . My 500 total, by the way, doesn't include the 224 blog posts.  Many in fact are actual articles that have gone onto being published elsewhere.
"Capturing the Spirit of Malaysia" will also be repeated in the August issue of The Expat (still awaiting my copy).  I have another article or two that should be coming out this month (not confirmed), plus this weekend I do have a creative writing workshop in Kota Kinabalu (if you haven't signed up, or know someone who may be interested in KK, please contact the organizers).  Already this August is shaping into a pretty good month (we even spent my birthday in Penang) and there's still 21 days to go! Of course my birthday wish this August is an agent and a book contract for one of my novels (two did rather well in the recent Faulkner-Wisdom novel contest). That would make this particular August absolutely divine…

Capturing the Spirit of Malaysia-Senses of Malaysia July-August 2011

*Here's a link to Table of Contents and sample pages with more great photos (taken by others!)