Kafez

Literary

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Location: Dublin, Republic of, Ireland

Saturday 30 December 2006

Resolutions

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Perhaps this coming year would secretly claim its desire to develop me intellectually as a thinking writer. To let my dreams wade out to sea with a bucketful of oysters on its shoulder, and to recreate the prospect of a literary treasure hunt; once nothing but a trounced-up dream.

As such, this dreamy feast would serve as my resolutions:

Something I've always wanted to do is to read the classical Icelandic sagas & with vast texts now available online, I can.

I would like to reflect and study on the basics of philosophy with a deeper intent.

I would also like to return to captivating British classics with a careless abandonement as if they were kindly friends discovered still hiding in my pockets after all this time.

There is so much delightful fiction on blogs. I'd love to give this a go. My first new discovery for 2007 is the delicious prospect of scrolling down
The Chronicles of Seriphyn Knight.

And the usual modern contemporary fiction & poetry. Of course, of course.

That sort of settles my reading.

And my writing. It's all been said before. A stage play, my poetry & a publishing contract.
But...

if I so very very dare to, I could & am contemplating taking up acting classess so that I could perform my own comedy scripts live. I have acted in a couple of plays, courtesy of the Liberal Arts Society that were once staged at the British Council in Kuala Lumpur but did not pursue this interest.

I'm really eager to attempt this as I stay very much the satrist. And I feel, performing comedy or acting in a stage play in the UK or Australia, - where I'm very much at home - would keep me properly rooted to the ground. Oh..but to be so brazen as to do this. At the moment, a pipe dream & a real challenge. But possible.

On the whole, my prayer is simply to say, how good it is to feel alive. It really is.

Labels: ,

Resolutions

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us
Perhaps this coming year would secretly claim its desire to develop me intellectually as a thinking writer. To let my dreams wade out to sea with a bucketful of oysters on its shoulder, and to recreate the prospect of a literary treasure hunt; once nothing but a trounced-up dream.

As such, this dreamy feast would serve as my resolutions:

Something I've always wanted to do is to read the classical Icelandic sagas & with vast texts now available online, I can.

I would like to reflect and study on the basics of philosophy with a deeper intent.

I would also like to return to captivating British classics with a careless abandonement as if they were kindly friends discovered still hiding in my pockets after all this time.

There is so much delightful fiction on blogs. I'd love to give this a go. My first new discovery for 2007 is the delicious prospect of scrolling down
The Chronicles of Seriphyn Knight.

And the usual modern contemporary fiction & poetry. Of course, of course.

That sort of settles my reading.

And my writing. It's all been said before. A stage play, my poetry & a publishing contract.
But...

if I so very very dare to, I could & am contemplating taking up acting classess so that I could perform my own comedy scripts live. I have acted in a couple of plays, courtesy of the Liberal Arts Society that were once staged at the British Council in Kuala Lumpur but did not pursue this interest.

I'm really eager to attempt this as I stay very much the satrist. And I feel, performing comedy or acting in a stage play in the UK or Australia, - where I'm very much at home - would keep me properly rooted to the ground. Oh..but to be so brazen as to do this. At the moment, a pipe dream & a real challenge. But possible.

On the whole, my prayer is simply to say, how good it is to feel alive. It really is.

Labels: ,

Resolutions

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us
Perhaps this coming year would secretly claim its desire to develop me intellectually as a thinking writer. To let my dreams wade out to sea with a bucketful of oysters on its shoulder, and to recreate the prospect of a literary treasure hunt; once nothing but a trounced-up dream.

As such, this dreamy feast would serve as my resolutions:

Something I've always wanted to do is to read the classical Icelandic sagas & with vast texts now available online, I can.

I would like to reflect and study on the basics of philosophy with a deeper intent.

I would also like to return to captivating British classics with a careless abandonement as if they were kindly friends discovered still hiding in my pockets after all this time.

There is so much delightful fiction on blogs. I'd love to give this a go. My first new discovery for 2007 is the delicious prospect of scrolling down
The Chronicles of Seriphyn Knight.

And the usual modern contemporary fiction & poetry. Of course, of course.

That sort of settles my reading.

And my writing. It's all been said before. A stage play, my poetry & a publishing contract.
But...

if I so very very dare to, I could & am contemplating taking up acting classess so that I could perform my own comedy scripts live. I have acted in a couple of plays, courtesy of the Liberal Arts Society that were once staged at the British Council in Kuala Lumpur but did not pursue this interest.

I'm really eager to attempt this as I stay very much the satrist. And I feel, performing comedy or acting in a stage play in the UK or Australia, - where I'm very much at home - would keep me properly rooted to the ground. Oh..but to be so brazen as to do this. At the moment, a pipe dream & a real challenge. But possible.

On the whole, my prayer is simply to say, how good it is to feel alive. It really is.

Labels: ,

For my poetry collection

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us
I thought the phrase Woodstock's Baby would make a good title for my little collection of dark poetry that holds an assortment of disturbing mismatched images but one which also leads me somewhat clumsily back into the light.

And some lines come to mind for an introductory note. Something like:

I am Woodstock's baby
sidling and heaving in the undergrowth
like a woman carefree
in her labour for
tomorrow's saints.... la-la-la & tra-la-la & la-di-da

Look I'm writing again and having fun.

Labels:

For my poetry collection

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us
I thought the phrase Woodstock's Baby would make a good title for my little collection of dark poetry that holds an assortment of disturbing mismatched images but one which also leads me somewhat clumsily back into the light.

And some lines come to mind for an introductory note. Something like:

I am Woodstock's baby
sidling and heaving in the undergrowth
like a woman carefree
in her labour for
tomorrow's saints.... la-la-la & tra-la-la & la-di-da

Look I'm writing again and having fun.

Labels:

For my poetry collection

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us
I thought the phrase Woodstock's Baby would make a good title for my little collection of dark poetry that holds an assortment of disturbing mismatched images but one which also leads me somewhat clumsily back into the light.

And some lines come to mind for an introductory note. Something like:

I am Woodstock's baby
sidling and heaving in the undergrowth
like a woman carefree
in her labour for
tomorrow's saints.... la-la-la & tra-la-la & la-di-da

Look I'm writing again and having fun.

Labels:

Thursday 28 December 2006

I am a Woodstock baby

The internet is very bad where I am.
My own email accounts - I am told because they are UK sites - are worst of all.
Unfortunately, I am one of the unlucky ones. A cable cracked under the sea and I know that the server my laptop was attached to, was badly affected.
I try to read Skint Writer and I keep getting Saaleha.
When I re-enter my own blog, I find myself on BBC online.
Sites take forever to open.
I have read all your comments but am unable this time round, to reply each one individually.
I hope and will try my best to catch up on all your missed posts this Sunday.
However, I have finally (after a long compromised lull because of conflicting personal issues) made the decision to leave Malaysia this end-January. It would herald the start of new beginnings.
So at the moment, I am making plans and trying to get myself organised.
I really want to concentrate on my writing as an artist and to give this complex passion the attention it deserves and I need to be in a conducive environment So I will leave Malaysia to grow as a writer as my personality and philosophies are constantly evolving.
In England and Australia, I don't have these kind of problems that hamper my work.
Besides, I was never good in any kind of a parochial community.
Each day needs to be different for me. I shun routine
At the end of the day, I am simply a child of the universe.
My focus has always been in my dreams and ambitions.
My writings and I have merged together and become one and I feel I have a duty to be protective of my art especially as I am given a second chance to write once more. And also to be protective of my own self-evolvement.
I have decided to leave my entire past behind and just start over - me and my writing journey.
So right now am making plans to travel.
Finish my children's telly script in these next 3 days.
Catch up on all your blog posts this Sunday because you are my friends and I love you.
Carry on writing my stage play even as I make plans to travel.
Get a publishing contract or a theatre contract & also to publish my poetry that says everything about me.
This for practical reasons, once I am abroad.
As soon as I get a professional writing contract for any of the above, i shall open a professional website. Right now, everything's all over the place and also I believe, such a resolution serves my fulfillment as a writer to imbue it with deeper and richer objectives.
Now, it's touch and go, if this post gets up on my blog at all.

I am a Woodstock baby

The internet is very bad where I am.
My own email accounts - I am told because they are UK sites - are worst of all.
Unfortunately, I am one of the unlucky ones. A cable cracked under the sea and I know that the server my laptop was attached to, was badly affected.
I try to read Skint Writer and I keep getting Saaleha.
When I re-enter my own blog, I find myself on BBC online.
Sites take forever to open.
I have read all your comments but am unable this time round, to reply each one individually.
I hope and will try my best to catch up on all your missed posts this Sunday.
However, I have finally (after a long compromised lull because of conflicting personal issues) made the decision to leave Malaysia this end-January. It would herald the start of new beginnings.
So at the moment, I am making plans and trying to get myself organised.
I really want to concentrate on my writing as an artist and to give this complex passion the attention it deserves and I need to be in a conducive environment So I will leave Malaysia to grow as a writer as my personality and philosophies are constantly evolving.
In England and Australia, I don't have these kind of problems that hamper my work.
Besides, I was never good in any kind of a parochial community.
Each day needs to be different for me. I shun routine
At the end of the day, I am simply a child of the universe.
My focus has always been in my dreams and ambitions.
My writings and I have merged together and become one and I feel I have a duty to be protective of my art especially as I am given a second chance to write once more. And also to be protective of my own self-evolvement.
I have decided to leave my entire past behind and just start over - me and my writing journey.
So right now am making plans to travel.
Finish my children's telly script in these next 3 days.
Catch up on all your blog posts this Sunday because you are my friends and I love you.
Carry on writing my stage play even as I make plans to travel.
Get a publishing contract or a theatre contract & also to publish my poetry that says everything about me.
This for practical reasons, once I am abroad.
As soon as I get a professional writing contract for any of the above, i shall open a professional website. Right now, everything's all over the place and also I believe, such a resolution serves my fulfillment as a writer to imbue it with deeper and richer objectives.
Now, it's touch and go, if this post gets up on my blog at all.

I am a Woodstock baby

The internet is very bad where I am.
My own email accounts - I am told because they are UK sites - are worst of all.
Unfortunately, I am one of the unlucky ones. A cable cracked under the sea and I know that the server my laptop was attached to, was badly affected.
I try to read Skint Writer and I keep getting Saaleha.
When I re-enter my own blog, I find myself on BBC online.
Sites take forever to open.
I have read all your comments but am unable this time round, to reply each one individually.
I hope and will try my best to catch up on all your missed posts this Sunday.
However, I have finally (after a long compromised lull because of conflicting personal issues) made the decision to leave Malaysia this end-January. It would herald the start of new beginnings.
So at the moment, I am making plans and trying to get myself organised.
I really want to concentrate on my writing as an artist and to give this complex passion the attention it deserves and I need to be in a conducive environment So I will leave Malaysia to grow as a writer as my personality and philosophies are constantly evolving.
In England and Australia, I don't have these kind of problems that hamper my work.
Besides, I was never good in any kind of a parochial community.
Each day needs to be different for me. I shun routine
At the end of the day, I am simply a child of the universe.
My focus has always been in my dreams and ambitions.
My writings and I have merged together and become one and I feel I have a duty to be protective of my art especially as I am given a second chance to write once more. And also to be protective of my own self-evolvement.
I have decided to leave my entire past behind and just start over - me and my writing journey.
So right now am making plans to travel.
Finish my children's telly script in these next 3 days.
Catch up on all your blog posts this Sunday because you are my friends and I love you.
Carry on writing my stage play even as I make plans to travel.
Get a publishing contract or a theatre contract & also to publish my poetry that says everything about me.
This for practical reasons, once I am abroad.
As soon as I get a professional writing contract for any of the above, i shall open a professional website. Right now, everything's all over the place and also I believe, such a resolution serves my fulfillment as a writer to imbue it with deeper and richer objectives.
Now, it's touch and go, if this post gets up on my blog at all.

Wednesday 27 December 2006

My friends...my friends....

Hello everyone,

I'll think of a post to write later that is a proper Susan Abraham post.
Thank you so much for your seasonal greetings and festive cheer. I've answered you already in the comment box. I so enjoyed reading what you all had to say.

The thing is....
I couldn't get into the internet at all today and the connection's only just come.
Then I see the news that a powerful earthquake rocked Taiwan and disrupted telecommunications & internet facilities all over Asia. Of this, Hong Kong, Malaysia & Singapore were the worst hit.
Normalcy was expected to return only in 3 weeks.
I feel very thankful that I managed to get my internet facility back tonight.
My google email account is in Mandarin and I was wondering what on earth...
now I know.

This is so sad. Why do major calamities tend to threaten Asia before the year ends? 2 years ago, it was the Tsunami.
Let's hope the internet will be here tomorrow for me when I wake up. Tonight, I'm one of the lucky ones. I have to check the earthquake out now.

Please give me time to settle down and catch up on all my visits. Love you.

My friends...my friends....

Hello everyone,

I'll think of a post to write later that is a proper Susan Abraham post.
Thank you so much for your seasonal greetings and festive cheer. I've answered you already in the comment box. I so enjoyed reading what you all had to say.

The thing is....
I couldn't get into the internet at all today and the connection's only just come.
Then I see the news that a powerful earthquake rocked Taiwan and disrupted telecommunications & internet facilities all over Asia. Of this, Hong Kong, Malaysia & Singapore were the worst hit.
Normalcy was expected to return only in 3 weeks.
I feel very thankful that I managed to get my internet facility back tonight.
My google email account is in Mandarin and I was wondering what on earth...
now I know.

This is so sad. Why do major calamities tend to threaten Asia before the year ends? 2 years ago, it was the Tsunami.
Let's hope the internet will be here tomorrow for me when I wake up. Tonight, I'm one of the lucky ones. I have to check the earthquake out now.

Please give me time to settle down and catch up on all my visits. Love you.

My friends...my friends....

Hello everyone,

I'll think of a post to write later that is a proper Susan Abraham post.
Thank you so much for your seasonal greetings and festive cheer. I've answered you already in the comment box. I so enjoyed reading what you all had to say.

The thing is....
I couldn't get into the internet at all today and the connection's only just come.
Then I see the news that a powerful earthquake rocked Taiwan and disrupted telecommunications & internet facilities all over Asia. Of this, Hong Kong, Malaysia & Singapore were the worst hit.
Normalcy was expected to return only in 3 weeks.
I feel very thankful that I managed to get my internet facility back tonight.
My google email account is in Mandarin and I was wondering what on earth...
now I know.

This is so sad. Why do major calamities tend to threaten Asia before the year ends? 2 years ago, it was the Tsunami.
Let's hope the internet will be here tomorrow for me when I wake up. Tonight, I'm one of the lucky ones. I have to check the earthquake out now.

Please give me time to settle down and catch up on all my visits. Love you.

Saturday 23 December 2006


With Christmas perceptions to make of them what I will, there's nothing quite as festive as the spontaneous sackful of reads that pounces on the waiting spirit, with its shimmery shine of tinsel and wine.
A teeny Chistmas discovery for me is Pulitzer Prize winner, the once-industrious short-story writer & novelist Willa Cather who writes on The Burglar's Christmas with a tearful gut. The tale of a prodigal son who unintentionally returns home to rob his own mother in Chicago but ends up buried in her arms near the fireplace, is as heartwarming as The Waltons and with insights that swirl and swell as deep as a ghostly well.

I was dismayed that while having tasted an outstanding success and popularity, Willa Cather would inadverdently be booed by rising Marxist critics who dismissed the romanticism that signified her stories, as fluff.

However, the brave Cather would continue to manage a successful writing career until her death in 1947, when she ordered all her letters burnt.

I was promptly rewarded with 2 arresting writing techniques from her story:

He sank into the depths of the big leather chair with the lions' heads on the arms, where he had sat so often in the days when his feet did not touch the floor and he was half afraid of the grim monsters cut in the polished wood.
(subtle detailing that defines a story's excellence) &

the memory of them was heavy and flat, like cigarette smoke that has been shut in a room all night, like champagne that has been a day opened, a song that has been too often sung, an acute sensation that has been overstrained.
(a wonderful creative ordinance to the use of images)

Yes, Willa Cather taught me a fair bit in her simple Christmas tale.

Labels: ,


With Christmas perceptions to make of them what I will, there's nothing quite as festive as the spontaneous sackful of reads that pounces on the waiting spirit, with its shimmery shine of tinsel and wine.
A teeny Chistmas discovery for me is Pulitzer Prize winner, the once-industrious short-story writer & novelist Willa Cather who writes on The Burglar's Christmas with a tearful gut. The tale of a prodigal son who unintentionally returns home to rob his own mother in Chicago but ends up buried in her arms near the fireplace, is as heartwarming as The Waltons and with insights that swirl and swell as deep as a ghostly well.

I was dismayed that while having tasted an outstanding success and popularity, Willa Cather would inadverdently be booed by rising Marxist critics who dismissed the romanticism that signified her stories, as fluff.

However, the brave Cather would continue to manage a successful writing career until her death in 1947, when she ordered all her letters burnt.

I was promptly rewarded with 2 arresting writing techniques from her story:

He sank into the depths of the big leather chair with the lions' heads on the arms, where he had sat so often in the days when his feet did not touch the floor and he was half afraid of the grim monsters cut in the polished wood.
(subtle detailing that defines a story's excellence) &

the memory of them was heavy and flat, like cigarette smoke that has been shut in a room all night, like champagne that has been a day opened, a song that has been too often sung, an acute sensation that has been overstrained.
(a wonderful creative ordinance to the use of images)

Yes, Willa Cather taught me a fair bit in her simple Christmas tale.

Labels: ,


With Christmas perceptions to make of them what I will, there's nothing quite as festive as the spontaneous sackful of reads that pounces on the waiting spirit, with its shimmery shine of tinsel and wine.
A teeny Chistmas discovery for me is Pulitzer Prize winner, the once-industrious short-story writer & novelist Willa Cather who writes on The Burglar's Christmas with a tearful gut. The tale of a prodigal son who unintentionally returns home to rob his own mother in Chicago but ends up buried in her arms near the fireplace, is as heartwarming as The Waltons and with insights that swirl and swell as deep as a ghostly well.

I was dismayed that while having tasted an outstanding success and popularity, Willa Cather would inadverdently be booed by rising Marxist critics who dismissed the romanticism that signified her stories, as fluff.

However, the brave Cather would continue to manage a successful writing career until her death in 1947, when she ordered all her letters burnt.

I was promptly rewarded with 2 arresting writing techniques from her story:

He sank into the depths of the big leather chair with the lions' heads on the arms, where he had sat so often in the days when his feet did not touch the floor and he was half afraid of the grim monsters cut in the polished wood.
(subtle detailing that defines a story's excellence) &

the memory of them was heavy and flat, like cigarette smoke that has been shut in a room all night, like champagne that has been a day opened, a song that has been too often sung, an acute sensation that has been overstrained.
(a wonderful creative ordinance to the use of images)

Yes, Willa Cather taught me a fair bit in her simple Christmas tale.

Labels: ,

Friday 22 December 2006

How could I forget Jean Rhys


Jean Rhys

Everytime, I am asked to write a meme or remember a favourite book or author, I forget.

Yet yesterday in the fading twilight, when faced with the sharp memoried tide that took me to Wide Sargasso Sea, I remembered everything like a new light born.

Of how an influential novelist, the famously radical Jean Rhys had mercilessly swung my prudish perceptions into a fatal whirlpool with Good Morning, Midnight and other deliciously collected stories.

They would never again be resurrected and I, never again the same.

Herself having led a troubled life with a jailbird for a husband and the grave of her dead baby son for company, the Carribbean novelist would write disturbing bestselling stories of troubled women left to the whims of men for survival and how basking from an inner strength they would graciously weave their way once more out of heartbreak and vulnerability. There would be dignity in adulterous liaisons, dignity in poverty and dignity even in a heart-wrenching sadness.

One of the most philosophical ways in which Rhys's books shaped my personality was that I would learn to shy away from a claustrophobic mindset and a preachy self-righteousness.

That's why perhaps too, you hardly hear me talk about my Christian faith although it would be very easy to. I have learnt to hold my beliefs close to my heart and never to impose them on others and instead, to listen and understand the beliefs of others. And perhaps I am cautious too, about judging too much preferring to live and let live, just embracing humanity for what it is and people for who they are.

There is a reason for everything, isn't it and who is anyone to always know all the answers. Jean Rhys taught me this. Yes, it was she. It was she. And now she finally calls me from where I stand, my own liberal views...a lighthouse on the sand.

Labels: , , , ,

How could I forget Jean Rhys


Jean Rhys

Everytime, I am asked to write a meme or remember a favourite book or author, I forget.

Yet yesterday in the fading twilight, when faced with the sharp memoried tide that took me to Wide Sargasso Sea, I remembered everything like a new light born.

Of how an influential novelist, the famously radical Jean Rhys had mercilessly swung my prudish perceptions into a fatal whirlpool with Good Morning, Midnight and other deliciously collected stories.

They would never again be resurrected and I, never again the same.

Herself having led a troubled life with a jailbird for a husband and the grave of her dead baby son for company, the Carribbean novelist would write disturbing bestselling stories of troubled women left to the whims of men for survival and how basking from an inner strength they would graciously weave their way once more out of heartbreak and vulnerability. There would be dignity in adulterous liaisons, dignity in poverty and dignity even in a heart-wrenching sadness.

One of the most philosophical ways in which Rhys's books shaped my personality was that I would learn to shy away from a claustrophobic mindset and a preachy self-righteousness.

That's why perhaps too, you hardly hear me talk about my Christian faith although it would be very easy to. I have learnt to hold my beliefs close to my heart and never to impose them on others and instead, to listen and understand the beliefs of others. And perhaps I am cautious too, about judging too much preferring to live and let live, just embracing humanity for what it is and people for who they are.

There is a reason for everything, isn't it and who is anyone to always know all the answers. Jean Rhys taught me this. Yes, it was she. It was she. And now she finally calls me from where I stand, my own liberal views...a lighthouse on the sand.

Labels: , , , ,

How could I forget Jean Rhys


Jean Rhys

Everytime, I am asked to write a meme or remember a favourite book or author, I forget.

Yet yesterday in the fading twilight, when faced with the sharp memoried tide that took me to Wide Sargasso Sea, I remembered everything like a new light born.

Of how an influential novelist, the famously radical Jean Rhys had mercilessly swung my prudish perceptions into a fatal whirlpool with Good Morning, Midnight and other deliciously collected stories.

They would never again be resurrected and I, never again the same.

Herself having led a troubled life with a jailbird for a husband and the grave of her dead baby son for company, the Carribbean novelist would write disturbing bestselling stories of troubled women left to the whims of men for survival and how basking from an inner strength they would graciously weave their way once more out of heartbreak and vulnerability. There would be dignity in adulterous liaisons, dignity in poverty and dignity even in a heart-wrenching sadness.

One of the most philosophical ways in which Rhys's books shaped my personality was that I would learn to shy away from a claustrophobic mindset and a preachy self-righteousness.

That's why perhaps too, you hardly hear me talk about my Christian faith although it would be very easy to. I have learnt to hold my beliefs close to my heart and never to impose them on others and instead, to listen and understand the beliefs of others. And perhaps I am cautious too, about judging too much preferring to live and let live, just embracing humanity for what it is and people for who they are.

There is a reason for everything, isn't it and who is anyone to always know all the answers. Jean Rhys taught me this. Yes, it was she. It was she. And now she finally calls me from where I stand, my own liberal views...a lighthouse on the sand.

Labels: , , , ,

Thursday 21 December 2006

I must read Dickens with a slight wilful capriciousness if I can manage it, for the holidays. It's a bit of a ritual with me. The British novelist's tales symbolised by conjecture, riddles and adventure, now merge with hazy visions of Sherlock Holmes chocolate box pictures, sleepy taverns, inns and dirty London streets.

I am mesmerised, enchanted and remember even the classic disgruntled Scrooge with a tender nostalgia.


Next year, I must tackle Charles Dickens and all of his merry pals like Mrs. Elizabeth Gaskell, with the pleas of a lost friend. I want to catch their quaint history for my longing burnished heart.

And now at last, I am in the mood.


Perhaps it was a cultivation for literature from young, English storybooks and the like. Those temperemental Irish nuns in the Convent and also my own friends did not help matters.

My first real schoolfriend was British. Her name was Cherry. She was freckled-faced and blonde. We played skipping ropes and Brownie games a whole year together. Then she would return to England.

Later, when I visited and lived in Australia & Europe, I would be promptly satisfied, the exploration of my dreams not at all distasteful. I must have held on to my childhood desires for the longest time.


I also like thrillers and translated stories of sly French sleuths at this time of year. Please don't ask me why. It's all feels strangely festive and Christmassy.


Now that I have rediscovered myself through writing, know who I am and where I'm going, hopefully, it's a lamplit path for me in 2007. All I ask is to see the road.


As long too, as I repeatedly return to my old love for the English classics, I know I'll be alright.

Labels: ,

I must read Dickens with a slight wilful capriciousness if I can manage it, for the holidays. It's a bit of a ritual with me. The British novelist's tales symbolised by conjecture, riddles and adventure, now merge with hazy visions of Sherlock Holmes chocolate box pictures, sleepy taverns, inns and dirty London streets.

I am mesmerised, enchanted and remember even the classic disgruntled Scrooge with a tender nostalgia.


Next year, I must tackle Charles Dickens and all of his merry pals like Mrs. Elizabeth Gaskell, with the pleas of a lost friend. I want to catch their quaint history for my longing burnished heart.

And now at last, I am in the mood.


Perhaps it was a cultivation for literature from young, English storybooks and the like. Those temperemental Irish nuns in the Convent and also my own friends did not help matters.

My first real schoolfriend was British. Her name was Cherry. She was freckled-faced and blonde. We played skipping ropes and Brownie games a whole year together. Then she would return to England.

Later, when I visited and lived in Australia & Europe, I would be promptly satisfied, the exploration of my dreams not at all distasteful. I must have held on to my childhood desires for the longest time.


I also like thrillers and translated stories of sly French sleuths at this time of year. Please don't ask me why. It's all feels strangely festive and Christmassy.


Now that I have rediscovered myself through writing, know who I am and where I'm going, hopefully, it's a lamplit path for me in 2007. All I ask is to see the road.


As long too, as I repeatedly return to my old love for the English classics, I know I'll be alright.

Labels: ,

I must read Dickens with a slight wilful capriciousness if I can manage it, for the holidays. It's a bit of a ritual with me. The British novelist's tales symbolised by conjecture, riddles and adventure, now merge with hazy visions of Sherlock Holmes chocolate box pictures, sleepy taverns, inns and dirty London streets.

I am mesmerised, enchanted and remember even the classic disgruntled Scrooge with a tender nostalgia.


Next year, I must tackle Charles Dickens and all of his merry pals like Mrs. Elizabeth Gaskell, with the pleas of a lost friend. I want to catch their quaint history for my longing burnished heart.

And now at last, I am in the mood.


Perhaps it was a cultivation for literature from young, English storybooks and the like. Those temperemental Irish nuns in the Convent and also my own friends did not help matters.

My first real schoolfriend was British. Her name was Cherry. She was freckled-faced and blonde. We played skipping ropes and Brownie games a whole year together. Then she would return to England.

Later, when I visited and lived in Australia & Europe, I would be promptly satisfied, the exploration of my dreams not at all distasteful. I must have held on to my childhood desires for the longest time.


I also like thrillers and translated stories of sly French sleuths at this time of year. Please don't ask me why. It's all feels strangely festive and Christmassy.


Now that I have rediscovered myself through writing, know who I am and where I'm going, hopefully, it's a lamplit path for me in 2007. All I ask is to see the road.


As long too, as I repeatedly return to my old love for the English classics, I know I'll be alright.

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For Jeffy

A quick book meme for my friend and fellow-writer, Jefferson Davis.
These are the technicalities:
Grab the book closest to you.
Open to page 123 and go down to the fifth sentence.
Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog.
Name the book and the author.
Tag three people.

I don't know if it's cheating to say, that I've only just finished reading the short story, The Lamplighter by Charles Dickens which felt festive & Christmassy, although it was anything but.
Dickens reminds me of mince pies; I don't know why.

At the moment in my hand is an old little-known book, published in the 1990s by Books etc in the UK and it's called Fiction etc. It's a small handsome book that boasts previews & extracts of new books about to be published the following year in 1994. and those already in print. There were more than an assortment of 20 fairly long stories in all. Contributing authors included Carol Matthau, Carol Shields and Pat Barker who all went on to become bestselling authors.

I am a great lover of fiction serials, extracts and the like...all of which spell a hint of mystery for things to come and weaving tunnels of enchantment along the way, through the writing voices of different authors that lend themselves to a clear air of excitement.

"My questions were answered when I got to work the following morning and found a big bouquet of spring flowers on my desk. I hadn't decided if I actually liked Michael or not, and when I..."

This extract was from the book Waiting To Exhale by Terry McMillan. It captured the hearts of the American people with its debate on African-American relations between men and women. Once published, the novel stayed on the New York bestselling list for months and would be later turned into a film starring Whitney Houston.

Terry McMillan

I would love to tag 3 people but when it's aThursday night here and already so close to Christmas, I don't know if that is wise. So if you're a book lover and would like to be tagged, please let me know in the comment box. Thanks.

Alright,
Katie, & Sara, consider yourselves tagged. I look forward to reading both your meme.

For Jeffy

A quick book meme for my friend and fellow-writer, Jefferson Davis.
These are the technicalities:
Grab the book closest to you.
Open to page 123 and go down to the fifth sentence.
Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog.
Name the book and the author.
Tag three people.

I don't know if it's cheating to say, that I've only just finished reading the short story, The Lamplighter by Charles Dickens which felt festive & Christmassy, although it was anything but.
Dickens reminds me of mince pies; I don't know why.

At the moment in my hand is an old little-known book, published in the 1990s by Books etc in the UK and it's called Fiction etc. It's a small handsome book that boasts previews & extracts of new books about to be published the following year in 1994. and those already in print. There were more than an assortment of 20 fairly long stories in all. Contributing authors included Carol Matthau, Carol Shields and Pat Barker who all went on to become bestselling authors.

I am a great lover of fiction serials, extracts and the like...all of which spell a hint of mystery for things to come and weaving tunnels of enchantment along the way, through the writing voices of different authors that lend themselves to a clear air of excitement.

"My questions were answered when I got to work the following morning and found a big bouquet of spring flowers on my desk. I hadn't decided if I actually liked Michael or not, and when I..."

This extract was from the book Waiting To Exhale by Terry McMillan. It captured the hearts of the American people with its debate on African-American relations between men and women. Once published, the novel stayed on the New York bestselling list for months and would be later turned into a film starring Whitney Houston.

Terry McMillan

I would love to tag 3 people but when it's aThursday night here and already so close to Christmas, I don't know if that is wise. So if you're a book lover and would like to be tagged, please let me know in the comment box. Thanks.

Alright,
Katie, & Sara, consider yourselves tagged. I look forward to reading both your meme.

For Jeffy

A quick book meme for my friend and fellow-writer, Jefferson Davis.
These are the technicalities:
Grab the book closest to you.
Open to page 123 and go down to the fifth sentence.
Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog.
Name the book and the author.
Tag three people.

I don't know if it's cheating to say, that I've only just finished reading the short story, The Lamplighter by Charles Dickens which felt festive & Christmassy, although it was anything but.
Dickens reminds me of mince pies; I don't know why.

At the moment in my hand is an old little-known book, published in the 1990s by Books etc in the UK and it's called Fiction etc. It's a small handsome book that boasts previews & extracts of new books about to be published the following year in 1994. and those already in print. There were more than an assortment of 20 fairly long stories in all. Contributing authors included Carol Matthau, Carol Shields and Pat Barker who all went on to become bestselling authors.

I am a great lover of fiction serials, extracts and the like...all of which spell a hint of mystery for things to come and weaving tunnels of enchantment along the way, through the writing voices of different authors that lend themselves to a clear air of excitement.

"My questions were answered when I got to work the following morning and found a big bouquet of spring flowers on my desk. I hadn't decided if I actually liked Michael or not, and when I..."

This extract was from the book Waiting To Exhale by Terry McMillan. It captured the hearts of the American people with its debate on African-American relations between men and women. Once published, the novel stayed on the New York bestselling list for months and would be later turned into a film starring Whitney Houston.

Terry McMillan

I would love to tag 3 people but when it's aThursday night here and already so close to Christmas, I don't know if that is wise. So if you're a book lover and would like to be tagged, please let me know in the comment box. Thanks.

Alright,
Katie, & Sara, consider yourselves tagged. I look forward to reading both your meme.

Wednesday 20 December 2006

No children's scripts today. I need to recapture my brand of vulgarity!


by Susan Abraham

Here is a slice of sensual whimsy from something much longer that I was writing:

Blanketed by the roundness of breasts and closeted in folded arms, I would curl into a corner and be shaken to life only by a sudden surge of nipple.

Then I would hide behind falling tresses and a red smile lipsticked to perfection. The trick was to bask in orgasms of wellbeing that taunted my desire with both mischief and ease of spirit. Often they waited in a queue, some stunted and quickly extinguished like a broken matchstick while others dragged on my choked breaths with the slow stretch of a cat.

When it was you, I minded neither.
In fact, I would take liberties.

Make me your mismatched saint, I would plead. Bolt your sperm in the storeroom of my body. Here and now at the bottom of my ocean depths, that swish about in angry eddies, hassled by my frequent coming. Your treasure will not escape, not even to make a baby. Tattoo your name in my Siberian bed of red, in this dark reclusive wild. I promise to let no intruder trample on the forbidden. I will cover your initials in a clever place, like a star in a cloud. I will bind my legs so tightly together that no one will see a thing.

Who but you who come into my bed to sit on my pillows and sidle up and down my warm mountain of sheets with brazen fervour. Let us froth up a bang and I shall forever be your lover extraordinaire.

I prayed to be melted down into a delicious mound of butter for a languid spread on your cold, hard toast. ....

Labels: ,

No children's scripts today. I need to recapture my brand of vulgarity!


by Susan Abraham

Here is a slice of sensual whimsy from something much longer that I was writing:

Blanketed by the roundness of breasts and closeted in folded arms, I would curl into a corner and be shaken to life only by a sudden surge of nipple.

Then I would hide behind falling tresses and a red smile lipsticked to perfection. The trick was to bask in orgasms of wellbeing that taunted my desire with both mischief and ease of spirit. Often they waited in a queue, some stunted and quickly extinguished like a broken matchstick while others dragged on my choked breaths with the slow stretch of a cat.

When it was you, I minded neither.
In fact, I would take liberties.

Make me your mismatched saint, I would plead. Bolt your sperm in the storeroom of my body. Here and now at the bottom of my ocean depths, that swish about in angry eddies, hassled by my frequent coming. Your treasure will not escape, not even to make a baby. Tattoo your name in my Siberian bed of red, in this dark reclusive wild. I promise to let no intruder trample on the forbidden. I will cover your initials in a clever place, like a star in a cloud. I will bind my legs so tightly together that no one will see a thing.

Who but you who come into my bed to sit on my pillows and sidle up and down my warm mountain of sheets with brazen fervour. Let us froth up a bang and I shall forever be your lover extraordinaire.

I prayed to be melted down into a delicious mound of butter for a languid spread on your cold, hard toast. ....

Labels: ,

No children's scripts today. I need to recapture my brand of vulgarity!


by Susan Abraham

Here is a slice of sensual whimsy from something much longer that I was writing:

Blanketed by the roundness of breasts and closeted in folded arms, I would curl into a corner and be shaken to life only by a sudden surge of nipple.

Then I would hide behind falling tresses and a red smile lipsticked to perfection. The trick was to bask in orgasms of wellbeing that taunted my desire with both mischief and ease of spirit. Often they waited in a queue, some stunted and quickly extinguished like a broken matchstick while others dragged on my choked breaths with the slow stretch of a cat.

When it was you, I minded neither.
In fact, I would take liberties.

Make me your mismatched saint, I would plead. Bolt your sperm in the storeroom of my body. Here and now at the bottom of my ocean depths, that swish about in angry eddies, hassled by my frequent coming. Your treasure will not escape, not even to make a baby. Tattoo your name in my Siberian bed of red, in this dark reclusive wild. I promise to let no intruder trample on the forbidden. I will cover your initials in a clever place, like a star in a cloud. I will bind my legs so tightly together that no one will see a thing.

Who but you who come into my bed to sit on my pillows and sidle up and down my warm mountain of sheets with brazen fervour. Let us froth up a bang and I shall forever be your lover extraordinaire.

I prayed to be melted down into a delicious mound of butter for a languid spread on your cold, hard toast. ....

Labels: ,

The tv producer has asked me to produce a test script with a December 31 deadline.

Observing my childrens' poems & stories, he said that visualisation stayed my strength. But there's a very BIG 'But' here.
That I needed to apply more visualisation details so that a child pictures images at almost every turn of the eye.
I needed to simplify my still somewhat difficult words by writing English clumsily. I have to master this when writing for children.
He said the safest platform for the telly show was to recall my childhood years as a 9 year old & to stay in that frame of mind while writing my scripts.
Practise he added kindly would eventually make perfect.
Shooting begins in mid-January 2007.
As a freelance writer, I'll miss the studio buzz.

Labels:

The tv producer has asked me to produce a test script with a December 31 deadline.

Observing my childrens' poems & stories, he said that visualisation stayed my strength. But there's a very BIG 'But' here.
That I needed to apply more visualisation details so that a child pictures images at almost every turn of the eye.
I needed to simplify my still somewhat difficult words by writing English clumsily. I have to master this when writing for children.
He said the safest platform for the telly show was to recall my childhood years as a 9 year old & to stay in that frame of mind while writing my scripts.
Practise he added kindly would eventually make perfect.
Shooting begins in mid-January 2007.
As a freelance writer, I'll miss the studio buzz.

Labels:

The tv producer has asked me to produce a test script with a December 31 deadline.

Observing my childrens' poems & stories, he said that visualisation stayed my strength. But there's a very BIG 'But' here.
That I needed to apply more visualisation details so that a child pictures images at almost every turn of the eye.
I needed to simplify my still somewhat difficult words by writing English clumsily. I have to master this when writing for children.
He said the safest platform for the telly show was to recall my childhood years as a 9 year old & to stay in that frame of mind while writing my scripts.
Practise he added kindly would eventually make perfect.
Shooting begins in mid-January 2007.
As a freelance writer, I'll miss the studio buzz.

Labels:

Monday 18 December 2006

I have a dirty mind!






When my good friend, Sara wrote up her meme of a favourite seasonal movie, I thought she meant, favourite sensual movie. That for a hearty spellbound moment until my prudish vision lamely corrected itself.
Writing too many romantic stories, I am.

Last night, this liner flowed into my mind just as I lay my sleepy head down on a fluffy pillow for cottonflake dreams. I leapt out of bed like wildfire and penned it down so as not to lose the line. Getting smarter now.
A Long Kiss
Into the intake of my breath and through the consciousness of yours, I roll about in a swimmer's oasis, cartwheeling somewhere in your slip-sliding tongue. - susan abraham -
Tee-hee!

Labels:

I have a dirty mind!






When my good friend, Sara wrote up her meme of a favourite seasonal movie, I thought she meant, favourite sensual movie. That for a hearty spellbound moment until my prudish vision lamely corrected itself.
Writing too many romantic stories, I am.

Last night, this liner flowed into my mind just as I lay my sleepy head down on a fluffy pillow for cottonflake dreams. I leapt out of bed like wildfire and penned it down so as not to lose the line. Getting smarter now.
A Long Kiss
Into the intake of my breath and through the consciousness of yours, I roll about in a swimmer's oasis, cartwheeling somewhere in your slip-sliding tongue. - susan abraham -
Tee-hee!

Labels:

I have a dirty mind!






When my good friend, Sara wrote up her meme of a favourite seasonal movie, I thought she meant, favourite sensual movie. That for a hearty spellbound moment until my prudish vision lamely corrected itself.
Writing too many romantic stories, I am.

Last night, this liner flowed into my mind just as I lay my sleepy head down on a fluffy pillow for cottonflake dreams. I leapt out of bed like wildfire and penned it down so as not to lose the line. Getting smarter now.
A Long Kiss
Into the intake of my breath and through the consciousness of yours, I roll about in a swimmer's oasis, cartwheeling somewhere in your slip-sliding tongue. - susan abraham -
Tee-hee!

Labels:

Sunday 17 December 2006

No matter what my worries or troubles, I find now, that everytime my fingers tap the keyboard to write or create something, my hands feel like magic.
They move very fast, I forget everything and become completely enveloped with what it is that I'm going to say.
I don't taste any kind of excitement or exhilaration but rather, a total ease of mind and spirit.
I forget that I am bogged down but instead feel like I'm on air.
I just need to get some accomplishments readied after a long hiatus in these last years of not writing anything. So my body feels like machinery but machinery in movement.



How often in fading years a sparkle fails to glisten or be seen
but only for the dust that bullies its way somewhere in between. - susan abraham


The BBC offer I received to help write a children's series for an Asian region has turned out to be a new children's telly show for CBBC. The South Asian country is the starting point but it will be dubbed into different languages and televised in different countries. English is the mainstay.

It's a freelance writing assignment for which I will be given a regular contract and paid in US dollars. Right now, I have to produce a test script before the contract is sent to me. I received helpful guidelines. I can't feel the excitement as yet and am just following all the instructions like I were a robot. My name was referred to the producer but he won't say who.


Labels:

No matter what my worries or troubles, I find now, that everytime my fingers tap the keyboard to write or create something, my hands feel like magic.
They move very fast, I forget everything and become completely enveloped with what it is that I'm going to say.
I don't taste any kind of excitement or exhilaration but rather, a total ease of mind and spirit.
I forget that I am bogged down but instead feel like I'm on air.
I just need to get some accomplishments readied after a long hiatus in these last years of not writing anything. So my body feels like machinery but machinery in movement.



How often in fading years a sparkle fails to glisten or be seen
but only for the dust that bullies its way somewhere in between. - susan abraham


The BBC offer I received to help write a children's series for an Asian region has turned out to be a new children's telly show for CBBC. The South Asian country is the starting point but it will be dubbed into different languages and televised in different countries. English is the mainstay.

It's a freelance writing assignment for which I will be given a regular contract and paid in US dollars. Right now, I have to produce a test script before the contract is sent to me. I received helpful guidelines. I can't feel the excitement as yet and am just following all the instructions like I were a robot. My name was referred to the producer but he won't say who.


Labels:

No matter what my worries or troubles, I find now, that everytime my fingers tap the keyboard to write or create something, my hands feel like magic.
They move very fast, I forget everything and become completely enveloped with what it is that I'm going to say.
I don't taste any kind of excitement or exhilaration but rather, a total ease of mind and spirit.
I forget that I am bogged down but instead feel like I'm on air.
I just need to get some accomplishments readied after a long hiatus in these last years of not writing anything. So my body feels like machinery but machinery in movement.



How often in fading years a sparkle fails to glisten or be seen
but only for the dust that bullies its way somewhere in between. - susan abraham


The BBC offer I received to help write a children's series for an Asian region has turned out to be a new children's telly show for CBBC. The South Asian country is the starting point but it will be dubbed into different languages and televised in different countries. English is the mainstay.

It's a freelance writing assignment for which I will be given a regular contract and paid in US dollars. Right now, I have to produce a test script before the contract is sent to me. I received helpful guidelines. I can't feel the excitement as yet and am just following all the instructions like I were a robot. My name was referred to the producer but he won't say who.


Labels:

Friday 15 December 2006

3rd Skint Writer Competition (2007)

A Skint Writer competition reinvents itself all the time in that special way. From the start, these free writing contests have proved exciting and popular. In my personal view, they end up a classy-do.
This is the third in the series with Short Stories, Poetry and Creative Non-Fiction categories up for grabs for writers to test their talents on an enjoyable platform.
You can't not share the buzz.
Prizes are always super & generous with fair judging ensured.
Closing date is April 30, 2007.
Please click on the link above. It works faster than an Austin Powers's gadget.


Labels:

3rd Skint Writer Competition (2007)

A Skint Writer competition reinvents itself all the time in that special way. From the start, these free writing contests have proved exciting and popular. In my personal view, they end up a classy-do.
This is the third in the series with Short Stories, Poetry and Creative Non-Fiction categories up for grabs for writers to test their talents on an enjoyable platform.
You can't not share the buzz.
Prizes are always super & generous with fair judging ensured.
Closing date is April 30, 2007.
Please click on the link above. It works faster than an Austin Powers's gadget.


Labels:

3rd Skint Writer Competition (2007)

A Skint Writer competition reinvents itself all the time in that special way. From the start, these free writing contests have proved exciting and popular. In my personal view, they end up a classy-do.
This is the third in the series with Short Stories, Poetry and Creative Non-Fiction categories up for grabs for writers to test their talents on an enjoyable platform.
You can't not share the buzz.
Prizes are always super & generous with fair judging ensured.
Closing date is April 30, 2007.
Please click on the link above. It works faster than an Austin Powers's gadget.


Labels:

Thursday 14 December 2006

Verillion's 50-word fiction challenge & Susan Hill's 2007 virtual book festival


Verillion of A Wanderer in Paris spearheads a 50-word fiction challenge (to pen a supertight tale) which will be subsequently posted on the blog. It's a ticklish affair and one has fun with the imagination.
To enter:
click here.

Bestselling British novelist Susan Hill organises a virtual book festival for a slushy February 2007. It's an outstanding novel idea if I may be excused for the pun. Book talks and panel discussions abound. Help her choose writers you would like to meet on this tour. Dead or alive, it doesn't matter. If you get the picture...
To view her blog posting,
please click here.


Go darlings.
Straighten your collar.
Brush that dust off your shoulder,
Add lipstick,
Look sharpish!
There, there...

Labels:

Verillion's 50-word fiction challenge & Susan Hill's 2007 virtual book festival


Verillion of A Wanderer in Paris spearheads a 50-word fiction challenge (to pen a supertight tale) which will be subsequently posted on the blog. It's a ticklish affair and one has fun with the imagination.
To enter:
click here.

Bestselling British novelist Susan Hill organises a virtual book festival for a slushy February 2007. It's an outstanding novel idea if I may be excused for the pun. Book talks and panel discussions abound. Help her choose writers you would like to meet on this tour. Dead or alive, it doesn't matter. If you get the picture...
To view her blog posting,
please click here.


Go darlings.
Straighten your collar.
Brush that dust off your shoulder,
Add lipstick,
Look sharpish!
There, there...

Labels: