My Favourite Writer... or How I Rediscovered The Joy of Reading and Writing

I use to read tons of books, at most, twice a week. So most stories had become a bore; the charaters stereotyped, the plot predictable and the lengthy narrative tedious and laborous to read. Of late, I would pick up a book, read a couple of pages, lose interest and put it down again. It didn’t matter if the story builds up to a fulfilling climax eventually. If I wasn’t hooked by Page 3, I wasn’t interested. I have too many things to do these days to invest my time in reading fiction, even if they were critically acclaimed.
I thought I’d given up on books – until I discovered Sophie Kinsella’s ‘Confessions of a Shopaholic’. With that book, I was hooked from the first scene! It was possibly the first time I read a book written entirely in the present tense. Perhaps that was the novely factor. On the other hand, it was also the funniest book I have ever read and the most captivating. I laughed uncontrollably at almost every page, and kept turning the pages until I had spent an entire weekend reading it non-stop (save for breaks for food and sleep).
Sophie, I believe, hit jackpot with that book. She applied that phrase ‘that which is most personal, is probably most general’ to great effect, creating situations one could relate to, with continuous self-depreciating humour. Her descriptions were bare compared to most fiction writers, but focused on important details and left the rest to the imagination. This keeps the distraction level to a minimum (and anyway, how many ways can you describe eye colour before you get sick reading the same line year after year) and sucks the reader in completely with the characters, rather than kept them as outsiders peering in as an author would if he/she focused too much on descriptive narrative.
Simply put, I was completely bowled over.
Ask me a decade ago who my favourite author is and my answer would have been the likes of Enid Blyton, Jack London (Call of the Wild), William Shakespeare (what was I thinking?!) , Ken Folllet (Eye of the Needle) and Clive Cussler (yeah, of the Dirk Pitt series) but today it’s undoubtedly Sophie Kinsella. Yes, it’s ‘chick lit’; hardly the stuff of literary masterpiece and yes, she only ever wrote one book that was great but hey, sometimes genuis comes in a flash.
If I can captivate audience the way she can, create characters people can fall in love with, inject a healthy dose of humour or thrilling suspense to the plot and make reading fun for many people, I would be one happy camper! ☺

Last Weekend

The howling rain slowed suddenly outside to a gentle patter as I sipped my cup of latte. I glanced into the half empty cup, wondering how fast I should finish it. I flicked my eyes to my watch, then back to the large window overlooking the busy road. I briefly scanned each face as they pass. Serious looking strangers eager to go home. Walking resolutely without so much as a look around. I wonder if they know there’s more to life than the work they carry in their briefcase. Than the world in their laptop...

I turned resolutely back to my coffee. The milky shade of mud brown stared back at me, mocking me to finish it.

Fortunately, the door slammed opened and a gust of wind swooshed in to the steady tapping of the rain. Kyle walked in hurriedly, a large, bright smile shining from his face.

“Sorry I was late,” he said gaily.

He shook his hair lightly so that raindrops flew off like beads off a broken string. A few customers turned to stare at him in annoyance but he did not notice. He pulled his jacket closer and thumped down on the seat in front of mine. Then he pulled out an envelope from the inside of his jacket and tossed it triumphantly onto the table.

I did not react.

“Well, here it is,” Kyle said. He leaned forward and pulled out a deck of photographs and a string of film. “This is it, isn’t it?”

I shot a cursory glance at the photos. In many, there were views of large temples with imposing domes and Buddhist monks. Some were of the sun baked beach. In almost all, there were two people in the foreground. Sometimes, there were many people in the background. Tourists and go-go girls, peddlers and tuk-tuk drivers.

Kyle observed me with satisfaction, the smile still plastered on his face.

Noticing my expression, his changed.

“What’s up?” he asked.

I nudged at the photos.

Kyle looked at the photos with more interest.

“What’s this?” he asked

I cast my eyes away. Out to the street with the nameless strangers through the large window.

“The last weekend,” I replied finally.

Kyle’s brow furrowed with puzzlement.

“And who’s this?” he asked and pointed at the second figure in the photos as he closed in for a better look.

I felt my thoughts wandering to a far away land again, my emotions - a strange mixture of numbness and confusion.

“She is my sister.”

I bit my lips.

“She was my sister.”

Nim's Poem

From the blinking lights of KL I came to be,
A little oddball with creative energy,
A writer, a fighter, a dreamer, hard worker,
Of that I’m sure; my future – not sure!
Because my talent a curse and a blessing is,
I’ll take it in my stride with a kiss!



(As six-line poem about myself)

This is me

Hi, this is Nim. This is my creative writing journal for the Creative Writing class I'm taking.