Sausan from Malaysia

My Other Writing Journal

14 Feb 2012 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

Of, late, I have turned into such a fiercely focussed thinker, that each artistic passion is now arranged neatly in the mind, to be selected at will and celebrated. Such a subconscious endeavour has become second nature to me. Travel, books, films, world cuisine and especially my antiquated pleasure of writing and its accompanying beloved Muse, all hold pride of place, in my invisible spiritual cabinet. How easy it is then, to clamber into this unseen attic to select the one thing that I might choose to love for any hour. Hence, this new added Writing Journal to my present books blog, where my posts on books and my return to the sketching of stories, are kept separate. I’m writing again. Wonderful news, that is and at this time of my life, an important one that matters. – susan abraham

Returning to Writing

12 Feb 2012 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

It is time for me to return to this books blog. It is time for me to write. I have closed my Twitter account and am taking longer erratic  breaks from Facebook until I complete my next book manuscript and also accomplish a few other things.   Otherwise, too much time flees from social networking sites and so I resolve these present weeks of temporal languishing days to be  held precious. In about a month, I shall be travelling again for two months. At the moment, here I am, safe and sound in Dublin.

Since my last post, I have made two separate trips to London and purchased at least 45 books – yes, 45 gorgeous reads featuring all kinds of layout and colour – that comprised interesting essay collections and novels; serious literature that I’d be hard-pressed to find elsewhere. I was really keen on regions from the Middle-East, Greater Middle-East and the African continents.  Still, I  bought a few new titles currently out in England, by debut novelists like Alison McQueen.

I went to two quaint and well-stocked Arabic bookshops off Sloane Square and in Westbourne Grove and also visited Daunt Books on Marylebone High Street (Baker Street Station), a good few times, among other big bookstore chains like Waterstones Piccadilly and the faithful, gleaming row on Charing Cross Rd. I made new friends with helpful booksellers. I enjoyed the flair of  intriguing observations, significant  of cosy cultural communities, tucked away in Middle-Eastern cafes, in the heart of Notting Hill Gate.

Last weekend, I was caught in the Heathrow fray, over a gatecrashing snowfall from an unrepentant Artic snap. Thankfully, I encountered no disruptions. My flight to Ireland, was at the worst, delayed for an hour and a half, so that was considered pretty mild. Unfortunately, I returned with the start of a winter cold, no thanks to the minus zero temperatures in London.

Am looking forward to my reads, to blogging and also to a time of serious writing.  © susan abraham

Poetry has Returned to Me

04 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

“Mine is a Dublin afternoon in January. The days are cold and the gales are wild. My disillushioned poetic muse, having  escaped to a mysterious sabbatical in the far South, has  returned.. Its absence may have counted a season wrong, for my homesick craft still bears within its plumped-up beauty… the oversized pastoral frolic of a summer’s day.  Did my runaway poetry feast too much on its escapade to Eden? Was it still a warm, bright green day when I last composed a verse or hummed an ode? Sadly, I can no longer measure the rush of an hour.  Yet, donning a masquerade of lightly-threaded shadows, how fragile the demeanour of my art, how enigmatic its response. I tell you now, the time for tears is over. My poetry waits to clamber up my back and wrap its long sticky hands tightly around my neck in sweet embrace…Oh! But for its kiss-me-quick lollipop scent, plastered breath and my favoured piggy-back ride, my long-lost poetry so ethereally once-upon-a-time mine..for here it is once more, having finally returned to me.” – susan abraham ©

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Dear Readers,

I am thrilled that my writing days are shaping up so nicely, with nary an effort on my part to recreate that lovelorn magic. This revelation surprises even me.   To understand what I mean, you would have had to read my last few posts at year’s end.  Then I had explained that in the last two years, I did not feel able to do too much either artistically or creatively as my energy path was filled with the unnecessary clutter of controversial human relationships.

Of course, I have no one to blame but myself. I had invited noisy crowds into my life, naive and trusting and without batting so much as an eyelid. The result being, that I had to subsequently free my path eventually. As an individual I desired to breathe again and discover my newness as an artist. At the time, certain situations had turned up great distress. I am happy that I sought the courage to pounce upon the right introspective decisions about my life, no matter how painful the angst.  It’s amazing how one may grow  sharply wise overnight.

Once my journeying path became clear – and this happened towards the second quarter of last year, many lost and beautiful, artistic pursuits which I had initially cherished, returned to me. I think, a dramatic one had been the return of an overwhelming love for Arabic, Persian and Turkish literature, which had earlier encapsulated my reading time in 2008 and 2009 before suddenly vanishing into thin air.  The desire to embark upon this beloved pastime engulfed me last July.

As for poetry, I am able to engage with the craft only when my thoughts are crystal-clear…My relationship with poetry holds the fortitude of an iceberg, with the exception that the season for poetry-writing may well melt away, without any warning.  While it hovers though, I view the world as being imbued with romanticism. Meandering lines or  watertight ones shadow my footsteps. My well-encountered bliss may later show up, through vivid descriptions of  nature’s celebrated beauty… garden birds, seascapes, landscapes or the erratic mood of a season. Sometimes, this pastoral effect has made me weep with great feeling.

My writing ambitions for prose, have never really left. But my carefree nature that often allowed for the space of poetry fled, somewhere towards the end of 2010. In my life, poetry stays the root to everything, even if I am consciously unaware of its existence. Someday soon, I hope to share with you, my personal history with the subject of poems.

Two days ago, while mulling over a novel display at a bookshop, poetic lines began pouring spontaneously into my thoughts.  I knew my annointing for writing poetry, had returned with a vengeance.  I was delighted over life’s New Year gift to me. One of these stayed a verse that intoxicated my own senses. Let me just say, that it involved the dusk, lamps and lighted lanterns. I  yearn to share it with you but hopefully later, after publication. I would place it here but of late, have become really worried about the vulnerability of copyright infringement/plagiarism and sadly, the educated people who prey upon and steal another’s work,  then claim success, with not a fraction of conscience or care in the world.

Writing Reflections 9 – Calling Time on Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam

30 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

Caption: Thick coffee brew sweetened with condensed milk, served at a traditional Chinese coffeeshop in Singapore.  Photograph © Susan Abraham

A little while ago, I wrote in an earlier post that due to unforseen circumstances, I was not able to promote my first book of lyrical writing titled Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam – pictured on left sidebar – and published in England last Christmas.

I could have attempted a fair bit if I wanted to but there were several issues going on in my life during that season. I was left feeling  spent and unsure over which rollercoaster direction I seemed to be toppling into.  My life was still excellent as a whole. In the earlier part of the year, I travelled often and enjoyed myself.  But this emotional drain was due to a betrayal, the painful disappointment of it, which trailed me everywhere for a long time  like a ghost-in-waiting.

That’s all gone now of course and a few weeks ago, I contemplated once more picking up the pieces and once-and-for-all making a fervent  attempt to tell the world something about my book. I am however, a pathetic marketer but then this is me being lazy.  In truth, I considered myself a merry old-fashioned artist first of all.  Still, I confessed to a know-how and  gamely thought I would test the waters.

Then to my horror, much as I loved my alternative poetry and prose tucked away between those slender pages; the old enthusiasm had simply vanished.  Sadly, there was no  desire to conduct even the first step.   In my spirit, I had already moved on.  That chapter of my life had  closed when I dealt with the issue of the betrayal and shut that door.  I recognised that my personality had evolved. I could no longer relate to the exciting time when my paperback was first published.  I had found other reasons for joy. Which frankly, is a  relief as I had taken to the idea of being published in the first place, very much in my stride like a duck to water. I did not bat an eyelid even at the time. I wasn’t awed. I wasn’t overwhelmed.

More importantly, I had moved on to a new confidence and a brand new sense of energy.  I realised I wanted to attempt  ambitious writing projects… bigger challenging works. I possess the resources and capability. I travel erratically and often. How about some travel literature for a change, my mind beckoned.  And I still own a partial manuscript of Malaysian ghost tales lurking somewhere about… And there are other ideas too. I have always been a versatile writer.

At the moment, I’m involved in the completion of  my novel and this time-consuming task alone has risen from within me like a shooting star. It encompasses all of me. It shapes the colour of my days. It presently commands my reading material for research and my journeys for remembrances.  I also love my new seclusion, a tender reward from having obtained the courage to temporarily draw away from online social media – an activity that seemed all at sea and had taken up too much time for nothing.  This works for many people of course but not for me. I put my efforts of the last two years down to an over-zealous exuberance.

Clearly, I am someone firmly rooted in the present. I am futuristic in my thoughts.  I look back to the past only in the way of practicalities. From time to time, I savour all the right melancholic moods of wistfulness. My saving grace is that I am not a sentimental person.  I become impatient  if something sedate in the past clutches me for too long and my graceful sense of wellbeing is threatened.

With all these in mind, I have decided to call time on Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam. I feel that instead of promoting a little-known paperback of poetry – the hardest of all to market, although I’ll affirm to a quality piece of work – that my energy would be better invested at where my passions presently lie. That beautiful saying… Make hay while the sun shines…sums up my perfect sermon.

I know from years of observation that writers are sometimes virtually unknown for their first-time efforts especially those who choose to publish alternative literature with small publishers, not of the mainstream. But then they go on to be published traditionally at some point with a bigger publishing authority where worldwide bookshop exposure is evident and suddenly, all their older works are eagerly sought.

For example, celebrated Indian novelist, MG Vassanji, who was born in Kenya, resided in Dar-es-Salaam and then went on to live in Canada as an international bestselling author, stays especially popular with the reading public in Tanzania for a little known book of stories about Dar-es-Salaam’s Asian residents.  It was called Uhuru Street and was first published in 1992.

Here in The East African magazine, a journalist who captured Vassanji’s return to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania and attended his much feted book signing at an expatriate location alongside Dar’s coast called The Slipway in 2010,  adds the following…

Vassanji is the author of eight acclaimed novels, the best known being The In-Between World of Vikram Lall and The Assassin’s Song. But the most popular here in Tanzania is by far Uhuru Street, which is a collection of stories based on the author’s perceptions of life on Uhuru Street in the 1960s. – The East African

I know the colourful, quaint Uhuru street. I have passed that way many a-time. The crowded street lies in the heart of Dar es Salaam, is populated by locals and a successful community of conversative Indian businessmen and their extended families, who all devoutly follow the Muslim faith. Please do click onto the link to  Uhuru Street above, to read a little more about the list of eccentric characters that helped shape Vassanji’s early talent.

Another UK novelist, Preethi Nair, self-published her first novel, Gypsy Masala, after facing numerous rejections, some years ago. When through a stroke of good luck, HarperCollins finally signed her on for a 3-book deal, they also took it upon themselves to re-issue Gyspy Masala.

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I believe I should let go Call the Ships of Dar es Salaam for the moment and it will eventually resuscitate itself when my audience is bigger, when an alternative portfolio of my works are published and evenly distributed and when my readership is secure. I have only just returned to the writing life.

I love my little book. It will always be one of my pet beauties. It serves as an excellent validation for a record of all my pastoral poetry and simple philosophical musings. My writing is not for the pessmistic soul but rather it seeks those who catch life’s meaningful approaches from the silver lining on a dark cloud.

The rhymes on absurdities are suitable for both grown-ups and children. Women who are devoted to serious literature may just adore the added touch of romance that spills about now and then. A naturalist could just as well celebrate a series of Irish garden descriptions  and in the dark winter months to come…wish for summer through my carefully-painted verses.

Having said all of this, I cannot bring myself as many other writers do, to keep trumpeting for the hopeful sale of my book. I’m just not made that way. I feel that if I were a good writer, I would eventually gain a readership. Not straightaway of course. With time and diligence, that comes later.  The quality of my work should speak for itself.  At least, for now. But then again, I can afford to do this. I’m not writing for the money.

Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam will still continue to be sold worldwide. A consumer can purchase my product from almost any country at all through scores of online booksellers. Anywhere from India, Japan, Australia and New Zealand to Hong Kong, the States and Scandinavian Europe.  A print-in-demand venture and chosen from a publishing round last year by a small UK publisher, my book will always be in stock anywhere at all while packaged as an excellent quality paperback.

In this way, I have been so very fortunate as being published in other international regions may not have afforded for that same grand number as regards  online bookseller displays.

And so as I begin a new writing chapter of my life as evident from previous posts of Writing Reflections, I’ll bid adieu to my little book and all that’s connected to it in the past. I’m sure I’ll meet it somewhere up the road, not too long from now, when life finally signals for a much-deserved party.  May it hibernate in peace…

Writing Reflections 8 – Nigerian Cinema and the Writing Form

28 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

I often think it’s the inter-parallel equations that silently work to measure and thread varied passions within an individual’s singular destiny. A love for the cultural arts has long helped me banish what might have otherwise proved a stereotyped personality and instead allowed me to embrace one, laden with fascinating complexities.

These days, I am able to easily distinguish the glimpse of new discoveries in my renewed life as a writer.  With a real celebration of this aptitude, I   absorbed an unexpected fruitful lesson just the other day, from world cinema.

On free nights, I do from time to time relish cultural films or documentaries.

Generally, I purchase films that appeal in a certain tantalising manner. I don’t tend like many do, to borrow or rent them. I have a serious burgeoning collection hidden away in my cupboard.

The majority of endearing ones stay the slightly alternative European, Asian, Persian and Middle-Eastern stories, that hinge their  persuasive charms on  generational  family life especially those which highlight the artistry of cuisine, culinary journeys or the romantic moods of tender, rural landscapes, wound into elaborate village tales.   I am bowled over for instance, by gatherings set around a crowded dinner table, breakfasts in the gardens, wine toasts that tiptoe with gentle docility upon the remnants of  an earlier argument in the dining room, picnics that hover close to a wild windy sea…in other words, a creative sumptious menu that may just as well, tempt the mind’s palate with the aesthetic pleasures of taste and this, complete with unforgivable generosity.

I am also a diligent viewer of classic British sleuths, a jolly hobby I’ve pursued from girlhood.  Naturally, my choice of Midsomer Murders and Hetty Wainthropp Investigates episodes are likely to follow suit.  Still, nothing is complete without my carefully packed away boxed set featuring a memorable American tv comedy, Everybody Loves Raymond. I never tire of losing myself with unescapable joy in the re-runs.

When I travel,  I slip my favourite dvds into my luggage.  This  allows me to dissolve my restlessness into the allure of a remembered film, providing of course, that the sandman cooperates and discreetly fails to arrive in a foreign hotel room.  Perhaps too,  if I’ve had a good day lapping up the outdoors or when nostalgia impatiently beckons, I’d happily reward myself with a film. Often, I observe in a silent way, the technical aptitude of how scripts are written…the kaleidoscope of images that make for sharp sorrow or comedy  bending to its wry humour and especially the motley characterisation in film that offer countless ready ideas for the novel.

To me personally, literature and the cinematic arts connect more closely in my life than I dare imagine.

Of late, I have found myself cheerfully devouring Naija films, complete with its enchanting pidgin English lingo. I love African cinema as it often serves the perfect reminder of my Tanzanian friends. An overwhelming nostalgia slyly enthralls before I soon find myself yet again on a flight, halfway around the world.

In modern Nigerian cinema, where so many impressive stories are based on expansive plots locked away in rural villages or  rambling bungalows in Lagos; I have soaked  with delight the eccentric characterisation of say, the over-zealous church goer, the witch doctor, the wicked mother-in-law, the greedy landlord or a jealous sibling. Then there is the roomful of fashionable, flamboyant wives…the hangout of jobless husbands…the rushing footsteps of the noisy inquisitive neighbour….the stingy angry farmer…all sorts.  At first, I found myself engaged in these robust films,  simply for pleasure and as a hallmark for one of my more ideal forms of a vibrant escapism.

Then on a more serious note, I must say that despite the extravagance of intricate plots and numerous characters, I began to recognise the evolvement of the screenplay itself to be very tight.  This,  especially when wound around  the more colourful modern folktales produced  by the local Yoruba people whose communities reside mostly in Western Nigeria. The Yoruba language is one of the Niger-Congo family of languages.

No doubt, the respective film-makers seem to own a high talent for lavish ancient traditions, rituals and profound religious philosophies  in particular…a trait that often inspires and astonishes me. I notice that while a major plot and its accompanying series of sub-plots are all  bound by complicated twists and turns, they finally come together like rivulet ribbons to a welcoming brook and rather seamlessly too, in that tie-up to  a superb finish.

It wasn’t too long before I was happily seduced, caught in rapt attention by these stories and desired to create characters like these for my own tales. Oh…what excitement when I discovered this wanting! I couldn’t understand my bliss following such an encounter but knew the desire to be forthcoming and getting stronger as I studied varied films with real earnestness in a way that I purported to be educational and consistent.

Then to my surprise, I recognised the reason why I myself, was now drawn to create a party of lively boistrous characters, all boastful of skeletons in the cupboard. But do I dare… What exhilaration! What a challenge!

Ironically, this goes against my reclusive self in real time of late. In recent weeks, I have presently, pulled away from the online crowd. I can’t remember when I last left a comment or engaged in superficial banter.  In fact, I shudder at the  lost time.  I have certainly grown far  more reserved about my daily activities.  I am more guarded definitely. Lost in the new luxury of an intoxicating writing world,  I have for  the present moment, left  the  past to fend for itself come what may.  I myself with bowed head prefer to get on with my journey with nary a thought that my voice should add any more clamour to feisty opinions already alive and kicking.  Thus,  I have  returned full circle to once more resembling the shy violet lass, readily apparent when I had turned 20 and some.

For years, some of my best writing steeped from a taut individualistic self which commands a style of its own but could just be rigid in the way of experimentation. I  often observed enthralling pastoral happenings as a fly on the wall, lending its invisible ear to many things while gleaning secrets within my shy, quiet self…  As the owner of varied musings, I subconsciously became concerned never to intrude upon the broken heart of a lover or disturb the melancholic orchestra being strung by the merry herring gulls. I do possess a skill for this guardian angel watchfulness, I admit.

I remembered also that when  in my 20s, I wrote children’s plays for Radio Malaysia and much of these drama, were often extravagant in personality with a host of different voices scattered clumsily  in excitable speech.  A handful of  characters would chatter or yell with  enthusiastic flutter above each other’s heads, all at once.  I recalled that one  of my  early children’s plays lay  in how a devout, secret team of  spiders and lizards worked together throughout the dark night, so as to rescue a tearful picture on a wall from being sold to a dank shop in another town. What a ticklish kerfuffle I had created on the page!  Strange when you think of how I had pictured myself, a bashful introvert in earlier years but  at the same time, an easy extrovert with the representation of my children’s stories.

In later years, the opposite happened. I became nothing short of an extrovert while my career would steadfastly sprout wings with magazine journalism.  To my great surprise, I flourished in assignments that included having to conduct candid interviews with several showbiz personalities.  Again very much unlike my old self, when I travelled – and this followed up from the magazine journalism career – I found myself all the bolder. I was more inclined to chat with strangers in an assortment of settings when called upon to introduce myself and you know, just the public glare of airports says it all.

Around this time, I turned the introvert with my artistic craft. Beautiful words all readily composed if I may dare to describe them myself and slightly distinct too, but my manuscripts represented a form of writing that stayed  attuned to a quieter rhythm.   As a broad example, there lingered, only just the one voice observing, whispering, sketching and reciting thoughts in a poetic demeanour and that one voice was me.

This is what Nigerian cinema unearthed about my personal history  which confirms my theory that every race and heritage has the ability to soar across a boundary, that all of the universal cultural arts are interlinked in some way. And in that, that a culture so foreign as Nigeria, could teach me this surreal quality about myself. Wonderful isn’t it. This is what makes me currently so excited about travel, even if it may be nothing more this time round, than just to familiar locations, so as to research and write my novel.  Still,  the flavours and charms of the orient all beckon, to thoughtfully introduce me to new worlds inter-connected and bathed in light. - susan abraham

Writing Reflections 7 – The Gloss of Travel

28 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

I wrote the post below and placed it on Facebook about 16 months ago.

At the time, it was the first post on a new blog I had set up to write about Africa. Later, I took the blog down and subsequently removed the said article. Now, poring over it again, it’s proved to be one of my better pieces and features some introspective reflections I like very much.

I find the poignant words still hold true to my spirit. I’ve not changed in that sense at all, with the exception of course, that presently and in the next two months I must will myself to travel, not for hedonistic pursuits  but to work on various writing projects.  Most precious to me is the novel.

Adventuring is part of my work, when you think about it.  It has offered the memory raw, blissful material.  You can say in a way that I have returned to the work-force but far from a daily grind…I’ll be engaging in the things I love and purely that, although the tight schedule I’ve prepared for myself promises  a satisfying exhaustion at some point.

I also hope to return to journalism…I finally have succumbed to a renewed interest for it. I’m thinking more of a columnist or essayist for one international media at least.  That  would be a promising start and I shall be aiming for this. I have to start again from scratch but I’ve gleaned a fair amount of information from the cultural arts and travel to a few specific regions over the years that I’ve already got a few pet subjects up my sleeve. I really have no clue how any of these would pan out…it may just be months yet before something definite works out but I hope to enjoy the whirring carousel.

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Below is the article I found and love very much for the definite sense of identity it presents me with:

“A constant travel over several years has in the recent past, treated me to an inate sense of elation that cannot be mastered by conformity, rigidity or the scheduled timepiece that wills the industrious heart to a safe, mainstream life.

Somewhere, in the last years I fulfilled a childhood dream by smashing upon a plastered predictability, otherwise determined to have glued my restless soul and moving limbs together with the strangulating purpose of a straitjacket. Naturally, I would view that prospect of a nightmarish episode like a dabble with sticky plasticine; in other words, something dark and closely akin to horror.

I was fortunate to have escaped with grace and am now no longer bound by the mainstream. Instead, I tether on the edge of disbelief and surrealism willing either emotion to work; just so I could taste a bout of the extraordinary, everytime I swing a trolley bag through Departures.

I’m happy.

I’m happy because I’ve got my act together albeit a clumsy spit’ n shine polish. Travel, mountain-climbing, my bookcases, my love for world films and good cuisine…all of that. Oh, and did I add that I was a magazine fashion writer for many years? Now what is left is for me to return to the writing of stories…a long-lost love once fitfully abandoned and now properly ‘prodigal-ed’ and to choose books over journalism..to pick up that chewed stub of an ancient pencil with cautious pleasure and waltz with the imagination.

I am strangely excited. Where do I begin? How do I start? As I sing with resounding delight, clutching to falling chorus-sheets in the true masquerade of a voluble Edith Piaf, let me not trip over or that my raw toes be stepped upon. For now, I am bewildered but pleased.” - susan abraham

Credit: Free Photograph courtesy of World-City Photos

Writing Reflections 6 – When Slipping Essays into my Luggage

19 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

As I ready myself  for lightly-packed luggage in the coming week, I shall slip valuable essay collections from three inspiring, distinctive writers into the bottom of my  bag.  Namely, Other Colours by Nobel Prize winner Orhan Pamuk, The Other comprising a series of memorable travel dispatches, penned by the late celebrated Polish war correspondent Ryszard Kapuściński and the stimulating, profound descriptions of novel-writing to be found in Umberto Eco‘s Confessions of a Young Novelist.  No doubt, these handsome translated editions will rest in my favourite airline’s efficient reliable cargo as silent, appeasing friends. There they will slumber for essential long-haul flights, that I must  now undertake with satisfying zeal, if I am to complete the writing of my book slowly of course, but surely.

Thus, I seal my errand with a smile and a caressing swing of the heart.

I am hoping that the documented essays and lecture series of Nobel Prize winner Orhan Pamuk,  the exclusive travel commentaries especially of those pertaining to Africa and belonging to legendary journalist Ryzsard Kapuściński and the very determined Umberto Eco’s stubborn bold reflections in Confessions of a Young Novelist, will serve as loyal companions and devoted teachers, even as I pick these writers’ brains in between all the errands I must run, on my future novel’s behalf, as I play the enthusiastic role of wayfarer.

Already, I have completed Pamuk and Kapuściński – please see my thoughts on Pamuk here and  Kapuściński here -  but feel compelled to savour their essays once more with solemn repetition for just another magic round. Perhaps in the wistful idea that practise makes perfect. “Read again and again until you understand,” my conscience appears to plead. “Search the exciting ways a writer uses an essay to open windows even from something dark and uncompromising, even from a stuffy, locked house that from somewhere in an unsuspecting quagmire, a startling beauty glistens.”

Through  open heartfelt dialogues on what it takes to capture the essence of a writer’s heart and on reading the intellectuals mentioned, I feel that perhaps here once more, I am lost in the faded dialogues of my father and his clever friends mainly a firm and long-staying group of thinking individuals. Many eventually emigrated to Europe from Malaysia. Opportunities during the psychedelic era  that abounded in Holland, West Germany, England, Switzerland and Sweden were too good to miss.

I was blessed to have a childhood centred around the conversations of these men, where through  a dismal, masquerade role of pretending to fiddle with my Batman cards, I eavesdropped on countless astonishing stories that were gleaned from books and incredible media before these were  discussed, debated and argued upon.  I remember how in those days, Life and Reader’s Digest stayed all the rage.

Let me break away at this point to say that I travel this time not for the enjoyment of travel at all – although I do love the exhilaration of being in a plane  – but I fly this time round for work. I need to revisit the locations of my novel. I thought I had everything down pat but I am still not satisfied.  As a result, my trips promise to be both gratifying and exhausting.

Perhaps I romanticize too much but if such an attribute makes a celebration of life, than why not.

I feel for the moment properly transformed into my novel’s shadow. I playact its mother and guardian angel. My novel is the child running blissfully forth and I must keep up with the trail, panting of course and sweating all the way that befits my anxious, protective manner.

What awaits me are sessions of even more picture-taking than my tidy stack  for  references presently allow for absolute detailing, the  recording and making of  memory notes ie. what-once-was and what-now-is.

Then there are the mirages in my head of  houses, shops, streets, strange alleyways, streams, people, stalls, restaurants, coffee-shops, all sorts.  I feel as if my novel is the awakening friendly giant and I, its happy errand-boy.  I birth it, live, breathe, shape, launder, paint and polish it to perfection.  In fact, I possess such enchanting thoughts about this new subject in my life, that frankly, it deserves a post all its own.

But why this obsession with location?

I think that any genuine traveller who writes a novel, would desire this. If I cannot sketch descriptions vividly enough with which to make the reader feel that she has  climbed into my fictitious bedroom and mulled over an entertaining poster on the wall, strolled my colourfully drawn streets while munching spiced peanuts and staring at a sly old  fortune teller settled on a crowded walkway with his noisy green parrot, or for that matter, stirred a mug of Milo say, in an aunt’s rambling  kitchen which offered the delicious whiff of an appetising fish curry…a kitchen that was built after the Second World War and tucked away in an oil palm estate in a small Malaysian town and where greedy cats waited impatiently at the back door; if I cannot manage all of these… than I have failed as a traveller. I have served my vocation poorly. Ah…I can hear you say that I am being too hard on myself but I can tell you now, that this stays a thrilling hard-on-myself venture.

This brings me back to Umberto Eco which I shall talk more about in subsequent posts as I am still dipping furiously into this essays,  but when Eco wrote Island of the Day, he went to the South Seas, to where his story was set. He says, “I naturally went to the South Seas, to the precise geographic location, where the book is set, to see the colours of the water and sky at different hours of the day, and the tints of the fishes and corals.” When Eco wrote about ships, he studied drawings on ships of that period but also measured the exact length of cabins and cubby-holes. He wanted to know how long it would take a character in the ship he had fashioned with his pen full of labyrinths and mazes, to move from one room to the other. During the time, Eco wrote about monks and monasteries, day after day, he pretended that he was living in a kind of somber enchanted castle.  How clear to me that with his theories as helpful needles,  Eco wove large chunks of his heart, into all of his stories. During the creation of his novels, he did not walk with his tales but inside them.

 Now, this brings me rather eagerly to a sound mention of Edward Docx‘s The Devil’s Garden, a novel published by Picador and longlisted for the Man Booker Prize in 2007. The Guardian described Docx’s accomplishment as having followed in Conrad’s footsteps. I was held spellbound on listening recently to The Guardian’s podcast on Interviews with Travel Writers. An endearing favourite, Colin Thubron was the first to be interviewed but while I stayed fascinated with much of what Thubron had to add, I was somewhat mesmerized by Docx himself.  From having travelled widely in the past, the author-scientist conceded how important it was to him, to visit any location that adhered to his fiction. Despite the world being at one’s fingertips  through the outstanding features of Google Earth for instance, Docx reaffirmed that nothing could replace a writer volunteering to be present at any specific location that formed for the said writer’s plot.  The key to a winning form, he asserted, was to make a novel as authentic as possible for the reader.

Naturally, I had to buy his book and was relieved that I managed to purchase a copy this afternoon. I shall read it first thing tomorrow morning with a particular slant towards studying the imagery, descriptions, episodes and encounters that helped make Docx’s novel, a distinctive one.  I shall report back on one of my following posts.

The essays I have chosen to pack away, will work to educate and assist me like the presence of old faraway friends.  All will  talk with me over coffee, teach me in the classroom, point to valuable references in the library and taking lingering walks with me on the many rambling streets like postcards locked into a canvas of interesting forgotten places.

What is presently so amazing stays the expansion of my already eclectic world.  This, representing a sparkling prism of many different passions netted into one. I find now, that in writing my book, I am introduced to a broader scope of different worlds than the many, many writers and books I have already known.  Suddenly, there are oh… so many more…  Like a mythical abyss, an  entrancing Alice-in-Wonderland burrow or a surreal trail of galaxies, my own multitude of welcoming doors too stay eternal. – susan abraham

Writing Reflections 5 – Something about my Poetry

17 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

I am presently working on a collection of heartwarming poetry. These draw upon the introspective and mischevious episodes connected to water, ice and snow, with a particular penchant for the severe winter of last November and December which I was thrown into with relish, while  in Dublin, Ireland. It was a time when my subconscious spirit bowed in ecstasy to inspiration.

While stranded for days in my apartment, I enthusiastically produced a series of prolific musings and rhymes, for hours in a row. I love Nature and landscapes speak to me so well through sedate pastoral reflections. I have always stayed reverential to the subject of water…the oceans…rivers, brooks, streams, a running tap…a working well… So many of my glorious childhood memories are infused by the distant rhythms of cold and noisy splashings on skin,  from the nostalgic recollections of old-fashioned bathrooms in Malaysia.  My mind’s eye still journals the forgotten mirrored puddles from where my plastic pink fishes eagerly sought their temporary getaway after a thunderstorm.  I still remember the hazy, scenic views of faraway ships at the nearby Morib seaside also.  Here, my father would gaily drive me to the coast at a time close to departing sunsets, from when I was  as young as four.

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Due to an unfortunate circumstance with someone last Christmas and the start of the year, I halted promotions for my first little book of alternative verse and prose although I could have attempted a buoyant start. Still, several months have now passed and that disappointing episode together with its accompanying memory, have been thankfully banished, into an obscure time-frame of the past, complete with its vague, murky space.

Thus, I was heartily encouraged the other day, to view without any probing on Google; the number of international online booksellers that continue to pop up, to faithfully market Call the Ships of Dar-es-Salaam. I am quite surprised as a result. I was also thrilled to see my title  on Amazon’s brand-new Spanish site.

I am fortunate that my book is displayed in every country so far that hosts an Amazon site. I have observed that this isn’t always the case for every author and especially not all Malaysian authors who may have been either published by a Kuala Lumpur publisher or self-published. I may not be in worldwide bookstores but wait for me with eventual traditional publishing and I shall get there. Still, on the worldwide web, I am in several continents and countries. I am at a bookstore in Dublin just across the road from Trinity College and my title can be ordered  at the Customer Services section of any bookstore from the UK.  The most important thing is that the book stays  available to the public-at-large and thanks to a marvellous print-on-demand feature, can be swiftly printed and packaged, for any urgent call.

Since this paperback with its excellent quality was produced by a small English publisher in England and is considered hardly conventional  for mainstream publishing, I am responsible as a result, for any dismal sales in question.  But at least the exposure and promising global markets with their aptitude to distribution, both continue with willingness,  to tempt me to begin promotions anytime I want. I think that in all earnestness, I have reached a new chapter in my life where I am now keen to perform this venture with  refreshed vigour and without looking back to past events. I have become superbly self-contained with books, travel and films luring me with cheerful bullying tendency into a futuristic era and transforming my vast perceptions on life and human character, while diligently serving as endearing teachers.

Writing Reflections 4 – Embracing Malaysia

02 Sep 2011 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

Dear Readers,

I changed my blog template as I found too many writers using the same one and it didn’t feel all that special after that. Perhaps as writers, we are more alike than we realise.  I also found that with present evolving ambitions, my one-month old blog would turn out  to be a work-in-progress that until now, couldn’t settle for a resolution on what it would represent.

At first, I desired only to focus on my love for literature from the Tropics and the Middle-East.  Then while in Dublin, I found myself falling head-over-heels in love with Malaysia once more – the land of my birth – once I began planning for and sketching a novel on my childhood.

I began to view my country in a new light. I appreciated the intrepid cultural communities that lay within three or four major races. I celebrated the memories of a glorious childhood. I was thankful for the democracy and freedom that a Malaysian passport often  afforded its user when alluded to travel, unlike several other regions where in having to secure one, its resident would possibly experience painful obstacles through red tape and countless delays. And because Malaysia is a country full of colour and light, I appreciated being enriched by its incredible blessings that while having silently shrouded me from infancy, demanded no reward.   You could reflect on cuisine, shopping, beaches, forests, high-tech infrastructure…and my country has it all.  I began to cherish all my old Malaysian loves from  a couple of months ago with far greater intensity than I could have remembered over the years.

In so doing, I immediately succumbed to the nation’s beloved history and literature.   However, as I focussed on the reads, I found myself at odds with several introspective thoughts that adhered itself to my renewed life as a writer. I began searching myself in  poignant ways and I allowed for a new series of burgeoning passions  to rise from within my current flamboyant ones.  All collided happily in my heart.  I became aware that I had turned in recent years from a blogger who writes to a writer who blogs.

My efforts at novel-writing has encapsulated so much. It colours my days and fills me with overwhelming emotions especially at astonishing recollections. I think that at this point of time, I am torn between the idea of staying internet savvy and drawing attention to myself.  I write best as an introvert.  I love the silence and am one of the few individuals I know who can derive comfort from aloneness. Saying this, I turn into an extrovert when it comes to travel. I have friends in different countries…a motley crowd of affectionate personalities that first played the role of business acquaintances.  But if I want to produce my best work, I have to be selfish with time and solitary endeavours. I have for the moment, pulled away from Facebook, am producing a dismal attendance rate on Twitter and decided also against other tempting social sites. I have temporarily drawn the line at thinking up comments or indulging in various online discussions. I really need to conserve my energy so as to write. And what do you know…the world failed to come crashing down upon my shoulders.  Also, I am practical enough to recognise that my absence from various social networking sites when measured against the monumental scope of a digital era; will draw no raised brows.

I always think that when I’ve accomplished enough, I’d have a proper website. For the moment, this blog holds a template that would endear a few loyal readers to me but at present, I’m not a blogger seeking a vast readership. I just need to get over the novel-writing first, complete my storybook, get it out there for the world and than return to perhaps, a broader scope of things when I can once more afford that time.  The old blog template seemed a little larger than life and definitely drew attention.

I will be travelling shortly but not as in travel for travel.  On the contrary, I’d consider it work since I need for my own peace of mind, to revisit the locations of  my novel…just so that I get my detailing of descriptions absolutely top, top.  I find the thought alone, engaging and enjoyable.  I shall be purchasing many more Asian and Arabic reads which I shall talk about here.  I do relish this valuable space with which to share my views on books and films…firm hedonistic pleasures that they are. - susan abraham

Writing Reflections 3 – Into the Heart of Travel

28 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

Note: This is not a review but for the fact that I have merely made a fleeting reference to having read The Other by the celebrated war correspondent, Ryszard Kapuscinski, as an impressive reminder of my present writing journey.

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I am the accidental individual whose memories and ambitions stay locked by a tender old-world flavour that has now returned to befriend me like a freed prisoner, from somewhere far. I am moved but startled at the faint whiff of remembrance of what used to be.  Perhaps this explains why I continue to wear an air of puzzlement. Ever since I made the decision to return to creative writing with renewed dedication,  a restless forbearance hankers. It stays slightly perfumed at the crumpled edges of my waiting spirit.

Through the nicest form of laziness that perhaps dragged on for a longer time than I had envisioned, I waited for that sacred call in my hidden heart. In these last months, my romance with writing  has returned like a forsaken lover to once more claim my affections and diamond me up for a beckoning aisle. I have been happily wooed and my old talent applauded.  After a decade of silence, I have once more returned to pen and paper.

Hence, perhaps someday, I shall outline detailed descriptions about the magnetic writing charisma of Poland’s legendary decorated journalist, the late Ryszard Kapuscinski whose acknowledged writings combined high literature and colourful reportage with a famous, striking flair. In lapping up his precious essays this afternoon, I sought nostalgia with a sudden dogged tenacity while still misty-eyed. I began to celebrate far more secrets about my own travel accomplishments than I may have dared think about before.

Decades ago while fashioning nothing short of a  meticulous work  in engrossing dual roles both as  reporter and author, Kapunscinski took the road less travelled to dangerous regions worldwide where his courage as a true-bred adventurer was often called into play.  With a dramatic dedication, the photographer and poet happily churned out mesmerising features on revolutions, despots and coups. Kapunscinski was said  to have left his heart forever in Africa especially in the vein of Tanzania, the Congo and Angola.

Africa would be  the continent that eventually brought him lasting  recognition as a a writer of distinction. Africa with its eternal romanticism that I know only too well, proved a beloved lingering passion and a faithful companion that stayed with Ryszard Kapuscinski to the last.  Sadly, cancer would claim him  on January 23, 2007 while he was still 74.  Perhaps, it is a fitting celebratory tribute to declare that Gabriel García Márquez, proved one of the late writer’s closest friends.

Today, I pored through Kapunscinski’s series of collected lectures called The Other, published a year before his death.  The passionate lectures revealed Kapuscinski’s feverish intentions to pursue the role of the individual in its exactness when meeting with cultural regions and peoples outside the said individual’s familiar territory. In questioning intentions and misgivings that stretched from goodwill to distrust and from ancient philosophical eras to current digital revolutions, Kapunscinski plunges into society’s disturbing protocol  on travel, politics, history and social aptitudes with communities, neighbouring states and the world at large.

I was delighted that through his various writings and as something of a wanderer myself; that I could relate instantly to Ryszard Kapuscinski.  I suspect it was Neil Ascherson in the very first paragraph of his Introduction where he reminds the reader that towards the end of The Other, Kapuscinski would quote the great Polish-born pioneer of social anthropology, Bronislaw Malinowski where in his book, Argonauts of the West Pacific, Malinowski wrote that, ‘to judge something, you have to be there.’

This line was what graciously offered a valuable illumination to the new personality I had acquired…one so aptly moulded by travel.

I’ve discovered that in having fastidiously sketched  out the shaping of my stories; that in spite of recent elaborate notes, snapshots and having already visited the same scenes repeatedly a few months ago, that I must now return again. This will explain why I must once more beg a sojourn away from Ireland, pack my bags and catch a flight in the coming weeks to go back once more, to the places where my stories are based. I am thrilled at the very idea that as an artist, I am allowed to take liberties with my artistic pursuits and have the opportunity on a platter at the ready so as  to revisit the old haunts of my fictitious characters.

I am quite sure that for this particular book,   I could already write just as well a the minute.  Yet intuition tells me that if I return once more, I would pen my chapters better. I need to be where my stories and characters are waiting for me. I need my feet to touch the ground they walk on. I need to breathe the same air, eat from a nearby table at a restaurant, nap in a smilar  room next door. I need to live out fragments of my characters’ lives, in the flesh. Enough at least, to taste an atmosphere.

A strong sense flourishes within me that I have begun to make two parallel journeys…one is of the obvious in that it may be afforded to the writing of the novel but the second one is of a remarkable spiritual blend. I am walking once more into the past…I am searching myself like never before…asking questions of why I choose to live my life in a certain way for instance and what led me up to this present moment in Dublin. How did I become me? Where was I before in the imaginings of the heart? Where am I now? Is the road from the past clear? Did my past make me where I may now return to it and watercolour up incredible new shades for those silent elongated shadows? How did I become so fearless and rooted in the present when I was once so timid and often allowed my inclinations to be  relegated to episodes of the past? I find the essays of Orhan Pamuk and Ryszard Kapuscinski both remarkable in that their distinctive instropections allow my individualism to take flight.

In using both Pamuk’s and Kapunscinski’s lectures as textbook material in which to  search my open heart in an otherwise closed mirror, while I am ordinarily enough writing a book, I now observe with some fascination, that I have become an industrious academic student to the self. - susan abraham

Writing Reflections 2 – The Teacher in Orhan Pamuk

19 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

Finally, I am once more to be found with bent head while seriously writing.

Today, I mirror the earnestness purported to an accidental survivor who has lived her life a little more flamboyantly than others, nearly tipped off destiny’s razor-sharp edge once or twice and yet strangely enough, managed to hone her individualism to a meteoric rise.

Now, caught in an age group that measures wisdom from the burnished summer of her life; I am eager for my writing journey to be once more hastened, for its infant garden to be watered and tended with lavishness and for a cluster of flowers to summer.

Henceforth, I shall pretend not to notice any approaching signs of an icy winter that may wait with a sublime, thoughtful reproach locked in the hidden shadowy background. Gales may strive to topple my hopeful inclinations but ambition returns and for me, writing is all about time, discipline, industry and accomplishment. I form metaphors to make the toil sweeter.

I may pack my bags and leave Ireland for a longer sojourn  in a month or two – I haven’t yet made up my mind, with the exception that a rough travel timetable curled into small, tight whispers currently rests pillowed up in my head. As the moment, my schedule stretches up to Christmastime and slightly beyond.

I fight like a true-bred adventurer with a heaped plate, to curb an impatient nomadic spirit that cajoles me all the time like  a possessive, beckoning mother. The wanderlust bug is nourished by an individual’s own wide-eyed sense of  learning and open intellect.  I am often lured by an assortment of travel playthings comprising nostalgia, history, elaborate social culture, geographical data, an enchanting passion for literature,  accompanying  intimate  bookshops in welcoming foreign lands and other charming effects that sit comfortably with my modest luggage.  This,  while waiting to command an erratic series of enticing air and road journeys.

Perhaps than it is a potpourri of all the above that  has  prodded the urgent shaping of my personality,  to have been  moulded into one of determined clear-mindedness and focus. I have too many eclectic passions as it stands. When the mood and time permits and daily at the least, I indulge in either reading, viewing or pursuing outdoors…one of these many hedonistic pastimes that are now vital and compulsory to my writing craft. They shape my thoughts, broaden the mind and even resurrect important memories that may have long slipped into hibernation via the cosy cave of the subconscious; back to the surface. These may lie in the appropriate  realm of indulging in a culinary journey or long city walks, a cultural documentary, Nigerian cinema, artistic Persian films, world literature, nature rambles and even perhaps, a riveting detective drama re-run wound around one or the other of Britain’s famous fictitious sleuths….a storytelling form I have adored from childhood. Here, I am just touching the tip of the iceberg.

It is the pursuit of long years of  travel that has employed itself as my best organiser.  I am persuaded by how I conduct my own physical journeys, to now structure my beloved subjects into a swift, neat framework in my mind. When I travel, I think fast on my feet. I travel alone,  am accountable and also responsible for everything that surrounds my person, my luggage and my credibility as a passenger. This, to be silently  observed by foreign customs, immigration and security officials. While I am  somewhat untidy with my paraphernalia in real life, I sincerely have formed for myself a very tidy mind.

It is with this inclination that I desire to use in future postings, Orhan Pamuk’s Other Colours as a valuable guide to my writing refelctions…or rather, what I am now engaged in…the hearty writing of a novel.  I own a splendid hardback that details Pamuk’s writings on life, art, books and cities.  It’s aptly titled Other Colours: Essays and a Story. The short story is named To Look out the Window. You can easily find many good reviews of this work of non-fiction scattered about on the web. Below, I have placed two pieces under Further Reading.

I connect so closely in spirit to Pamuk’s essays and in this case, am drawn to the high romanticism that forms for the extravagant flavour of the Nobel Prize winner’s introspective writing journey. I confess to a splendid time devouring his latest translated work not too long ago, titled The Naive and the Sentimental Novelist.  Here his own inspections of what theories made for the shaping of the Novel, the reading and the summing up of each book’s technical aptitude, influenced me successfully to a deeper inspection  of my perceived perspectives towards literature in general. What proved thrilling for me was of Pamuk’s affectionate probing into life’s insights and the prism of environments that appeared to colour and lead his daily journeys as he busied himself sketching tales.

I came away feeling regaled and without hesitation, celebrated my own life where everywhere I turned, books continued to spiral up my destiny in the way that  the hungry high stacks may have been concerned with chasing a distant star.  Surely, I can do no harm with Pamuk as the invisible teacher and I, the apprentice to a renewed writing craft. There has been so much soul-searching within me of late especially with time snatched off from virtual networking in the last years. While this pastime had once proved intoxicating and addictive and now feeling far more sober with the rudimentaries of life, I don’t think I gained anything worthwhile at all, with the exception that a few kind souls bought my little poetry book. However, these trivial successes did not measure well with the actual time I spent on say, Facebook when I could have been accomplishing so much more. From hindsight, I see it as monumental time lost.  I wish I could be wrong but I have run some past episodes so many times in my head, that I sadly doubt it.  However, more of this later.

I thought that with future posts on Writing Reflections,  I would enter a deeper personal analysis, as regards the subjects that Pamuk essays so simply, in Other Colours. I am struck by the notion of how I would love to dissect such an intriguing work – little by a little – almost as if it were a classroom syllabus and that here were lessons that would require a singular mastery on my part.

Some of the striking subjects explored range from from the fear of death and how writing may erode such an anxiety, the observations of nature – and one of my own favourite birds – the seagull is mentioned where  its movement and actions may signal a series of reflections on living the life, the joys that literature may bring to a writer, the importance of time and rule, the value of cultural heritage, supression and the freedom of the writer, travel and expeditions, the books a writer may have chosen to read once before and the different impact that the same book may sought to herald for that startled writer, many years later.

Perhaps, I won’t always agree with Orhan Pamuk. I am after all, my own individual. I sculpture secluded explorations. The happy contents of my  library have been hand-picked by myself over the seasons and today, holds a vault of exclusive, personal memories that only I am able to comprehend. My experiences in life were terribly different after all.  Yet, the saving grace is that I seem to understand Pamuk’s everyday observations without question. Plus, I look forward to being taught on how to perceive my artistic pleasures observing each one’s every embellishment, that must so surely distinguish my own art without realisation on my part.

What excites me is having Pamuk on board as my invisible teacher but whose voice I continue to hear with rich depth and clarity. The apprentice in me that still seeks to learn her art in a new way and to probe a distinct odyssey into the writing of her own novel, where once the book is finished…there may have not been one but two. A manuscript for the publisher and another secret one, detailing what may otherwise have been a lost slice of life, both in her head and open heart. – susan abraham

Further Reading:

To know more about Nobel Prize Winner Orhan Pamuk’s work of Non-Fiction in Other Colours: Essays and a Story – Translated by Maureen Freely, do read

The New York Times &
Random House.

Writing Reflections 1 – This and That

12 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment

by Sausan Reads in Writing Reflections

Dear Readers,

I hadn’t realised the  congenial number of Malaysian readers, who happened upon my few recent posts. Had I known, I would have written more. This is a new blog that somehow miraculously squeezes its way into my already heavily-occupied time.  I am presently in Dublin, the Republic of Ireland and this places me  seven hours, behind regions in The Far East.

I am writing a novel on my Malaysian childhood at present -  a personalised account – dealing only with a certain segment of society. As you know, Malaysia shells exciting cultural complexities. This was actually evident decades ago even while cynics preferred to nag at what they perceived to be the dominating influence of British rule, rather than to seek the overshadowed but vibrant and  thriving communities, already present.

My personal leaning at the moment for the novel  is towards a traditional publishing format in England. I don’t know at all if this will succeed – it does literally feel like swimming into an ocean of sharks, doesn’t it – but I do thankfully, possess a remainder of leftover confidence. I feel a spiritual call to this novel on my childhood so my world currently unfolds in layered peels and there is so much food for thought attributed to the broader realm of memory and introspection.

Be back shortly.

Photo credit: Free picture of typewriter in room, courtesy of FreePik.com