I used to think that I ought to lose myself on a godforsaken island and live like Robinson Crusoe, so I could write a book. Now I recognise that I would be so loaded with self-doubt that I would race back to the rat race, aka Singapore, in the blink of an eye, and maniacally hitching up with any nine to six corporation willing to look my way.
I was meeting up with my ex-boss, a visionary for the media industry. It’s hard to stay on the topic – a commissioned book. We were all over the place, touching on dreams, blogs, ideas for musicals(!?). I tell CK my dream to write a book. He gives me the puzzled look I’m used to now.
“Just write it, then!” he says. He doesn’t understand, they all don’t understand. What I’ve been building all these years is not a portfolio but a writer’s block, and after two decades of loving construction, it is now the size of UOB Building.
Oh well, back to paid writing. Today, I am rewriting. Rewriting is like a cow regurgitating the fresh green grass she had eaten, checking over the sodden tasteless mess and stuffing it into her mouth again. Tactic? Get it over with as fast as you can!