Funny

It's funny how when I was writing MM, the most difficult thing for me was to be funny. "I'm not that funny." I would think to myself. Then I would write a line or two and find it funny, but when I showed it to other people, they would say, "That's not funny." Fortunately, the reviews have called it "sarky" - a brit colloquialism for sarcastic - which at least, relates to humor. So that's a good thing. Even then I knew if I was struggling so hard to be funny, it wouldn't be. I felt like a very bad stand-up comic.

Interestingly, for project 2, funny is not a problem. This protagonist is funny all by herself. She has funny thoughts and says funny things and she makes me laugh all the time. Even in my sleep. She is like the gals I worked for in advertising. They kept me in stitches. Things they said years ago still have me brimming with mirth. And this girl, this heroine, she is like them, and more.

As it is...all these scenes are unfolding and I am constantly reminding myself to keep note of them. Keep catching them. Add them to the list.

In MM, I thought too much. In fact, I over-thought. The result was the heroine was positively annoying in neurotic introspection.
Thankfully, this chick is a breeze. She's laughs at herself and I as a writer laugh with her. I hope she wins out. I hope she stays this way, especially once we start getting on the page.

It would be great to laugh my way through the writing of this book. It's certainly looking that way.

Too long

It's been too long since I've blogged. FB does that to you I guess. But lately, I've been needing the warm-ups as a prelude to the writing I want to do - this as opposed to the writing I have to do. Either way, I need the warm-up. Stretching those muscles - stretching any muscles - is a good thing.

Woody Allen said that the hardest thing about writing is the thinking of it, and I'm starting to agree with him. The funny thing is that I've been doing the thinking of two projects for almost six months now, all the while doing all the things I'm supposed to do. Being a wife. Being a mother. Raising a daughter and a son. Building a house. Keeping a house. Writing to help out. Writing to earn a bit of money. Organizing health issues for the parents and children. Getting a dog. Raising a dog. Keeping healthy. Trying to run. Getting fit. Worrying about the future. Trying not to worry about the future.

All the while, the thinking of it is taking place. It is exciting, but it raises the question, at what point is the thinking enough and when can the writing begin?

The interesting thing is multiplicity of distractions. There is another novel with chicklit tendencies lurking in there. There is also a novel of a more serious, dare I say, literary vein. There is also a children's story as well as a short novel for young adults. And the other day, there was even a musical.

It's important to focus, but I persist in the notion that out of the chaos will come order, and in this multitasking world, it is possible to have a few pots on the stove, a few buns in the oven. The wealth of creative ideas is something to be thankful for. It is a positive.

But clearly, it also means that much of it needs to be sorted out. Ergo the resurrection of this blog that has been dormant for almost six months.

It is active again.

Running with novel ideas

Very constantly, even in the midst of everything that's been keeping me busy, I've been thinking about my next novel. The next one and the one after that. There's the one that has been at chapter five since 2005. There's the one that's actually currently a novelistic short story that's never been published. Whenever I have a spare moment, I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about what is going to happen in the novel, once I actually sit down to it. And then I think I really need to figure it out before I sit down to it.

And this is why I've been looking forward to my runs in the morning. It's also why I don't run with an ipod or any sort of music stimulant. I use my running to think my through my fiction. That's what I think about when I run. It's true that sometimes, the thinking slows my pace, but the running never slows the thinking. In fact, it stimulates it.

Today, I completed my first 15K run. My time wasn't great; at 2 hours and 20 minutes, you might even call it slow. But I never slowed down as to actually walk throughout the entire thing, which is a good thing.

But the best thing? I know now how my second novel, my first real novel will start, how it will progress and even how it will end.
That's more than just good. It's fantastic.

And It all came together in my mind at the pace of my running feet.

Sage advice to C from K, a sister to a brother

"Here's how it works. The best friendships are when the friends are both leaders. They decide what they are going to do together. They have their own opinions. There are friendships where there is a leader and there is a follower. Sometimes, there are many followers. And they don't care what they do as long as they follow their leader.

The trick to friendship is to be a leader."

Would that I knew this so well and so eloquently at age eleven.

What happened to March

March didn't march.

It sprinted with wings on its heels. March was a blink of an eye, and jam-packed to the seams. It was as though I took in a deep breath, and when I let it out, it was April. Chalk it up to circumstances making it necessary to learn all I could about prostate cancer and the various treatments of it, as well as the fine differences between a prostate laparoscopy and a robotic prostatectomy - are you sufficiently impressed? To top it off, the kids were on a two week Easter break that flew by sans actual mini-breaks outside of Singapore. In lieu of time outside the city state, we went and got a beagle puppy named Gameboy, an experience which is not unlike having another infant in the house - although a whole lot smellier. The highlights of March? My father's successful surgery, a three-week visit for the kids from the grandparents and one aunt, a two-day Kundalini yoga workshop with Maya Fiennes, and reading not one but two royally good novels by the historian Alison Weir. In the meantime, Easter has come and gone in a blip. Unfortunately, because all of that took place, I've been two weeks off the running, and have a 15K race to prepare for in mid-may. Help!!

What's more, it took three attempts to even put this post together, despite it starting off on April 2, the date shown here. Today is April 13. Gah....

Wahe guru, wahe guru, wahe guru, wahe jio!

Unexpected Gifts

Life is going on the way it does. Work. Kids. Projects. Family. Life. It's up and downing, and sometimes, these days anyway, it seems like there's a bit more downing than upping. But thank goodness, I keep lucking into things to feel grateful for and happy about, even in the shadows that have been cast. There are small seemingly accidental but infinitely precious gifts that have been sprinkled in good measure into my everyday. Here are just a few that are currently top of mind to my mind, in no particular order.

I am grateful and happy about...

...the children growing up a little. Some parents tend to get emotional when their children make a milestone - oh no, he's growing up, it's all going too fast. I'm not like that. And when it comes to C, any time I see even a little bit of growing up, I want to sing out loud. C is waking up easily - there are no more fights in the morning. I no longer need to wrestle him out of bed. When I come back from my walk, he's sitting at the breakfast table, ready to go. Oh we still have our moments. But for these mornings of peace and loving goodwill, I am almost tearfully grateful.

...discovering Kundalini yoga. It is refreshing and soul connecting and just a wonderful release. I highly recommend it.

...a new writing project to be shared with T. Once there were two writers who fell in love in the day to day of working together. Then, although they came together, they began doing their own separate, different things. Well, now, they have been given an exciting opportunity to collaborate together and create something that is, hopefully, worthwhile. Whatever happens, I am certain it will be good fun and only the beginning of more.

...the blossoms on the trees. Due to its climate, spring in the conventional sense does not really come to Singapore. But somewhere in the second or third week of February, a springing of a kind does take place. The trees, in seemingly mad joy, flower. On my mornings out, my heart lifts at the sight of rosy pinks and creamy whites, warm orange corollas, yellow petals and crimson blooms. They're dusted all over the tops of trees and thick beneath, along every branch, overflowing enough to cascade onto the pavement beneath my running feet. And as I pass, striding across a carpet of these brightly colored blossoms, I feel a lilt of happiness. I am distracted for more than moments from whatever it is I'm mulling over, and I am moved to thank the good Lord for the majesty and the eloquence of his poetry that needs no words.

A boy of 10

I just realized that C was born in the first hour of February 8, 10 years ago. I was an old hand at labor then. I knew what to expect. The contractions came, dull aches but surprisingly regular after dinner, around seven. I told T, we have time. We put in a movie with Julia Roberts and Susan Sarandon and Ed Harris. I took a shower and used the toilet, determined not to have to "go" in the hospital. At 11pm, I said, "Let's go." And we drove to Cardinal Santos Hospital.

At the hospital, people greeted me - remembering me from the year before. "Pamangkin ni Dr. A."
In the lamaze room, CNN was playing. I settled on the bed to watch. My Uncle and my obstetrician showed up.
"Everything ok?" he asked.

"Everything's great."

Feeling a little bit uncomfortable, I stood to walk around, all the while watching the TV. On my second stroll around the room, my water bag broke with a little click followed by a whoosh of hot fluid all over my legs. And then I felt C bearing down.

"Ok, let's get ready,'' my uncle said. "Tell me when you want to push, and I'll..."

"Tito, I want to push now!" I said, hoisting myself back on the lamaze bed.

And in practically no time, C was out in blub blub blubbidy blup...

By one am, we were back in the room and I was nursing him...and absolutely ravenous.

We ordered pizza.

Sometimes you just don't know what to say

C has always been interested in Jose Rizal. He has a Jose Rizal T-shirt. He did a report on Jose Rizal for his third grade teacher. He is constantly asking us whether we are "related" to Jose Rizal. Or whether his Lolo "knew" Jose Rizal. It must be some kind of hero worship.

Last Friday, I picked him up from Tae Kwon Do, and he says,

"Mommy, Jose Rizal was called Pepe, right?"

"Right. That was his nickname."

"Why?"

"Because Pepe is short for Jose."

"I think," My son says, "I want you to call me Pepe."

"Really? Not Chewie? Not Choochie? Not Coby Wan Kenobi?"

"No, I want to be called what Joes Rizal was called..."

[beat]

"...except..." he continues after some thought.

"Except what?"

"Except pepe means vagina in Tagalog, right?"

[beat]

"Well, kinda."

"Why did Jose Rizal want to be called vagina?"

"I don't think he did."

[beat]

"On second thought, I don't think I want to be called Pepe."

And just like that...

...S is gone.

Peacefully in her sleep. After a week of letting her best friend and her husband post four blog entries. In the end, it was not the cancer in her brain. It was not even the cancer in her liver. It was the cancer in her lungs. That made it difficult to for her to breathe. And till the last, she kept on breathing...slowly...and then more slowly. Until she could not.

I guess I expected something to happen. I know I hoped and prayed for it.

On the other hand, her blog is very well-paced, as a result. Oh I know she had more to say. She always had a lot to say. And if she was quiet for awhile, most people knew it wouldn't be for long. How I wish she had been able to say more.

Now, all I hope and pray is that as right as she believed herself to be, I pray she was wrong...and that she is now, happy and rested and healthy, eating her words, and watching over her kids the way only a mom can. I pray that in those few days when she was unable to speak, unable to blog, when it took all her strength just to take in four breaths a minute, that He was speaking to her, and holding her in gentle, accepting, reassuring embrace.

Eleven years ago

I had wanted a boy. Everyone wants a boy first off. I was no different. Add to the fact that I'm not a particularly girly-girl girl, and would not really enjoy "dressing up" a baby like a Barbie doll. But even while the little K turned somersaults within my womb, I had an inexplicable feeling of certainty that this baby was a little girl. And I loved her tremendously from her first little squirmings. And we had already agreed. We would name her after the Hepburns. Katharine for her strength, her intelligence, her unique and memorable beauty and talent. Audrey for her elegance, her kindness, and all that she is. And we already knew, we would call her Kaylee

The first contractions were too easy, I thought. Almost too easy. Just a dull ache. But there was no mistaking their regularity. She was coming, that was for sure. But she was going to take her time and do it her way. At nine thirty in the evening on the 21st of January, I said to T, "We should go to the hospital, because the contractions are coming every thirty minutes."

T looked at me. I was standing. I had my bag. I had brushed my hair and powdered my nose. I was calm. I did not look like a woman about to give birth.

"Are you in pain?"

"Not really. But the contractions come every thirty minutes. We should go."

When we got to the hospital, they said I was just 3cm dilated. And on it went, all night long. Until the very next day, till close to midday. Now that I think about it, it is just like Kaylee to take her time.

When she finally came out, little K was wailing. But T spoke to her gently, "Hi Kaylee, don't cry!"

And she stopped, and turned in the direction of her voice. It was amazing.

It hardly seems possible that today she is eleven. She is practically a young lady - smart and articulate and with a flair for the dramatic. Affectionate and sensitive and unerringly aware in an almost adult way of the things that she has to do, while still holding fast to the things she wants to do, making her plans and airing her views. She wants to be an architect. She wants to be a writer. It is amazing to me that once upon a time, not too long ago, we cuddled her and she pointed out noses and eyes and sang the last words of verses in songs. We called her Kaylee Baba, Kaylee Boom Boom and Kaylee Cakes.

Today, we call her Katharine or Kitkat or simply Kaylee.

Today I am a a big bar of dark chocolate.

Last night, I said, "How can you be eleven? You're not allowed to be eleven."

"Oh Mommy," she said.

Slipping through my fingers all the time.

Here we are

A new year.

I'm reminded of that Peanuts strip where Lucy Van Pelt says words to the effect of...
"There's something funny about this year. This year feels a little bit like last year - this is a used year! We're being ripped off!!"

This new year doesn't feel used though. In fact, it feels quite different from last year, which was fleet on its feet. This year seems like it's going at its own pace.

Which is good.