Tag: Story

Posted on in The Midnight Temple

Creating a writing timeline

Today is one of those rare days where I have finished work early. The winter sky is still bright but gloomy, there’s a cup of hot drink in my hand and I have about 6 hours left of the day.

I’ve decided to draw up a schedule for the second draft of my book. I know that when I have no pressure and deadline for a project, I could work on it for hours and hours without progressing anywhere.

When I wrote the first draft for this soon-to-be book, I was able to finish it in eight weeks, because I told myself I was going to enter it into a writing competition, which I did.

Now that I have no looming deadline in place, my writing has slowed down. There is less of a frantic rush towards the finish line and when it comes to contemplating whether to watch TV or write, TV always wins.

I got a little kick in the butt over the weekend for my complacency when I realised that someone important to me didn’t believe that I could finish writing a book. It brought me back to those old days when I was called out for being naive and dumb for no particular reason. Not a pleasant feeling.

Anyway, I don’t like dwelling over unproductive thoughts like those, so the only thing I can do is put my head down and keep at it.

What I’ve learnt from writing the first draft is it’s important to map out the key stages in the writing process and set a deadline for each stage. That way I know what I am working towards and can see if I am making any progress.

Here is a rough outline of my writing schedule for the second draft of my soon-to-be book.

Writing timeline for second draft (Rough draft)

  • Complete rewritten outline: July 15
  • Complete ending: July 30
  • Complete events leading up to ending: August 15
  • Complete climax: August 30
  • Complete hook: September 15

Within each of these stages, there are roughly 3 chapters that I need to rewrite, (so twelve chapters in total). I’m currently plotting them out in a calendar, so will have that ready by tomorrow.

Posted on in Blog

There is no war in love

I’ve been thinking of home lately. Not my parent’s home here in New Zealand, but the old one, my first home back in China, and even the one before then; the home my grandparents first lived in.

Taking me back to their home gives me a sense of pride in the midst of all my failures.

Lately, my senses have been dulled and worn down by the pain of heartbreak, by the shame of self-pity, and the doom of seeing no way out.

But when I think back to where we came from, I am reminded of the strength that existed before my time and which will always be a part of me.

My grandfather saw his neighbour gunned down next to him.

Waking up in a world full of uncertain tomorrows made life more sweet and precious. There on the sidewalk, with the blood of his neighbour’s son, uncertainty crafted his strength.

As the oldest, he raised his sisters from the poor to the strong. He was a strict man, a gentle man, and a practical man. He wouldn’t have spent his waking hours wallowing in self-pity. One hour of pity meant one less day of food.

He knew the difference between love and war.

War was hunger, getting shot at and families parting.

Love was in my grandmother. Taking care of her, looking after her, giving her a better life.

He did not see war in love, even after my grandmother had a stroke that forced him to give up his love of travel.

He cried when he had to give it up. But he cried harder when he almost lost my grandmother.

He was strong in this kind of way. Strong enough to know what was truly important.

Yes, he is still alive. Still, after all these years, there is a twinkle in the corner of his eyes, a gift from the universe for his unwavering optimism. That is the only thing I have inherited, his twinkle.

A few months ago, my mum told me that the twinkle in my eye had gone. How sad that made me feel, to have lost the one thing that connects me to my grandfather’s strength.

But what existed before will always be there. Although faded, weary and momentarily hidden from sight, a little spark, a little patience, will ignite it once again.

Posted on in Blog

There is no straight path out of a broken heart

I thought that sadness was something linear, like the passage of time. That it would decrease as the weeks went by and I would feel better each day.

I thought sadness looked something like this:

Sadness graph - A linear line showing how sadness decreases over time

But the more I got to know sadness, the more it looked like this:

Sadness graph - a spiky graph that shows sadness zigzags up and down

A zigzaggy shape, with spikes that go up and down.

Sometimes the sadness builds up to extreme anger, then dies down again. Like a broken heartbeat.

It’s strange to think that time heals everything when time and sadness don’t move in the same direction.

Time moves forward. Sadness moves up and down.

Time wants me to get up, go to work, eat lunch, catch the bus.

Sadness wants me to stop.

Time says it won’t wait for me.

Sadness wants me to go to his house, knock on his door and beg for an apology.

Time says I don’t have time for that.

Sadness wants to go back in time.

Time knows it can’t go back.

Sadness argues that he still cares.

Time proves that he doesn’t.

Sadness lives in fantasy.

Time lives in reality.

Time forces me to do the things I don’t want to do.

Perhaps that’s why they say time heals everything.

It’s a force against my bad judgment. It’s the pull of linear events that interrupts this rumination.

It’s the moon to my tide.

Before today, it terrified me to find that there was no straight path out of a broken heart. The way out was fraught with thorns and fallen branches. One step forward opened fresh wounds. One misstep took me to a dark place. In the midst of all the pain, the path left behind, became deceitfully safer than the path forward.

As I was contemplating which path to take, time showed up and whispered to me:

Hope is in the future, pain is in the past.

So fixing on the road ahead, I took one step forward and saw a faint light.

It is not much, but it is where I am, in my journey out of heartbreak.

Posted on in Blog

Is it more than just a story?

I fell in love with a story once and no story after that has measured up. It’s not a story that’s recognised for its impeccable writing, in fact, some people think it’s too simple. A lot of adults who once loved the story as a child, have said that there are too many gaps and time jumps in the plot.

Before reading this story, I thought I loved all stories. I thought stories were read for the words on the page, and not for the lasting impact they had on me.

Is it embarassing to say that after reading that story, I looked everywhere for a resemblance of it in real life?

Maybe that story has changed the way I see and think about myself. Had I not read that book, would I still have as much conviction to reach my dreams? Would I know how real friendships were supposed to feel and how true love felt? And how vitally important it is to stay true to myself?

I have rejected things and people who didn’t align with what I believed in. It can be so confusing sometimes, especially when the stakes are higher.

By now, you’re probably wondering what that story is. But if I were to tell you, you’d crinkle up your nose and agree that it’s just an average story, and not give a single thought to it any longer. So I won’t tell you what that story is.

Instead, I think everybody should go out there and find a story like that for themselves. Not a story that critics claim is extraordinary, not a story that’s witty and artful, but a story that makes you feel something and never ceases to give your life meaning and direction, year after year.