Popagandhi

Some time ago I set off to get my writing mojo back. A few mad dashes across half the world and several kilograms later, as I stirred from deep sleep in my corner of Amsterdam’s Schipol airport I realized I’d found that sneaky little mojo and took it back — with interest. No wonder I was sleeping in the most ham-fisted manner next to my luggage: shoes off, arms around my backpack, fingers (even the most tepidly asleep ones) curled around its openings. On the floor behind Gate F33 behind the duty-free shopping Japanese tourists. I was afraid I would lose it again. Or disturb it from its long slumber.

May, June and July were big months. I spent most of it in places I had no clue about, and literally, at some point, got to a new country and went: I don’t know where I’m going, who I’m meeting, where I’m staying, how much this is all going to cost. Some of it because I chose to leave them open-ended — the rest of it were those places where you could not arrange for these things until you got there and met the right people. The only phone number for the village we went to, given by the Penghulu’s relative, was the number of the one and only public phone which predictably stopped working years ago (or worked once every year). There was no mobile coverage within a four hour radius. The closest hotel was about five hours away. I didn’t speak either of their languages — neither Iban nor Malay, but got by listening to random words I knew (chicken! pig! drink! alchol! she’s drunk! I kid: it was having the best translator in the world that helped). Someone emailed in the midst of all this to say, travel… is life distilled. Indeed. It’s also eight shots of tuak and five shots of langkau, distilled. Also known as my threshold for homebrewed, tribal alcohol. Being alone makes you think. Being alone for much of it, there were no big epiphanies this time, but plenty of small, quiet ones.

I suddenly started writing again. It just picked up like that, without warning. Running along La Ramblas towards a subway stop and it struck me: I need to write. It was a new-old feeling, a state of mind; the happy kind that makes you want to whistle as you do, like eating Mamee again after an involuntary separation: it’s so close to your skin you never realize it’s gone, but discovering it again gives you a warm, fuzzy feeling anyway.

And so we’re here, approaching August, with the end of the year drawing near. The month and beyond poised to get even bigger, in bigger ways I feel like I’ve been waiting a long time for. I’m going to be published in more places (in print), at a greater frequency, in a variety of different areas and topics, beginning August. This means I am working harder. This also means I am taking this more seriously, and that I now have to think about things like savings plans, medical insurance, buying property eventually and how a freelance life is ever going to take care of all those essentials. I’ll kick off August by reading at ContraDiction IV (I read at the first one), that showcase of queer Singaporean writing. I’m about ready to finally start talking to agents and publishers and all that, being partway through my debut novel. Writing a television documentary, teaching writing skills, building my internet empire, working. Living, and doing it quite well, quite happily. You know those days when you feel like you’re The Luckiest? I’ve had plenty of those of late.