Robert Raymer's Blog, page 26

The Outsider Within: The Expatriate Writer in Malaysia – Medwell Journals

Medwell Journals, a scientific research publishing company, has just published Jamaluddin Aziz and M.M. Raihanah's article "The Outsider Within: The Expatriate Writer in Malaysia", a psychological or Freudian analysis of Lovers and Strangers Revisited. 
This article/paper was originally titled "Masculinised (American) Eyes, Feminised (Malaysian) Dreams? A Psychoanalytic Study of Robert Raymer's Collection of Short Stories in Lovers and Strangers Revisited" and presented at a short story conference in Lancaster, UK back in 2006.  Later it was posted on a USM website.

When I first blogged about this in Being Re-blogged, Psychoanalyzed, and Nominated in 2009.   I stated that this was quite an honor for a writer based in Malaysia, writing about Malaysia with a Malaysian publisher, and even wondered if the short story conference presentation was a first for a collection of short stories written by a writer from or living in Malaysia.
In the blog, I wrote:  "If you're a critic and you're looking for symbols, phallic or otherwise, you're going to find them! Whether they're true symbols, consciously or subconsciously placed by the writer, or the critic groping at straws to support his preconceived theories is anyone's guess . . . .Although I questioned some conclusions—is an umbrella used on a rainy day, as in "On Fridays", a phallic symbol or merely an umbrella used on a rainy day? Or is a cockroach, like in "Symmetry", remotely sexual?—I had an enjoyable banter with the critic, a former colleague at USM and a friend, who gamely responded to my queries and my own criticisms of his criticism.

I only saw the paper after it was presented, and for me, it was tough to get through.  It seemed rather personal, and I didn't particularly like some of the conclusions being drawn.  Five years later, I still have qualms about it, yet I do feel honored that Jem took the trouble to analyze my work (he could've chosen someone else) and present it in the UK.  In the long run, what really matters is not the criticism, but the actual writing itself I hope).

I guess you can't really call yourself a writer if someone doesn't find fault with your writing somewhere. When you put your work out there, whether in book form, in literary journals, magazines, newspapers or blogs, you have to expect some criticism, or comments regarding your competency as a writer.  There's not a famous, universally acclaimed, award-winning writer out there that hasn't been trashed in a review or had his or her sanity (or sexuality) called into question, or his life's work picked over by some vultureistic graduate student. 
It's all part of the writing game like developing thick skin.  Remember,it's only one person's opinion.  Think of your favorite singer or band, favorite movie or TV show, favorite and most-loved book of all time, and there's going to be someone out there who absolutely hates it for a perfectly valid reason.
I do wish that this article, in the five years since it was written (though the journal may have held onto for a couple of years), had been updated by using the MPH (2008) version of Lovers and Strangers Revisited instead of Silverfish version (2005). Some of the examples cited had been edited out of the collection and all the stories have been heavily revised, and that was three years ago.  In fact, I just revised them all again to prepare for the French translation. 
Still, it can be interesting (even amusing sometimes) to see how others view you.  As a writer, as an expatriate, you're always going to attract attention and people will judge you, often through their own pre-conceived ideas.  For example, when an aunt from Sarawak came to Penang to visit my future wife (and to check me out for the family), we took her to a nice restaurant and I drank ice-tea. 
My aunt told everyone back in Sarawak that I drank beer, so when I made my first visit to Sarawak, everywhere I went they kept offering me beer and were puzzled when I declined.  I don't drink beer.  We all had a good laugh over this, including the aunt, and she had been eating with us!  But instead of looking at the evidence (there's ice and a lemon slice in my ice tea!), in her mind, expats drink beer, therefore I drink beer!  I suspect that some of this was going on in this analysis of my short stories and by extrapolation, me.  It's human nature.
But when it's published in an academic journal and made available online and it pops up on a random Google search of my name, it's out there…and those who don't know me personally or have never read any of my work, this may well be their first impression of this writer.  First impressions, as we all know, are very hard to change...
So to help offset or balance this out, I'll add a couple of links to other views of my collection, including the very same Silverfish version.The Star (MPH), The Expat (Silverfish), and NST (Silverfish, cited in the Medwell piece). 
The fact that the book, including the original Lovers and Strangers, Heinemaan 1993, has been published three times, won the 2009 The Star Popular Reader's Choice Award, been taught (as a collection and individual stories) in numerous universities and private colleges, high schools, and SMP literature, and it is getting translated into French, means it can't be too bad.  The individual stories have also been published 78 times in 11 countries (16 of 17stories in Malaysia, so they must be fairly accurate).  

And an umbrella on a rainy day, in my opinion and as the author who wrote "On Fridays",  it is still an umbrella. . . .Read the beginning of the story and you be the judge.  Of course, if some French graduate student or lecturer takes me to task on that umbrella issue, I won't have a clue as to what they're saying, and that may not be a bad thing.  I'd rather just focus on the writing.[image error]

Malay Mail - Spirit of Malaysia- review 1 March 2011

It's always nice (and a relief) to get that first good review out of the way. 
The hardest part of this project was to cut the words down to their bare
minimum.  There was tons to be written, but the space requirements for the
text was severely limited. The publisher purposely wanted to maximize the
photos and minimize the text, except for the five-part introduction, by far
the hardest to write.  Again, because I had tons of material to work with!
It was a matter of organizing it and distilling it all down the the essentials. 
 I'm glad we did it this way. Love the cover, too!

*Here's a link to the table of contents and an e-book link to view some 
of the photos.

Spirit of Malaysia- review Malay Mail

 Book ReviewsTuesday, March 1st, 2011  Beautiful nation
• Title: Spirit of Malaysia
• Author: Robert Raymer
• Publisher: Editions Didier Millet
• Ratings: 7/10

Malaysia is a multi-faceted tropical nation - with colonial and indigenous influences - which has created a beautiful array of landscapes combined with modern architecture.

Packed with 160 stunning photographs, Spirit of Malaysia by Robert Raymer succeeded in summarising the complexity of this country into a beautiful soft cover pictorial.

Stepping aside from the com­mon literary approach, Spirit of Malaysia uses bright photo­graphs and minimal text to en­lighten readers on the greatest sights this country has to offer.

Be it the bustling metropolises of Kuala Lumpur, or the rainfor­ests of Sarawak, this book high-lights the best of Malaysia and provides great insights into the historical aspect of each place with minimal use of words.

This book also provides infor­mation on the economic, geo­graphic and cultural aspects of Malaysia - complete with ad­ditional visual aids, such as the country's map. Spirit of Malaysia is targeted for tourists but is also highly rec­ommended for locals who are curious to explore what Malay­sia has to offer on a larger scale than the local attractions of their home town

Alternatively, if you are a per­son who simply enjoys browsing through stunning photographs, Spirit of Malaysia is the book for you. - By Syakirah A hmad
                                        * * *

It's always nice (and a relief) to get that first good review out of the way.  The hardest part of this project was to cut the words down to their bare minimum.  There was tons to be written, but the space requirements for the text was severely limited. The publisher purposely wanted to maximize the photos and minimize the text, except for the five-part introduction, by far the hardest to write.  Again, because I had tons of material to work with! It was a matter of organizing it and distilling it all down the the essentials. I'm glad we did it this way. Love the cover, too!

Two American Writers in Borneo

Ok, I admit when I first heard that there was another American writer in Kuching, I thought, well that's going to be confusing!  "Hey, have you met that American in Borneo?  In Sarawak?  In Kuching? You know, the writer?  The one that just published a book?"  I'm sure he feels the same way about me.
Shortly after Tom McLaughlin contacted me via my website, I saw his book, Borneo Tom at the airport in Miri. I also checked out his website and read quite a few of his blog postings.  Right away, I liked what Tom did.  From the outset he made up his mind to bypass the typical agent/traditional publisher route that could drag out for years (and never have a book); instead he self-published his blog series about his life and adventures since moving to Borneo and crafted it into a rather nice book.   
First, he invested in setting up a professional website, hired an American publicist.  He found his own editor (before he knew me) and also an illustrator.  He knows success will take time, but he is laying down a good foundation.  More importantly, he got his book, full of fun illustrations, into the marketplace fast.  He is not only working with book distributors to get his books into bookstores throughout Malaysia and beyond, but also takes orders from his website and even offers free gifts as enticement.
  After agreeing to meet, I suggested that we exchange books, which we did in October/November 2010 at his place by the river front.  Although at the time Tropical Affairs was my latest book, I thought he would appreciate Lovers and Strangers Revisited, since he had recently married.  I directed him to the story "Mat Salleh".  
Then we met again when Han, a poet from KL, came to town in January 2011, hoping to meet some other writers, and again in February.  This is turning into a monthly affair.
Since Tom and I are approaching publishing from different angles (I'm publishing and writing mostly fiction and recently began earnestly seeking the services of an agent to bring my work, my novels into larger markets), we can learn from each other to see what works, what brings in the desired results.  The publishing industry has changed so much in the last two years, bringing more challenges to writers, but also more opportunities (e-books/e-publishing).  The more we discuss and keep abreast of these changes, particularly the opportunities that are now available to us (even though we're based on the other side of the planet in Borneo of all places), the better we can position ourselves, our writing, our books, our marketing efforts.  More importantly, we can bolster our confidence and nudge one another to try new things and keep focused on our writing goals.
Although Borneo, in terms of the publishing world of USA/UK, is a bit off the map, other American writers do occasionally pass through the region.  For example last year, after a couple of near misses, I finally met with Paul Spencer Sochaczewski, author of The Sultan and the Mermaid  for my first author exchange of books with a fellow American in Borneo as a way of introduction, a tradition I wouldn't mind keeping up.  In addition to publishing several other books, including a novel, Paul and Tom have two things in common, both are former Peace Corps volunteers in Sarawak and both have a passion for Alfred Russel Wallace. 

After reading what both have written of Wallace in their respective books, I'm now intrigued.  I had been meaning to read The Malay Archipelago when I first discovered it 25 years ago in the small bookstore that used to be just to the right of the entrance of The E & O Hotel before it was renovated.  I spent an awful lot of time in that bookstore (dreaming of my own books) and even mentioned it in my yet-to-be published novel The Expatriate's Choice (several major chapters are set inside the hotel, including the climax.) 
The edition I finally bought last week wasn't the Oxford Press edition that I was seeking, but a Stanfords Travel Classics  (Beaufoy Books), with an introduction by the Earl of Cranbrook, who I also, coincidentally, just missed in Kuching in 2009.  We had spoken twice on the phone but somehow the date of his flight got miss-communicated and conflicted with a night class that I was teaching.  Not long afterwards, I did finally get to see him, via the documentary The Airmen and the Headhunters, a fascinating story about the rescue mission of several American airmen shot down in Borneo during WWII. 
Americans (and no doubt American writers) have been coming to Borneo for years.  One of the first, Charles Lee Moses, even owned what is today Sabah, north of Sarawak.  In 1865, Moses, the United States Consul to Brunei, obtained a 10-year lease for the territory of North Borneo from the Sultan of Brunei.  However, the post-Civil War United States wanted nothing to do with Asian colonies, so Moses sold his rights to the Hong Kong-based American Trading Company of Borneo, who eventually sold it to the North Borneo Chartered Company.
So for now, Tom and I just happen to be two American authors based in Borneo, though I have a feeling there are a few others out there in other parts of Sarawak, Sabah, Brunei or the Indonesian side, Kalimantan.  I do know several American writers used to live here.  Some have already contacted me via my blog or my website.  If  you're an American writer passing through Kuching, bring a copy of your book along so we can exchange them.             -Robert Raymer, Borneo Expat Writer[image error]

2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award - Round Two-The Novel Project

  The Boy Who Shot Santa makes into Round Two of 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award! So glad I took another quick look at it just before sending it in.  That look took three days--the culmination of two frantic months of going through the novel six times, including a couple of all-nighters, revising it over and over, and also that pitch!  The first round judging was based purely on those 300 words!

Ok, 1000 novels from around the world made it through to Round Two, but 4000 didn't!  8,000 novels if you include both categories (general fiction and young adult fiction).  

Here's the final version of my pitch that made it through:
The Boy Who Shot SantaWhat if your son accidentally shoots his dad dressed up as Santa Claus?
          Rachel Layton finds her fragile marriage shattered when her eleven-year-old son kills a burglar who turns out to be his drunken father in a Santa Claus suit.  The shooting sets off a chain-reaction of events that threatens to tear apart a small Pennsylvania town.Cast as a villain and labeled trailer trash by the media, Rachel is determined to hold her family together, even as her son gets beaten up at school, her teenage daughter moves in with a low life twice her age, and an old boyfriend comes and goes. Tired of being on the defensive and utilizing the voice of reason, Rachel speaks out against hunters giving under-aged kids access to guns.  Despite threatening phone calls and a brick through her window, Rachel refuses to back off until Gordon's Gunshop, located smack on Main Street, is shut down.          While shopping at the mall for Christmas, Rachel overlooks one important detail.  Santa Claus.  To her dismay, her son Eric, still struggling from post-traumatic stress disorder, gets into line behind the other kids.  Sensing trouble, parents drag their kids, some kicking and screaming, out of the line.  Soon the whole town, it seems, is watching as Eric confronts Santa Claus.Still trying to come to terms with her deceased husband and while holding onto one last chance for happiness, Rachel is all too aware that someone in the crowd is stalking her.  One thing is certain:  Christmas in Sharpton will never be the same.            The Boy Who Shot Santa (97,700 words) is a short-list finalist for the 2009 Faulkner-Wisdom novel contest (as A Season for Fools), and the first book of a potential three-book series
And this is what's in store for those of us who have made it this far:
Second Round (Feb. 24th): The field will be narrowed to 250 entries in each category (500 total entries) by Amazon top customer reviewers from ratings of a 5000 word excerpt.
Quarterfinals (March 22nd): Publishers Weekly reviewers will read the full manuscript of each quarterfinalist, and based on their review scores, the top 50 in each category (100 total entries) will move on to the semi-finals.
Semi-finals (April 26th): Penguin USA editors will read the full manuscript and review all accompanying data for each semi-finalist and will then select three finalists in each category (six total finalists).
Finals (May 24th): Amazon customers will vote on the three finalists in each category resulting in two grand prize winners
Grand prize winners will be announced (June 13th)
And what am I doing now? I'm in the midst of revising the first 50 pages of The Boy Who Shot Santa for the James Jones Fellowship Contest, deadline March 1st!  Love those deadlines!  Though I'm wishing I could include the changes I'm making into what's being judged for Round Two!  
Wish me luck, and good luck to all the others in the Amazon contest who have made it this far. [image error]

Lovers and Strangers Revisited—Another Revision, Another Look

"You're revising it?  I thought you just send them the book?" a fellow American writer in Borneo replied, when I mentioned that I'll be busy the next two weeks revising all the stories for Lovers and Strangers Revisited.   I had just told him that it was confirmed that Éditions GOPE will be translating the collection of Malaysian-set stories into French.
"Yeah, you could do that," I could've replied, but instead, I told him that I saw this as an opportunity to improve the stories for future markets.  I want the best French translation out there and the best English version, too.  Now that I'm getting the book into Europe, other readers might recommend it to other publishers in other countries, especially those with an interest in Southeast Asia, and they might be interested into translating, too.            Plus there are plenty of English speaking countries, including the US, UK, and Australia, where the collection is not yet published, and I do hope to get this collection into those markets.  As I writer, I believe in giving myself a helping hand (even playing salesman).  If I can improve the stories by tweaking them some more, shouldn't I do that?           I remember several people took offense in the comments when Sharon Bakar blogged about the Booktalk that I gave at MPH in 2008 when the new MPH edition came out and related that I had been revising the stories all along since Lovers and Strangers (Heinemann 1993) first came out to improve them in order to get them published overseas; then I ripped them apart for Lovers and Strangers Revisited (Silverfish 2005), and revised them again for MPH, and this was even before their editors offered their own input.  One Australian published author said she would never do that with her collection, but then she added that she sort of wished she had because she knows she could've improved them.           For me, that first version back in 1993 was the best version—at the time.  But I grew as a writer, and after I began teaching creating writing and grammar and revising all of my students work I became a better writer.  Now it was merely a matter of applying what I was teaching, and being honest with myself.  Is that the best you can do?  Can't you rephrase that better?  Do you really need that cliché!  That expression is rather trite or that metaphor doesn't seem to be working.  Can you fix it?  How about that beginning or ending, can you make it more effective?  Do you really need all that back story?  Can you trim it?           For this latest revision process, I asked myself similar questions. The more questions you ask yourself, the more answers you find.  In "Home for Hari Raya", I found myself changing the name Ida to Rina; it just didn't feel right for a university student, and in "Transaction in Thai", even though the story won't be in the French version since it wasn't set in Malaysia, The French editor mentioned that the name "Jek" was derogatory, so after finding a website that lists Thai baby names, I came up with Daw.          I also changed "The Watcher" from past tense to present tense as I had done a few other stories in previous revisions. I changed the ending to "Smooth Stones" after getting a lot of close calls on the story in the US.  They always cited the ending.            For each story I went on a dash hunt, cutting two-thirds, a passive hunt, converting most into active, and cut out what can easily be implied.           Now I feel satisfied, and the revised versions may even do better as I sell them as individual stories to literary journals and on-line magazines.  More importantly, I feel more confident about the collection as I pitch them to agents and publishers.  The stories, judging by their track record, are good, and they've come a long way since 1993 when they first got compiled into a published collection, but this is far from the end of their journey.  In fact, I have a rather strong feeling, as they finally break out of the Malaysia/Singapore market, that this is merely the beginning…    [image error]

"Neighbours" Gets a Play Treatment

On 19 February, students from SMK (p) Sri Aman Petaling Jeya, some of whom I met (along with their teacher Christina Chan), at the Popular BookFest@Malaysia 2010 put on a play titled "Shorts", (short for Short Stories), whereby they dramatized three stories from SPM literature, Roald Dahl's "Landlady",  Anya Sitaram's "Naukar" and  "Neighbours" from my collection of short stories Lovers and Strangers Revisited.

Although I was unable to attend, Christina Chan kept me abreast via Facebook, which was how we first met last September when one of her students contacted me over some questions regarding "Neighbours" that they were studying and ended up meeting a few days later in KL.  According to Christina, "Mrs Koh was well-loved during our matinee show!"   Then the following day, after the evening performance she added, "For the record, Mrs. Koh is now one hot chick! Everyone loved her—the actress and the character.  We took some liberty at interpreting what she is like and how she would react to situations.  A success indeed."
I was relieved to hear that it was a success.  Mrs. Koh's reputation (i.e. Are You Mrs. Koh?) was riding on it.
This is not the first time that students have turned Mrs. Koh's character into a play.  Students from another school in the KL area, also studying "Neighbours" took my ten minute play "Back From Heaven" and entered their performance into a school competition a couple of years back and did quite well.  I had adapted "Back From Heaven" from a "One Drink Too Many" a play a wrote, which I adapted from "Neighbours" whereby I turned a tragedy into a comedy.
"One Drink Too Many" has been play read twice by Penang Players and had some interest in both Penang and Kuching.  Maybe someday it will finally get produced, or maybe even "The Merdeka Mircle" that I wrote with Lydia Teh and Tunku Halim for Malaysia Airlines.  The story has a nice "1Malaysia" theme plus a Merdeka tie-in.  It would also make a good story for SPM Literature.  Unfortunately there is no Mrs. Koh like character in that story.
I'm not sure who played Mrs. Koh in "Shorts", although I was briefly introduced to her last September.  Would you like to play Mrs. Koh?  Or maybe you're a Mrs. Koh type already!  Are you?  Who knows, someday you might end up in a play, too![image error]

Two Sides to Every Story: An Encounter with a Spirit – Part II - The Shadow Spirit

This is a continuation of an encounter with a spirit (http://borneoexpatwriter.blogspot.com...) that my mother-in-law is convinced that she had that I wrote about yesterday.  She has not fully recovered and seems to be getting worse, a concern for the family who are now looking to find someone to care of her during the day until she recovers.  
The incident, whether a spirit was involved or not, reminded me of my own encounter with a spirit that took place at my mother-in-law's house about 14 years ago, during my first visit to Quop, which I recorded  in my journal the following mornings and then wrote about ten years later for a non-fiction writing workshop, a significant personal experience, for illustration purposes.

THE SHADOW SPIRITbyRobert Raymer            While visiting Beunk, a mostly abandoned Bidayuh longhouse in Sarawak, on the island of Borneo, where some of my fiancé's relatives used to live, my fiancé and I were about to enter the head house, a ceremonial room where we could see suspended from the ceiling a fishing net containing more than a dozen human heads.            My mother-in law tried to convince us not to go inside.  She didn't want us to disturb the spirits.  Even though she was a Christian, she like many Bidayuhs, still practiced animism.  She believed that spirits haunted everything—caves, rivers, large boulders, and, particu­lar­ly, the nearby jungle.  We shrugged off her concerns and went inside.  The room felt eerie though, and knowing that the heads were dangling above us from the rafters didn't exactly help.  Still, I took a photograph of the heads.             Later that evening, I went to sleep using the single bed that had been set up for me in what used to be the living room, upstairs.  Downstairs, a room had recently been added in front of the house, which was the new living room.  A wire had been strung across the room upstairs and a blanket hung over it to give me a semblance of privacy.   My fiancé, who opted to sleep with her sisters in her former bedroom, kissed me goodnight.  The blanket, having been taken out of storage, smelled strongly of mothballs.  At times I felt like I was suffocating.  It was fitful trying to sleep because of the smell, the mosquitoes biting me, and the strange noises outside that sounded what I assumed were frogs croaking.  Around midnight, still half awake, I saw a shadow presence come in by way of a locked door that led out to a small balcony.  The shadow, the size of a large animal, floated toward me.  As it hovered over me, I could feel my body arching, trying to resist it, yet I felt powerless, as if a force were holding me down, pinning my shoulders to the bed.  As the shadow spirit entered through my chest, I screamed – the loudest, blood-curdling scream that I could muster.  But nothing came out of my mouth.            The following morning I told my fiancé what had hap­­­pen­ed.  I wanted her to know in case anything happened to me; in case I started to act weird or "possessed".  I wanted her to monitor my actions, keep a close eye on me, and if I started to act strangely, to get help.  At the same time, I hoped the spirit hadn't stayed inside me.  That it merely visited me and left.             "Don't tell my mother," she urged me, a concerned look on her face, worried what her mother would say.  We both knew she would blame it on our visit to the head house.            My fiancé then admitted that she had heard similar accounts of the shadow spirit before from some of her Bidayuh friends in the village, right down to the suppressed scream.  So had her uncle who lived next door.My fiancé also told me that no one had ever slept in that room before.  She asked me if I wanted to sleep elsewhere, but there was nowhere else I could sleep without incon­veniencing someone else, so I opted to stay where I was.  That night, before I went to bed, she retrieved a cross made from palm leaves that had been saved from Palm Sunday and put it inside my pillowcase.  She then suggested that I sleep with my head away from the balcony door and that I pray before going to sleep.  I agreed, though I felt silly saying a bedtime prayer, which I hadn't done since I was a child repeating my nightly, "Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep . . ."            Now I prayed for my son from a previous marriage; my fiancé and her family; my father and stepmother; my mother and brothers and their families; and for my own safety from any harm­ful spirits.  I tried to go to sleep, but then I heard some­­­­thing, or someone, rattling the handle at the balcony door.  There was no way to reach that door from the ground.  When I heard it a second time, I thought, what the hell is trying to get in!I stared at the door, willing the shadow spirit to go away, afraid that if it entered my body a second time it would stay.  I prayed, feverishly, over and over.  The sound even­tually stopped; exhausted, I ­fell asleep.The following morning, I remembered the photograph that I had taken of the suspended heads and vowed to destroy it.  At the same time, I tried to imagine the Bidayuh warriors carrying the dripping-with-blood heads back to their longhouse after doing battle, and also the massacre that took place in Quop in the early 1840's at the hands of the Saribas and Skrang Ibans.   I dreaded to think what might have happened to me had I not followed my fiancé's instructions that night in Sarawak.  Nor will I ever forget the shadow spirit that had entered my body and, thankfully, left.#  #  #

Two Sides to Every Story: An Encounter with a Spirit-Part I

Living and writing in a different culture gives you the chance to experience the world from a different perspective.  Of course, it's what you do with that perspective that matters.  Either you try to understand it, learn from it, or you dismiss it entirely.  Two nights ago, my wife took her mother, a Bidayuh, home after visiting us for most of the day.  Before they even arrived home my wife suspected something was wrong because her mother, who was riding in the backseat, didn't respond to a couple of questions.

Then when they reached her village in Quop, her mother, who was clutching one of her hands, had no sense of balance; it was as if she had suddenly gone limp.  While helping her out of the car, which she never had to do before, they both fell.  She was also speaking gibberish; my wife couldn't understand anything that she was saying. With the help of her brother-in-law they took to the hospital where they conducted several tests, including ct scans, cardiovascular tests, ex-rays, and blood samples.  After several hours she finally could speak normally again.  The doctors concluded she had a mild stroke, but it wasn't severe enough to admit her.
The following evening my wife was chatting online to her cousin in Kapit; her cousin's mother was on the phone talking to my wife's mother at that very moment. My wife's  mother was telling her cousin's mother that she had been attacked by a spirit.  She said her hand suddenly started to hit her so she had to clutch it tightly to prevent it from hurting her. She was also trying to speak but the spirit wasn't allowing her to speak.
Now before you start rolling your eyes, I asked my wife, where did her mother feel this 'spirit' came from, since she had been at our place. Our place, as far as I know, doesn't have any spirits.  I hope not.  As it turned out, late that afternoon, they had visited a sprawling nursery that sells flowers and plants.  The owner was telling my wife's mother how she hurt herself.  She said she was out back when a spirit shoved her from behind.  She said no one else was around.  She insisted she didn't slip or fall; she was shoved, and when she landed, she broke her wrist. 
After buying some plants, some they left in the trunk to take back to Quop, they came back to our place, had dinner, and my wife drove her home. By then, she was not looking herself, as if she had been wiped out.  I just assumed that she was tired since she's in her late 60's.  Did this spirit follow her from the nursery?  Did it enter her body?  Then before they even reached her place, just a few kilometers away, she had this "stroke".
Was it a stoke or did a spirit disturb her? Again, this is all about your perspective on a different culture.  My wife's cousin's mother, by the way, does have some experience in this area. She has a son who was found trying to strangle himself by a huge split boulder not far from my wife's family home, close to St James church, the oldest Anglican church in Southeast Asia, and the adjacent graveyard.  Spirits have been sighted by that split boulder; people still go there to seek four-digit numbers.  Her son was taken to a bomoh, a witch doctor/healer, before he was taken to a doctor. The family and relatives concluded he had been possessed.  Why else would he try to strangle himself?  The doctors, called it a seizure. After that incident, he has never been the same, in and out of trouble.
Whether you believe in spirits or not is not the point.  If you are familiar with the Bible, and you take that as the word of God or as the truth, well there is ample evidence in the Bible where demons and spirits were driven out of people in order to heal them.  The Chinese here celebrate the Month of the Hungry Ghosts. There are two sides to every story; even doctors don't always agree.  Again, it's a matter of perspective from a different culture.  Learn from it, or dismiss it.  As a writer, as a person who has common sense, it's your choice.  
As a follow up to this, while I gather more facts/opinions by interviewing her mother when she has fully recovered, I'll relate my own personal encounter with a spirit in her mother's house that took place 14 years ago.  Up until then, I had off-handedly dismissed such stories.  You can be the judge.  Again, I live in Borneo and many people have been violently killed here, on headhunting raids.  150 years ago Quop was nearly wiped out in one such raid by the Saribas and Skrang Ibans.

"The Watcher" Revisited for Chap Goh Meh

Since this is Chap Goh Meh, which represents the fifteenth and final day of the Lunar New Year period and first full moon of the New Year as celebrated by Chinese migrant communities, I thought I'd post my only Chinese New Year story, "The Watcher" which I just rewrote, while revising all of the Lovers and Strangers Revisited stories for the French translation, changing it from the past to present tense.

The story has also been on my mind for the last two weeks since every evening here in Borneo we have been hearing firecrackers.  My six-year-old son Jason asked me why, unlike our neighbors, we don't have any lanterns up and why visitors don't come to our house.  "We're not Chinese," I told him.  (His best friend, Jun Han, who lives across from us, asked his father the same thing when he saw our Christmas tree last Christmas.)  Then a couple of days ago, another Chinese neighbor gave our boys some sparklers to play with, their first. Watching their terrified and delightful expressions sent me back 25 years to my first Chinese New Year, which triggered the writing of this story.
THE WATCHERbyRobert Raymer          Yeoh stares at the surrounding hills of Penang as if searching for a way to escape.  The pervasive stench of incense and charred gunpowder are every­where.  He can even taste the bitter dryness on his lips.  A soft scraping sound catches his attention.  Two palm-size red envelopes are stubbornly being pushed along the concrete drive­way by a persistent breeze.          Sitting on an old wooden bench in front of his granddaughter's terrace house, Yeoh coughs and spits and grinds out his cigarette.  He lights another just as the sky erupts into brilliant hues of red, pink and orange, as if illuminated by a gigantic torch.  The colors grow in intensity before gently fading into the soft darkness of dusk, the first evening of the Chinese New Year.          Across the street, the four Ong children scamper out of their white-stuccoed, red-tiled terrace house.  Laughing and shoving one another, they hurry to the gate, unlock it, and dash between two parked cars.  A passing motorist honks them back nearer to the curb.  One after the other, the children light and toss firecrackers into the street.  The others jump and shout with glee.  So do several Malay and Indian children who react vicariously as they peer through their respective locked gates.          While backing away from a series of explosions, a toddler from the Lim family next door stumbles and falls.  He lets out a piercing wail.  The other Lim children, too engrossed in setting off their own fireworks, don't take notice.  Yeoh glares at the child as if willing him to stop his wailing.  The child's older sister finally picks him up and deposits him inside their house.  She rushes back to the gate and reclaims her position.          A firecracker explodes beneath Yeoh's mailbox attached to the front gate.  His eyes, mere slits amid folds of skin, burst open.          "Hey!  Hey!  Stop that!  Stop that!" he shouts, frantically waving his hands at the Ong children.They pay him no attention.  The next-in-line Ong tosses another firecracker, and it too lands in front of the mailbox.          "I said stop that!  Stop that!"          The Ong children huddle together and whisper among themselves.  Occasion­al­ly they glance his way.          Yeoh's granddaughter, Li Lian, appears at the door.          "Grandpa, let them be.  They are playing.  It's Chinese New Year," she says.  "Come inside.  Su Ling and Lee will be here soon."          Yeoh grunts, but stays put.  He wants to keep an eye on the Ong children.  He knows exactly what they're up to.  They're mocking him.  Always they call him names when they think he can't hear them.  They say his eyes are like the sun and moon combined—nothing escapes them.  And that he reigns over the street, night and day, like an undying emperor who refuses to relinquish his power.  They even have a special name for him.  They call him "The One Who Watches, or The Watcher."          Li Lian pushes back her long black hair and sighs as she withdraws into the house.  In her place, her husband, Khoo, stands at the doorway picking his teeth with his pinky nail that he has let grow to nearly an inch.  When he notices Yeoh looking at him, his chubby face breaks into a grin.          "I tell you, this year is going to be a prosperous one.  I can feel it in the air."          Yeoh does not reply.  To him, this year will be like last year, and the year before, and the year before that.  Every year is the same.  There is nothing for him to do except to sit on the bench and watch.  The Ongs interrupts his thoughts by lighting three packets of fire­crackers strung together.  The firecrackers explode in rapid succession, sounding like machinegun fire, while the strands bounce up and down off the pavement as if performing a miniature lion dance.          Khoo chuckles with approval.  "Wasn't that something?"          Yeoh coughs and spits.  No matter how loud the firecrackers sound, they can never compete with Japanese bombs.  He heard those bombs.  He saw them, too.  He turns his attention back to the hills as his gaze begins to mist.  When the Japanese came, he and his family were forced to flee the soldiers and hide in those very hills.  Food was scarce then, and his two sons died before they learned how to walk.  Only their older sister, Li Lian's and Su Ling's mother survived.  With the promise of jobs, the Japanese lured Yeoh and an uncle to Thailand, only to be put to work on the infamous death railway.  His uncle died of dysentery, and it nearly claimed him, too.  In his mind's eye, he can see the young man he used to be, now a distant stranger who's watching him like everyone else, it seems, and waiting for his life to end.  He glances back at Khoo, but Khoo is no longer standing in the doorway.
          A car pulls up in front of the house.  Lee's thin, pockmarked face glistens beneath the streetlight.  He flashes a toothy smile and calls from the window, "Grand­father, you sleeping again?"          His wife, Su Ling, waves as their three children cry out, "Gong Xi Fa Cai!  Gong Xi Fa Cai!"          Two of Lee's children rush past him, eager to join the two Khoo boys inside the house.  Lee shakes hands with Yeoh.  The youngest child, Andrew, clings to his father's leg like a scared puppy.  He accompanies his father into the house, but before he disappears inside, he casts another look, a look of innocence, back at Yeoh.          Su Ling crouches down beside Yeoh and wishes him a happy new year.  Her short black hair sways like curtains as she shakes her head.          "Grandpa, are you in a foul mood again?"  Again she shakes her head, her hair swaying back and forth.  "Andrew has been asking about you.  Please try not to frighten him this time with any more of your ghost stories.  He had nightmares for a week."          Moments after Su Ling enters the house, Li Lian steps out and hands Yeoh three red envelopes.  He stuffs them into his shirt pocket.          "Try to pretend you enjoy giving these," she urges.  "It means a lot to the children."          Yeoh gazes at the golden lotus flower imprint on the envelopes.  He thinks of his two sons who died.  They would've been grateful just to have a bite to eat.  He checks the progress of the empty ang pows that he gave to the two Khoo children earlier.  They're still being pushed by the breeze along the driveway.  One hovers at the edge of the grass, while the other is almost to the gate.          Three houses away, the Ng children cheer as their father launches a mini fireball.  All along the street, Chinese children emerge from their houses, carrying fistfuls of sparklers, fire­crackers and other fireworks; some sophisticated enough to be sent careening over the red-tiled roofs of terrace houses into a neighboring row.          Parents assist the younger children and teach them how to light the firecrackers and how to throw them quickly by flicking their wrists.  Occasionally, a firecracker is dropped unlit, or explodes inches away from a child's hand.  Cars passing through the gauntlet of fireworks wisely keep their windows up, while others are forced to honk and brake to avoid hitting a straying child.          "Go outside," Li Lian urges Lee's three children, "Great Grandfather has some­thing for you."          Andrew lags behind, pausing at the door, as his brothers race outside with their hands extended, calling, "Ang pow!  Ang pow!"          Yeoh takes his time and begrudgingly hands over two of the red envelopes, one to each.          The boys remove the crisp ringgit notes and toss the empty envelopes onto the pave­ment.  They dash into the house calling for firecrackers, and then hurry back out, led by the two Khoo boys.  The last boy nearly knocks over Andrew, who remains standing at the entrance.  Both sets of parents reprimand the boys for running.          Moments later, Lee squats down beside Andrew, who's leaning against the door.  He places several sparklers into his hand.  He turns to Yeoh and says, "You wouldn't mind helping him, would you?"          Su Ling crouches down beside her husband and says to Andrew, "You want Great Grandpa to help you, don't you?"  She smiles at Yeoh.  "On the way over, you were all he talked about.  Do you mind?  It will be good for both of you."          "Sure it will," Lee says, and hands Yeoh a lit candle to help light the sparklers.          Lee and Su Ling go inside and leave Yeoh alone with the boy.  Yeoh glares at the boy who cowers further into the door.  The two regard one another with mutual suspicion.  Yeoh grinds out the last of his cigarette and waves the boy to come closer so he can get a better look at him.  He stuffs the last ang pow into Andrew's pocket.          Shouts of joy ring out from Andrew's brothers and cousins as they launch a round of fire­crackers.  The Ong children wave at them from across the street and invite them over.  In their haste to join them, the boys leave their gate ajar.          Yeoh grunts to his feet and snatches the sparklers from Andrew's hands.  He studies the sparklers as if they were a lost artifact, a key to a long forgotten child­­hood memory, a mystical time and place that he thought never, truly existed.  Using the candle, he lights one of the sparklers.  His eyes open wide as sparks spring into the night.  He hesitates, unsure of what to do next.  He flicks it and a bright line appears, only to evaporate.  He flicks it again.  And again.  He makes circles and squares and figure eights.  He marvels at their fiery paths.  When the sparkler fizzles out, Andrew looks up at him with full-moon expectant eyes.          Embarrassed that the boy has been observing him, Yeoh lights another sparkler and hands it to the boy.  He also lights another for himself.  This time, he writes several Chinese characters in the air.  After the sparkler dies out, he lights two more; and two more after that.  Each time, he loses himself in his fiery creations.          Andrew's brothers call Andrew from across the street, wanting him to join them.  Yeoh pays the boys no attention.  Once again, he raises the sparkler like a baton and orchestrates the night.          He's about to light another set of sparklers when he realizes the child is no longer beside him.  He looks around and notices that the gate has been left open.  He spots Andrew standing between two parked cars, about to cross the street.  Coming down the road, its headlights glaring, a car approaches a little too fast.          Fearing for the child's safety, Yeoh calls after the boy.  He drops the sparklers and the candle and hurries to the gate.   He calls again, louder.  Only a faint moan comes out of his mouth.          Fireworks continue to explode all along the street as Yeoh presses his hands to his chest to ease the silent explosion within.  Still moving towards the gate, he falters and collapses onto the concrete driveway, inches away from one of the discarded red envelopes.            He doesn't see Andrew circling around him, nor does he hear the child calling, "Great Grandpa?  Great Grandpa?"          Lying still, Yeoh feels oddly comfortable, as if he's floating. . . . In his mind's eye, all he can see are those beautiful hills of Penang. #  #  #