Robert Raymer's Blog, page 23
April 13, 2011
Will Lovers and Strangers Revisited go Bahasa Melayu?
Yesterday I received a telephone call from a Bahasa Melayu publisher in Malaysia expressing an interest in having Lovers and Strangers Revisited translated into Bahasa Melayu. Last week at Tun Jugah, during a break of selling books and signing autographs (we had a lot of down time), I met with some BM authors and asked about their Malaysian publishers. One of their representatives was on hand and we exchanged business cards.So when the director of this BM publisher called me and expressed an interest in my book, I thought this might happen a lot faster than I expected. In fact he was already familiar with my book, having seen me the last two years at the Popular Reader's Choice Awards He was there to support his own BM authors. The fact that I won the award in 2009 must've made an impression on him, because we'll be meeting in Kuching next month to discuss my book.
After the success of having Lovers and Strangers Revisited translated into French, I've been thinking it was high time I made some enquires about BM publishers. Ever since the Silverfish version came out in early 2006, I have felt that this book would do nicely in BM. Malays have always responded well to the book, particularly the stories that involves a Malay such as "On Fridays", "Smooth Stones", "Mat Salleh" and "Home for Hari Raya". The Malay stories are nearly half of the book. The book title, however, did cause some concern as I blogged in 2007 (and wrote about in Tropical Affairs) about a USM student discussing the title with a woman who worked at the USM bookstore.
If the title Lovers and Strangers Revisited still concerns the BM publisher, I am willing to change it to Three Faces of Malaysia or Three Other Malaysia, which is the title that the French will be using. Three Faces of Malaysia also fits nicely into Malaysia's multi-culture identity, at least for those on Peninsular Malaysia. Sabah and Sarawak is a whole different matter.
So far 2011 seems to be a good year for Lovers and Strangers Revisited and we still have two-thirds of the year to go. So let's wait and see what happens. For now, MPH has sent them a copy of Lovers and Strangers Revisited, and I'm in the midst of emailing to them, highlighting the good track record of those 17 short stories set mostly in Malaysia. And yes, I'll be mentioning The Story Behind The Story, which seems to keep growing and growing… --Borneo Expat Writer[image error]
April 12, 2011
Creative Writing Workshop—Two in Kota Kinabalu
Just back from two back-to-back workshops in Kota Kinabalu (Sabah, Borneo), one a six-hour workshop for Universiti Malaysia Sabah and then a four-hour workshop organized by the KK Theatre Group, SPArKS.
Mark Storey presenting a tired me a gift after 6-hour workshopThe first workshop at UMS, we started out with 30 academic lecturers and tutors, including someone who recognized me from Unimas, a former colleague from USM, and a fellow expat writer, Mark Storey, who organized it.
In the second workshop, the ages ran from thirteen to mid-sixties, from secondary students to published authors, including fellow MPH writer, Tina Kisil, author of Footprints in the Paddy Field . One participant flew in from Miri, one was the daughter of one of the UMS staff that I taught the previous day, and another, Farida, was the mother of a student I taught at USM years ago. In fact, her enthusiasm for bringing a creative writing workshop to KK brought both UMS (Mark) and SPArKS (Jude) aboard. Suddenly I'm in KK conducting not one but two workshops to two very different groups.
Also attending the second workshop were three UMS students who were taking creative writing in Malay. They told me how different my approach was from the way they were being taught and how easily they can apply my ideas to generate their own ideas. At UMS, they're getting mostly theory but they don't know what to write, or where to even start! I take the opposite approach by leaving the theory where it belongs in the textbooks (see "Tree Methodology" from Tropical Affairs) and showing them some useful pre-writing techniques that actually work in the real world. We also use sensory details and 5-Ws as prompts that flood them with even more ideas. Within minutes they're eager to write. Several times, after getting them started, I had to stop them, so we could move on, so I could introduce more story-starter ideas! The important thing is they got started and later they can finish up what they began.
The workshops went so well in fact, it looks like I'll be back in August for another related workshop and possibly a follow up in November. The one in August, I will be creating two longer writing sessions (one for first-person non-fiction, the other for fiction) so they can produce two finished samples to add to what they've already started and hopefully completed. Then a follow-up workshop (after they've had time to rewrite and polish) so I can critique their opening pages from one of those samples, as I did for the 2009 MPH Short Story Awards when I was one of their judges. By limiting the size of the workshop to 20-25, we can devote 10 minutes for each participant.
When I did this in Kuching '09, this worked wonderfully. They all benefited no matter whose story we were discussing since the others made similar mistakes in their own stories. (It's easier to find mistakes in someone else's story than your own!) When I tried this in Miri, it wasn't as effective because many of the writers had sent in stories via their friends or even their moms, so they weren't even present for their own feedback! Other writers took advantage of the theater style seating and passed down multiple stories. One submitted four! I was furious when I found out later. It was so unfair to the writers who were present with their own short stories because we couldn't get to them all. This time around, as I did in Kuching, where we all sat around one long table, I will personally collect each story from each writer.
By putting on my judging and editor's hat, I can show them what is holding back their writing (be it grammar, organization, style, including word choices, repetition, tentative or trite expressions), so they, and all those who attend, can take their writing to the next level. Here are the judging tips that I posted for the MPH workshop.
A one-off workshop—although inspiring and motivating for all—is rarely enough. One writer in Kuching, was so inspired by one of my workshops at Unimas, he turned his ideas into five hundred page book! For others, they'll eventually get around to doing some writing. We all know about good intentions, but life and work often gets in the way. The real learning comes from the actual writing. The doing! —Borneo Expat Writer[image error]
Mark Storey presenting a tired me a gift after 6-hour workshopThe first workshop at UMS, we started out with 30 academic lecturers and tutors, including someone who recognized me from Unimas, a former colleague from USM, and a fellow expat writer, Mark Storey, who organized it. In the second workshop, the ages ran from thirteen to mid-sixties, from secondary students to published authors, including fellow MPH writer, Tina Kisil, author of Footprints in the Paddy Field . One participant flew in from Miri, one was the daughter of one of the UMS staff that I taught the previous day, and another, Farida, was the mother of a student I taught at USM years ago. In fact, her enthusiasm for bringing a creative writing workshop to KK brought both UMS (Mark) and SPArKS (Jude) aboard. Suddenly I'm in KK conducting not one but two workshops to two very different groups.
Also attending the second workshop were three UMS students who were taking creative writing in Malay. They told me how different my approach was from the way they were being taught and how easily they can apply my ideas to generate their own ideas. At UMS, they're getting mostly theory but they don't know what to write, or where to even start! I take the opposite approach by leaving the theory where it belongs in the textbooks (see "Tree Methodology" from Tropical Affairs) and showing them some useful pre-writing techniques that actually work in the real world. We also use sensory details and 5-Ws as prompts that flood them with even more ideas. Within minutes they're eager to write. Several times, after getting them started, I had to stop them, so we could move on, so I could introduce more story-starter ideas! The important thing is they got started and later they can finish up what they began.
The workshops went so well in fact, it looks like I'll be back in August for another related workshop and possibly a follow up in November. The one in August, I will be creating two longer writing sessions (one for first-person non-fiction, the other for fiction) so they can produce two finished samples to add to what they've already started and hopefully completed. Then a follow-up workshop (after they've had time to rewrite and polish) so I can critique their opening pages from one of those samples, as I did for the 2009 MPH Short Story Awards when I was one of their judges. By limiting the size of the workshop to 20-25, we can devote 10 minutes for each participant. 
When I did this in Kuching '09, this worked wonderfully. They all benefited no matter whose story we were discussing since the others made similar mistakes in their own stories. (It's easier to find mistakes in someone else's story than your own!) When I tried this in Miri, it wasn't as effective because many of the writers had sent in stories via their friends or even their moms, so they weren't even present for their own feedback! Other writers took advantage of the theater style seating and passed down multiple stories. One submitted four! I was furious when I found out later. It was so unfair to the writers who were present with their own short stories because we couldn't get to them all. This time around, as I did in Kuching, where we all sat around one long table, I will personally collect each story from each writer.
By putting on my judging and editor's hat, I can show them what is holding back their writing (be it grammar, organization, style, including word choices, repetition, tentative or trite expressions), so they, and all those who attend, can take their writing to the next level. Here are the judging tips that I posted for the MPH workshop. A one-off workshop—although inspiring and motivating for all—is rarely enough. One writer in Kuching, was so inspired by one of my workshops at Unimas, he turned his ideas into five hundred page book! For others, they'll eventually get around to doing some writing. We all know about good intentions, but life and work often gets in the way. The real learning comes from the actual writing. The doing! —Borneo Expat Writer[image error]
April 6, 2011
I know! I know! Toys and Computers!
"I know! I know!" my children like to say whenever I try to tell them something. One of them even says it before I get the words out of my mouth and I hadn't even told him what it is that he needs to do so there is no way that he "knows". It's just his knee-jerk reaction for me to quit telling him things that he already "knows". Ah, but at six years old, there's so much he doesn't know, and even if he does know, he's not doing it or I wouldn't have to keep on reminding him and his brother!
Knowing something or being aware of it, is a whole lot different than actually doing it and breathing it so it's second nature, so you don't have to think about it. Wouldn't it be great if we could discipline ourselves to not waste time casually checking emails or Facebook and Twitter a dozen times a day, or following all those YouTube and news stories about the bizarre things people do to each other, including the very people they love? We know better right? Especially when extra writing time is in short supply these days.
Last night this all came to a head with the two small boys. Jason will be seven soon, already in primary one, and Justin is four. I reminded them before dinner not to bring out all of their toys, and not to mix them all up because we'll be eating soon. Besides it's a school night, and they're not allowed to play with their toys on a school night, but what can I say, since their mother wasn't around, I caved in. Give them a chance, I thought. They're boys.
Jason also insisted he had no homework. Yeah, right. And I believed him! (Usually I'll check the homework while their mother cooks, but since she had a meeting, I had cooking duties and food comes first. Already I was running late. . .after I checked my email…
After dinner and homework, I asked them to go upstairs to put their pajamas on. Then I reminded them, "If you haven't put your toys away, please put them away, too. Knowing how they tend to procrastinate (ok, it runs in the family), I called upstairs two more times to remind them that it's late, and to put their toys away and get ready for bed. After finishing the dishes I quietly went upstairs to see what they were up to. It wasn't pretty. Toys scattered everywhere, pieces all mixed up; they had been tossing them at each other as "bombs". Obviously, they had a lot of fun. Obviously, I was not in a fun mood.
At the rate they were going, it would take them two hours to clean up their mess when they should've been in bed fifteen minutes ago. And their mother was do home any minute. Not good. So I scolded them and to speed things up I grumbled while cleaning up their mess. This time they had gone too far with their "I knows" and not doing it. After reminding them four times this very evening, not to mention the thousands of times they had been told by both their mother and me, I decided it's time to teach them a lesson.
I cleaned up all of their toys all right, and I mean all of them. I threatened to give them all away to needy children who would appreciate having such nice toys to play with. Kids who would gladly put them away properly. We've used this threat before and obviously it doesn't work.
This time, I planned to make it work. I cleared out every single toy, every single stray piece, including under the bed, plus all of their board games, and I put them in my car trunk and in upper cabinet spaces out of their reach in our bedroom. They'll never find them. Don't tell them either, ok? Even my wife doesn't know! Since I'll be going away for four days to Kota Kinabalu, they will not be able to play with them until I get back, and since that will be a school night, they'll have no toys at their disposal until the following weekend.
Mean, huh?
Then I'll give them one more chance, with a stern warning, "Next time you play with your toys and mix them all up and don't put them away when I ask you to, like you're supposed to, like you "know" how to do, I will donate them to charity. There is no last warning. This is it!
Maybe this time, they'll actually believe me, but I doubt it since they already "know". (Hopefully, years from now, after they're already grown up with their own children, we'll look back at this lesson and laugh.) Either that or they'll never speak to me again!
Right now, I'm considering doing the same with my computer. "I know, I know," I shouldn't be wasting my writing time with all those distractions a click away on the Internet. This is my last warning, too, or the next time, I'll stick my computer it in my trunk for a week. After that, I'll donate it to another needy writer who'll appreciate it. If it works for the children, maybe it'll work for dad, too. - Robert Raymer, Borneo Expat Writer[image error]
Knowing something or being aware of it, is a whole lot different than actually doing it and breathing it so it's second nature, so you don't have to think about it. Wouldn't it be great if we could discipline ourselves to not waste time casually checking emails or Facebook and Twitter a dozen times a day, or following all those YouTube and news stories about the bizarre things people do to each other, including the very people they love? We know better right? Especially when extra writing time is in short supply these days.
Last night this all came to a head with the two small boys. Jason will be seven soon, already in primary one, and Justin is four. I reminded them before dinner not to bring out all of their toys, and not to mix them all up because we'll be eating soon. Besides it's a school night, and they're not allowed to play with their toys on a school night, but what can I say, since their mother wasn't around, I caved in. Give them a chance, I thought. They're boys.
Jason also insisted he had no homework. Yeah, right. And I believed him! (Usually I'll check the homework while their mother cooks, but since she had a meeting, I had cooking duties and food comes first. Already I was running late. . .after I checked my email…
After dinner and homework, I asked them to go upstairs to put their pajamas on. Then I reminded them, "If you haven't put your toys away, please put them away, too. Knowing how they tend to procrastinate (ok, it runs in the family), I called upstairs two more times to remind them that it's late, and to put their toys away and get ready for bed. After finishing the dishes I quietly went upstairs to see what they were up to. It wasn't pretty. Toys scattered everywhere, pieces all mixed up; they had been tossing them at each other as "bombs". Obviously, they had a lot of fun. Obviously, I was not in a fun mood.
At the rate they were going, it would take them two hours to clean up their mess when they should've been in bed fifteen minutes ago. And their mother was do home any minute. Not good. So I scolded them and to speed things up I grumbled while cleaning up their mess. This time they had gone too far with their "I knows" and not doing it. After reminding them four times this very evening, not to mention the thousands of times they had been told by both their mother and me, I decided it's time to teach them a lesson.
I cleaned up all of their toys all right, and I mean all of them. I threatened to give them all away to needy children who would appreciate having such nice toys to play with. Kids who would gladly put them away properly. We've used this threat before and obviously it doesn't work.
This time, I planned to make it work. I cleared out every single toy, every single stray piece, including under the bed, plus all of their board games, and I put them in my car trunk and in upper cabinet spaces out of their reach in our bedroom. They'll never find them. Don't tell them either, ok? Even my wife doesn't know! Since I'll be going away for four days to Kota Kinabalu, they will not be able to play with them until I get back, and since that will be a school night, they'll have no toys at their disposal until the following weekend.
Mean, huh?
Then I'll give them one more chance, with a stern warning, "Next time you play with your toys and mix them all up and don't put them away when I ask you to, like you're supposed to, like you "know" how to do, I will donate them to charity. There is no last warning. This is it!
Maybe this time, they'll actually believe me, but I doubt it since they already "know". (Hopefully, years from now, after they're already grown up with their own children, we'll look back at this lesson and laugh.) Either that or they'll never speak to me again!
Right now, I'm considering doing the same with my computer. "I know, I know," I shouldn't be wasting my writing time with all those distractions a click away on the Internet. This is my last warning, too, or the next time, I'll stick my computer it in my trunk for a week. After that, I'll donate it to another needy writer who'll appreciate it. If it works for the children, maybe it'll work for dad, too. - Robert Raymer, Borneo Expat Writer[image error]
April 5, 2011
Blog to Paying Article—Twice
I love getting good news early in the morning, which is how I usually get them since in Borneo we're a half day ahead of the West. One of my blogs just sold for the second time! This is one of the reasons I blog, so I can get some stuff written, posted, and then the marketable ones that can be reshaped into articles, I send them out to a paying market, over here in Malaysia for starters, and then I'll either expand or compress it for the overseas market.
I blogged about The Power of Five back in September, which ran for 771 words, then I rewrote it and expanded it for Quill for their January-March 2011 issue, about 1050 words. Now The Writer wants me to compress it 700 words to make it fit onto one page to be published sometime in the future. It could be a while before it actually comes out.
Still it's a nice feeling, and a nice reminder that my ideas not only works for me, which I practice in my own writing life (or at least try too, the very reason I post them so they'll also benefit others and remind me to continue to do this since it works!), but also for editors in Malaysia and in the United States who feel that those ideas will work for their readers, too.
This has happened several times now, a double publication from a single blog posting. Sometimes the order is reversed. First it appear in the US, again The Writer, like "Getting Started with Pre-writing Techniques" in their May 2010 issue, and then reprinted for Quill Annual 2011 , both of which I then post as a blog. This particular article began when I created my teaching units for my creative writing class, and then made its way to my website, if I'm not mistaken, and both of these have been popular among writers and even cited by other writers.
Again, this is why I blog. There are other reasons, too, but I'll save those for future blogs. [image error]
I blogged about The Power of Five back in September, which ran for 771 words, then I rewrote it and expanded it for Quill for their January-March 2011 issue, about 1050 words. Now The Writer wants me to compress it 700 words to make it fit onto one page to be published sometime in the future. It could be a while before it actually comes out.
Still it's a nice feeling, and a nice reminder that my ideas not only works for me, which I practice in my own writing life (or at least try too, the very reason I post them so they'll also benefit others and remind me to continue to do this since it works!), but also for editors in Malaysia and in the United States who feel that those ideas will work for their readers, too.
This has happened several times now, a double publication from a single blog posting. Sometimes the order is reversed. First it appear in the US, again The Writer, like "Getting Started with Pre-writing Techniques" in their May 2010 issue, and then reprinted for Quill Annual 2011 , both of which I then post as a blog. This particular article began when I created my teaching units for my creative writing class, and then made its way to my website, if I'm not mistaken, and both of these have been popular among writers and even cited by other writers.
Again, this is why I blog. There are other reasons, too, but I'll save those for future blogs. [image error]
April 4, 2011
Books Can't Compete With Cupcakes!
As a writer you should learn at least one new lesson a day. What I learned today in Borneo—yesterday actually—is this: Books can't compete with cupcakes. Nor should they try. As Borneo Tom and I sat there selling our books, at Tun Jugah in Kuching, people would look at us, look at our books, and then point and say, "Cupcakes!" They made a beeline to the tables on either side of us that were selling these delicious cakes and cupcakes.
I mean, how can books even compete with a cupcake, especially if you're hungry, and they're right in front of you, on either side of us. Those cupcake stalls creamed us in customers and sales. We didn't stand a chance.
Earlier Borneo Tom was telling me about the beer and book promotion he was having at a local watering hole, something that grew out of half-joking comment that someone else thought, "Hey, now that sounds like a good idea. Let me talk to so-and-so who happens to know-so-and-so over at so-and-so…" And the next thing Tom knows, it's a done deal, save for the drinking and the buying. The promotional signs have already been made.
As we were packing up our books and eyeing the last of the cupcakes being put back into their boxes by the pretty ladies selling them, Tom came up with one of those inspired if-you-can't-beat-them-join-them ideas.
"How does a book and cupcake deal sound?"
"Sounds good to me," I said, still eyeing those cupcakes.
Tom, who speaks pretty good Malay, offered his business card and pitched his idea to the ladies about us selling books and cupcakes together. Sort of like, buy a book, get a cupcake for free. Or buy a dozen cupcakes and get a book at half price. We have not worked out the details. But I have to admit the idea does appeal to me more than the beer and book idea. Who wants beer spilled all over your books? Just so long as they buy the book before they can smear cupcake icing over them . . . . How is that food for thought?
Although, the cupcakes will be back this weekend, Tom and I, unfortunately have other duties. I'll be conducting some writing workshops in Kota Kinabalu. I just hope I don't have to compete with any more cupcakes . . . . But if you got some catchy book promotion ideas, let us know. In Borneo, we're game for almost anything. Come to think of it, how about a crocodile and book deal? Now there's something you can sink your teeth into, or it is the other way around? —Borneo Expat Writer
*photos courtesy of Margaret Peter. Thanks! [image error]
April 2, 2011
Autographing Books at Tun Jugah and Country Number Twelve!
This just came up at the last moment, but Borneo Tom and I are autographing our books at Tun Jugah here in Kuching today (Saturday) and Sunday 11-4. So if you know anyone in the Kuching area that may be interested, please have them drop by. Next week, I'll be conducting two workshops in KK and signing more autographs. This is the best part about being an author, signing those autographs. Of course, cashing that royalty check is pretty nice, too. Right now the sums are in Malaysian Ringgit, later this year I'll be earning them in Euros and that's a nice feeling. Of course a mid six-figure to seven-figure advance on one of my novels would look pretty nice in my bank account. It has happened to some of my friends and to other writers that Tom knows. "Home for Hari Raya" has just been accepted in Istanbul Literary Review, making Turkey the twelfth country that has published at least one short story from Lovers and Strangers Revisited. I had suggested that they use the link to The Story Behind the Story. That's the 80th publication of one of those stories, which I find absolutely amazing! "Home for Hari Raya" a sentimental favorite of mine finally breaks out of Malaysia. Since I recently rewrote all of the stories for the French translation, I want to start submitting them again. Hey, you never know. [image error]
April 1, 2011
Another Writer Breaks Out!
Yesterday, I blogged about Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast, and before breakfast this morning I got some impossibly good news from a writing friend and that made me feel really good. Last week, I also felt really good when I heard the whole Amanda Hockings story about her huge breakout thanks to her immense e-book success. This was a nice slap-in-the-face to all those who have been sounding the death knell for the whole book industry as we know it. Well, it looks like the verdict is still out on that one. Just ask Amanda Hockings. True, she did make her name in e-books, and that's good, too! There's a place for both in this world, and that's really good news for writers.
Just two weeks before that, I was meeting with my writing friend Tom here in Borneo and we were just discussing e-books and Amanda. Tom met Amanda several years ago at a writing conference. He's also met on several occasions (and interviewed) Nora Roberts, who lived in the same area. He wasn't bragging. When you personally have met writers before they break out, as I mentioned blogging about Graham Brown, or have met other writers who are fabulously successful (maybe you met them at writing conferences or book signings, hundreds of thousands, millions, of people have ), it makes this whole writing game seem more and more possible.
Writers, you soon realize are not demigods; they're just normal, though talented, persistent people (hopefully, like you and me), who have been honing their craft for years. They've even struggled with their first novel, filled with self-doubt, trying to get it just right, even having to deal with their share of rejections from agents, publishers, including close calls that have turned into disappointment.
Sometimes it's a matter of timing.
Of course, as writers, we all hope that such Amanda-Hockings-type deals come our way. For me, it gives me hope than one fine morning, before breakfast, I, too, will get some impossibly good news. Occasionally, I do wake up to find I got a hit from an agent. I've had several recently from one of my novels, The Boy Who Shot Santa, but so far nothing has materialized. Maybe it's the writing, maybe the timing isn't right, or maybe America has changed too much since I last lived there.
Rewriting another novel, The Expatriate's Choice , gives me hope because I do know something about expats and this part of the world, where I've been living for over 25 years. Perhaps the timing will be right soon. Maybe not in America; they really don't know Malaysia very well, but in the UK or Europe; they do. Having one of my books reviewed their last week and having another getting published their later this year, it does appear that's the direction I should be looking.
In the meantime, I'll keep writing, and you should, too. Good things happen to good people; good things happen to friends, and I find that doubly cool. —Robert Raymer, Borneo Expat Writer[image error]
Just two weeks before that, I was meeting with my writing friend Tom here in Borneo and we were just discussing e-books and Amanda. Tom met Amanda several years ago at a writing conference. He's also met on several occasions (and interviewed) Nora Roberts, who lived in the same area. He wasn't bragging. When you personally have met writers before they break out, as I mentioned blogging about Graham Brown, or have met other writers who are fabulously successful (maybe you met them at writing conferences or book signings, hundreds of thousands, millions, of people have ), it makes this whole writing game seem more and more possible.
Writers, you soon realize are not demigods; they're just normal, though talented, persistent people (hopefully, like you and me), who have been honing their craft for years. They've even struggled with their first novel, filled with self-doubt, trying to get it just right, even having to deal with their share of rejections from agents, publishers, including close calls that have turned into disappointment.
Sometimes it's a matter of timing.
Of course, as writers, we all hope that such Amanda-Hockings-type deals come our way. For me, it gives me hope than one fine morning, before breakfast, I, too, will get some impossibly good news. Occasionally, I do wake up to find I got a hit from an agent. I've had several recently from one of my novels, The Boy Who Shot Santa, but so far nothing has materialized. Maybe it's the writing, maybe the timing isn't right, or maybe America has changed too much since I last lived there.
Rewriting another novel, The Expatriate's Choice , gives me hope because I do know something about expats and this part of the world, where I've been living for over 25 years. Perhaps the timing will be right soon. Maybe not in America; they really don't know Malaysia very well, but in the UK or Europe; they do. Having one of my books reviewed their last week and having another getting published their later this year, it does appear that's the direction I should be looking.
In the meantime, I'll keep writing, and you should, too. Good things happen to good people; good things happen to friends, and I find that doubly cool. —Robert Raymer, Borneo Expat Writer[image error]
March 30, 2011
Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast—Or Six Important Things Before Lunch!
The Queen said to Alice in Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass, "Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." What if the impossible things, weren't all that impossible, but rather doable, and they were the six most important things to do to on your list, and what if you could accomplish them all, maybe not before breakfast, but before lunch. Now wouldn't that be a great way to start your day! You will have crossed off six important things (not minor tasks, but the stuff you've been procrastinating on for days, weeks, months), and now your afternoon is free of guilt. In fact, you're so excited by the possibilities you're really on a roll and you're anxious to see what else can accomplish today.
Imagine if you did this every day, just think how productive your life could be, how good you can really feel about yourself, and what if some (if not all six) of these important things are actually taking you a step closer to your goals?
Most people start the day with good intentions. You know what you need to do. You may have even written it down, and you're all fired up, but then something comes up, an email that requires your immediate attention, some late breaking story on yahoo that has you concerned, some funny or fascinating YouTube posting that you can't resist watching. Then you get a phone call, and when you check your email, there are a few more items than need to be replied, and, oh, a long lost friend just sent you a message on Facebook! An office colleague drops by to tell you about an exciting person they just met or relate their latest drama. And someone really needs your advice or help with their deadline project.
Next thing you know its lunch, and although you accomplished a few things, they were not the top six on your list, they were a few at the bottom that only took a few minutes to clear, neither important nor urgent, just stuff on that list. So you sort of feel good because you at least accomplished something before lunch. Oh what a difference your day and your life could be if you just ignored everything that was not urgent, and you rolled up your sleeves and ploughed through, one after the other, those six important things that lately have been impossible to get around to. But not today! Today you're focused, you're disciplined, and you are absolutely determined not to let anyone else (not even yourself) sidetrack you from the tasks at hand.
When you accomplish what you set out to do, even those mundane tasks—like doing your taxes—that you wished would just disappear from your desk, your self-esteem rises and you feel good about yourself. You even feel that just maybe you really can take on the world!
Now isn't that a whole lot better than feeling guilty because you, once again, by the end of the day, did not do what you know you need to do. It's right there on your list, with stars by them! So now those same incomplete tasks will be waiting for you first thing tomorrow, along with everything else that you need to do, and the thought of that really makes you angry.
Don't get angry and beat yourself up, just make a fresh commitment to yourself, that, by golly, every day from now on, you're going to see if you can accomplish six important things before lunch, and just do them (no email, no Facebook, no phone calls, no personal dramas (yours or anyone else). And maybe, while you're at it, a few impossible things before breakfast! Like waking up before the alarm goes off, humming instead of groaning, stretching and exercising, being grateful that you not only have a home to sleep in but also clothes to wear and food to eat.
Also be glad that you're alive and healthy and that you have someone to love (parents and children count), and maybe even someone who loves you (yes, pets count). Instead of wishing you had someone else's face or body or talent or all of their money; appreciate all that you do have in life. See life from a whole new perspective, as a joy, not as a hassle. If you think you have problems, and I'm sure you have your share, turn on the news to the latest disaster! They got real problems! Count your blessings! Put it all into perspective. By now you're starting to feel better about yourself, and once you have breakfast, you'll feel energized to start tackling those six important things on your list. Today is the day you're taking charge of your own life! About time, too, and it's not even lunch! Let's really work up an appetite![image error]
Imagine if you did this every day, just think how productive your life could be, how good you can really feel about yourself, and what if some (if not all six) of these important things are actually taking you a step closer to your goals?
Most people start the day with good intentions. You know what you need to do. You may have even written it down, and you're all fired up, but then something comes up, an email that requires your immediate attention, some late breaking story on yahoo that has you concerned, some funny or fascinating YouTube posting that you can't resist watching. Then you get a phone call, and when you check your email, there are a few more items than need to be replied, and, oh, a long lost friend just sent you a message on Facebook! An office colleague drops by to tell you about an exciting person they just met or relate their latest drama. And someone really needs your advice or help with their deadline project.
Next thing you know its lunch, and although you accomplished a few things, they were not the top six on your list, they were a few at the bottom that only took a few minutes to clear, neither important nor urgent, just stuff on that list. So you sort of feel good because you at least accomplished something before lunch. Oh what a difference your day and your life could be if you just ignored everything that was not urgent, and you rolled up your sleeves and ploughed through, one after the other, those six important things that lately have been impossible to get around to. But not today! Today you're focused, you're disciplined, and you are absolutely determined not to let anyone else (not even yourself) sidetrack you from the tasks at hand.
When you accomplish what you set out to do, even those mundane tasks—like doing your taxes—that you wished would just disappear from your desk, your self-esteem rises and you feel good about yourself. You even feel that just maybe you really can take on the world!
Now isn't that a whole lot better than feeling guilty because you, once again, by the end of the day, did not do what you know you need to do. It's right there on your list, with stars by them! So now those same incomplete tasks will be waiting for you first thing tomorrow, along with everything else that you need to do, and the thought of that really makes you angry.
Don't get angry and beat yourself up, just make a fresh commitment to yourself, that, by golly, every day from now on, you're going to see if you can accomplish six important things before lunch, and just do them (no email, no Facebook, no phone calls, no personal dramas (yours or anyone else). And maybe, while you're at it, a few impossible things before breakfast! Like waking up before the alarm goes off, humming instead of groaning, stretching and exercising, being grateful that you not only have a home to sleep in but also clothes to wear and food to eat.
Also be glad that you're alive and healthy and that you have someone to love (parents and children count), and maybe even someone who loves you (yes, pets count). Instead of wishing you had someone else's face or body or talent or all of their money; appreciate all that you do have in life. See life from a whole new perspective, as a joy, not as a hassle. If you think you have problems, and I'm sure you have your share, turn on the news to the latest disaster! They got real problems! Count your blessings! Put it all into perspective. By now you're starting to feel better about yourself, and once you have breakfast, you'll feel energized to start tackling those six important things on your list. Today is the day you're taking charge of your own life! About time, too, and it's not even lunch! Let's really work up an appetite![image error]
March 29, 2011
Remember—Everyone is Watching!
We were shopping for groceries in an upscale market in Kuching when my wife directs my attention to a man scratching his butt. He was standing in the aisle, not a side aisle but the main thoroughfare with people coming and going all around him, and he had his hand inside not just his pants, but also inside his clearly seen underwear, which by the way, was a dull red in color. He was accompanying his wife, but standing there aloof, having himself a good scratch, as if he had no care in the world. I'm sure he does this sort of thing at home all the time. He didn't seem bothered by the fact that people all around him, including us, were giving him, I-can't-believe-you're-scratching-your-butt-in-public look.
We're shopping for food mind you. Imagine all the items, like fruit, he may be casually touching or groping, once he stops—assuming he ever does stop—scratching his butt.
Yes, at times, we all like to think that, like children, we're clever or invisible, that no one is going to notice us as we quickly, casually (so not to draw attention to ourselves) pick our nose, our ears, and even our butts (though not all the way inside our underwear) in public. But everyone is watching. And if someone is not watching, you can be darn sure that someone will point it out to them, or tell them all about it later, once they get home or back to the office.
I admit, I was even tempted to take the man's caught-in-the-act photo and put it on YouTubeLet it go viral, so the whole world will know that this man failed basic etiquette, hygiene, obedience, common sense school, and that his parents—shame on them—never taught him to go out in public in dirty underwear just in case he dies, let alone scratch various parts of his body when others are looking.
As writers, we tend to notice stuff like this and work it into our writing somewhere, but so does everyone else. How can you not notice a man standing in the middle of an aisle his pants half pulled down, showing large portions of his decrepit underwear, with his left hand jammed inside of it, scratching a way. We could probably even hear him scratching, the sound of his nails brushing over the fleshy skin, streaked in red by now, over his buttocks if we chose to concentrate. Knowing this guy, I'm sure once he was done, he probably brought those same fingers to his nose and had himself a good sniff. Then he'll grab a box of cereal or an apple, and ask his wife, "Do we need this?"
So when you're in public, and this goes for children—we have two small ones who are known to do an occasionally disgusting act in front of others that makes us want to disown them—please think twice before you do what your body urges you do to because, believe it or not, everyone is watching, and these days, everyone has a camera on their phones, and they can even be pretending to talking loudly to all their friends, when in actual fact they're snapping your photo and shouting that out to the world.
By the way, this applies to how you dress, whether your zipper is up or down, whether your jeans really do need a thorough washing, and even your ranting and raving in your blog posting because you're having a really bad day and you want to take it out on the world. Yes, you may be ranting and raving in the privacy of your own room, but in fact, you're as public as that man standing in the aisle scratching his butt.
After we quickly as possible made it around this man so we didn't have to watch him anymore, the writer part of me made me look back at the end of the aisle before turning the corner of my life, and yes, he was still scratching his butt, oblivious to his surroundings, and yes, everyone else was watching, eagerly waiting for his next disgusting move. —Robert Raymer, Borneo Expat Writer [image error]
March 28, 2011
The Novel Project: The Expatriate's Choice – pitch and 5 pages
The Expatriate's ChoiceHaving your fate hinged on an erratic American expatriatewho has nothing left to live for cannot be good…
An early draft of The Expatriate's Choice (82,500 words) was a semi-finalist in the 2009 Faulkner-Wisdom novel contest (as Tropical Moods), 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 2009 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 at the legendary E & O Hotel only to become entangled with a Eurasian woman. Her own messy life has become even more complicated by her father washing ashore. Her father's death is inexplicably 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 leave him, his life, and the past that he has been carefully hiding, begins to unravel. With nothing left to live for except a treasure buried by the Japanese at the end of World War Two, the expatriate makes a choice that will affect all those around him, especially Steve Boston who is caught smack in the middle with a gun aimed at his head.
THE EXPATRIATE'S CHOICEbyRobert Raymer
1
Wednesday, 10 February 1988
The East has always attracted that strange beast called an expatriate, one of those lonely, alienated men who have nothing left to live for . . . . They're either hiding from their troubled past, searching for a mythical treasure, or seeking some self-indulgent pleasure — or perhaps a little of each, thus adding to their array of personal problems from the bad life choices that they've made. My own bad choice is Patricia who I met and married four years ago and am now fleeing from . . . . As I board the ferry to Penang, I feel 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 . . . . But 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 would be 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 business card 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 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 perspiration from my forehead as I glance around at the other passengers. Sitting across from me, 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 respectfully. 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, scraggily haired backpackers takes it all in. Plenty of potential witnesses, about two hundred in all, 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 later returning 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 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 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 not 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 and avert 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 thump, putting on hold any further speculations on this silly notion of suicide. Really, I'm not in the mood.
Bored, I glance absently at Penang Bridge, reputedly the third longest in Asia. I've seen it countless times in Patricia's photos and coffee table books on Penang, though mostly when it was under construction. Midway between the bridge and the ferry, an unusual brightness sears its way through the clouds. The brightness grows in intensity as the clouds gradually give way. Revealing itself in its entirety is 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 it 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, returning to the mainland. Like the one I'm on, it 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. I turn away, but a glint of gold, bright yellowish 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 gold 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. On several occasions the shoe 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 then 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, 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. 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, though 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 glances at me, perhaps conscious that she's being watched, 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.[image error]
An early draft of The Expatriate's Choice (82,500 words) was a semi-finalist in the 2009 Faulkner-Wisdom novel contest (as Tropical Moods), 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 2009 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 at the legendary E & O Hotel only to become entangled with a Eurasian woman. Her own messy life has become even more complicated by her father washing ashore. Her father's death is inexplicably 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 leave him, his life, and the past that he has been carefully hiding, begins to unravel. With nothing left to live for except a treasure buried by the Japanese at the end of World War Two, the expatriate makes a choice that will affect all those around him, especially Steve Boston who is caught smack in the middle with a gun aimed at his head.
THE EXPATRIATE'S CHOICEbyRobert Raymer
1
Wednesday, 10 February 1988
The East has always attracted that strange beast called an expatriate, one of those lonely, alienated men who have nothing left to live for . . . . They're either hiding from their troubled past, searching for a mythical treasure, or seeking some self-indulgent pleasure — or perhaps a little of each, thus adding to their array of personal problems from the bad life choices that they've made. My own bad choice is Patricia who I met and married four years ago and am now fleeing from . . . . As I board the ferry to Penang, I feel 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 . . . . But 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 would be 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 business card 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 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 perspiration from my forehead as I glance around at the other passengers. Sitting across from me, 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 respectfully. 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, scraggily haired backpackers takes it all in. Plenty of potential witnesses, about two hundred in all, 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 later returning 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 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 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 not 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 and avert 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 thump, putting on hold any further speculations on this silly notion of suicide. Really, I'm not in the mood.
Bored, I glance absently at Penang Bridge, reputedly the third longest in Asia. I've seen it countless times in Patricia's photos and coffee table books on Penang, though mostly when it was under construction. Midway between the bridge and the ferry, an unusual brightness sears its way through the clouds. The brightness grows in intensity as the clouds gradually give way. Revealing itself in its entirety is 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 it 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, returning to the mainland. Like the one I'm on, it 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. I turn away, but a glint of gold, bright yellowish 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 gold 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. On several occasions the shoe 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 then 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, 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. 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, though 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 glances at me, perhaps conscious that she's being watched, 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.[image error]
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