I can't believe that I am writing and writing happily at that, in Ireland of all places. What fun! How precious, the fluency and accents of the English Language, spoken to me from babyhood and so exquisite a gift, it has promised never to leave me. I yearn to endear myself to its sophistication. I still feel I haven't yet walked the road to any hint of a deft mastery. All the time, I soak delicately like a fragile flower, in the poignancy of its classical beauty. Am I required to mould myself after the superficial stance of a legendary writer? No, I just need to be myself. Do I feel constrained and limited by writing in English at all? No, as a matter of fact, I feel wonderfully liberated. The language has helped me come into my own truths with trust and gladness.
But then I am blessed considering that I have never been parochial in my outlook of life. That alone helped me be the hedonistic traveller. My visions as an Asian or Malaysian writer, have never been myopic. Certainly, I would know of prejudices...the frowns of scoffers and the many asian writers who scorn the West, that is simply part of a global village. Hopefully, I may have been saved from such a curse when you think that I have accepted all of unhurried loves that have shrouded me from childhood, gently and gladly.