Nor, confirm Mike dah tak ada…
It was over a month ago when Eddy and I were talking and somehow Mike’s name came up. She was our high school classmate who, a few years back, discovered that she had breast cancer. It was maybe another week after the conversation that I sent a message and received a prompt reply. Through the messages I found out how she had just given birth to a son and that her cancer had returned and had spread to one of her lungs.
June 11 was the last day I communicated with her, asking if she was still at the hospital. “Still warded! The tube that was poking my lung is out but white blood count is low so 4 more days,” was her last message to me.
I didn’t even get to speak to her, to hear her voice. Once, I wanted to call but she was in a chemo session. Another time I asked if I could visit, she told me to wait til she’s feeling better. Understandable, but I feel a tinge of regret.
The last time we actually spoke was years ago, when she was first diagnosed. It was a long conversation and I can still remember how she was determined to fight the cancer. Well, she did, and was able to move on to marry and have two children. It saddens me to think of them growing up without her around.
What a day to know about her passing, which occurred on Monday. Suzy called to confirm it, Eddy was first to alert me. But I had revisions to make on stories that will go to print very soon and trying to concentrate was difficult amidst the messages and calls.
What a news to start the weekend with, after a mid-week cyst scare, on top of deadlines.
A fighter to the finish, her last entry on her blog was dated May 3. I cried buckets when I read through her entries.
In one message, Mike said I should really write. I take it as another sign. It’s time to write stories.
- – -
Siti Marlina Zainal 1976 – 2009
Al-Fatihah
I have crow’s feet.
That’s ok. You’re still you.
Yeah, I haven’t turned into Angelina the last time I checked.
That’s the spirit!
Hmphhh… you’re no help at all.
Trust you to behave like a girl in a situation like this.
But I am!
I know well enough that you are.
You just choose to ignore the fact most of the time.
With your boobs? I don’t think so.
Siottttt jer.
From here:
The physical act of writing a novel takes a long time. Yes, we all know of the authors who can crank out a perfectly publishable novel of 60, or 80, or 100,000 words in just under six weeks. But there are two things to note. First, most of those hyperkinetic authors are not newbie novelists; they’re people who have been writing long enough that certain aspects of novel writing are encoded into their brain’s muscle memory. Second, if you’re a would-be novelist, you’ll probably never be one of those people anyway.
No, I’m not intending to insult you. Most currently published authors don’t write that quickly either. I know successful, working authors who are happy to get 250 words of fiction a day, because that’s 90,000 words a year: A full-sized novel. But consider that there are any number of writers who have trouble getting out that much out a year, because — surprise! — a novel is usually more than just sitting down and cranking out a word count. There are those little things like plot, and character, and pacing, and dialogue and so on and so forth. All of those things take time to develop.
Note also that while you’re doing all of this as a budding novelist, you are also most likely doing all the other things in your life that constitute your life: A day job, spouse and family, hobbies and friends, reading and television and video games and even (wait for it) sleep. It all adds up — and it all subtracts from the amount of time you have to write.
What all this means is that writing those three or four novels an average writer has to burn through before they write a publishable novel will likely take years.
That’s one of the reasons the blogger had on his list when someone asked why many novelists make their debuts in their 30’s. Heh. Makes me feel so much better. 
He’s in a sampan, with a guitar, singing about his heart. And I could hear the waves in between. Lovely.
As I was chucking out old letters, postcards and accumulated paper junk from the 1990’s, I found this:
I forgot who drew this. Despite the frayed edges, the visible proof of being pasted on various walls and the fading colours, I can still remember that 10 days when I was not quite 14. Nine guys and us three – Eddy, Lin and me. Plus Ms. Zarina and other bit players. A stubbed toe, a cute doctor at the sickbay, the people we met and hung out with. How I got home burnt and my skin like the colour of undiluted kopi that mum almost didn’t recognise me. Definitely one of the best times of my life.
