Just thoughts

Yesterday, a novel I had written, completed and stowed away came back to look for me, to call me.
I really was going to abandon it. I wrote it on the last leg of my stay in England - when the horrific affair of the stalking had lessened and the rest of it, I finished in Malaysia. Then I experimented with different stories, got completely mixed-up with my versatality and forgot all about it.
But yesterday when I was filled with melancholy, I thought once more of this serious piece of literary fiction where I had boldly experimented with some form of nudity and subtle eroticism but it was still serious literary fiction.
It came back to haunt and call me. And I realised that I missed it like a deep heartache.
I mean, just imagine an Asian writer writing a story like this to start with. Picture the consternation that I would face if it ever got published. Still, unlike my many fellow-writers, a multi-cultural identity complete with folklore and other emigration issues appear to be the last thing on my mind.
I really thought nobody would look twice at it, publish it, read it, buy it etc. I am often my own worst enemy.
But I thought all day of my female protaganist. She has a similiar disconcerting disturbing madness as what you've read on my other fiction-posts.
Suddenly, I missed her like anything. She became my best friend. It's my first real manuscript. I realised I really cared about this character, June, named after the month I was born. That when I wrote her story, there was some kind of surreal light around me that moved away from bad times into a haloed sparkle
It was all still there, the magic, the essence and the innocence.
I didn't cringe at all,
Of course, all my blog exercises have made my writing a lot crisper, sharper and shrewder.
But nothing that cannot be remedied.
I can still capture it as an obsessive memory. Don't know. Don't know. So many things. I could do. I could try.
I have been thinking of June all day. She is my solid creation after all and no one can take her away.


This is one of the milder versions:

It was to be one of our last times together. But you kept your secret well.

Where are your arms now, Simon? Where is my trampoline quilted with kisses,

and embrace? Were you not my divine one? My ruling prince of bliss with

sacred jewels to seal a vow of faithfulness. The gentleman who took me on imaginary

pursuits for a dance in the stars and to tea with the queen. I thought we would always

be an integral part of each other but when you left on that cold, December day, you

took away the dance of my skin and tore at the swing of its youth.

When then, did I not think of a sinking ship swaying on its last hinges; a woman

drunk on wine and Dutch courage?

But my fleeting sorrow had failed to signal a thunderclap and undo a cloudburst

of tears; my heart to catch its flood.

I remember still, sitting in a dignified fashion at the Harrod tearooms in London, with an Asian author friend who had been well and truly published on the fiction mythology platform. She was a darling. I loved her. She was my friend.
I had taken my careless drafts to show her.
"My God, you can't send this out, Susan." Standard is high yes, but all this gushing and rambling. I fear June may be seen as a brazen hussy, a vixen...a prostitute even. No one will take you seriously."

"Rubbish," I had concluded happily and bit into my scone with a grin.