Sup3rnality

I am often known among friends as the slightly off-beat one. Well, that's putting it nicely. Often they'd be straight-forward and tell me I'm weird. I never took offense, though.

Although, back then when I was among the first to own a Nokia N70 music edition, and people would excitedly ask to have a look so they can have a listen at the sound quality and the songs I have on the 2GB memory phone, the look on their faces would sometime make me quirk an eyebrow in fascination and a smidge of annoyance. They'd in one moment excitedly hold the phone in their hands, then, right in the next second, their face will change to that of realisation and say: "Oh wait, Hazlin kan suka lagu pelik-pelik" -_-^

 In any case, in this one week, I've been flipping through two particular books that I got from my colleague. Now, before I tell you the titles, let me say compare the two:

- Book A is likely to attract more readers because:
 1 - The writer is a pretty celebrity regaling tales from her promiscuous life as a teen, bedding anything with a good body (my spoonerism made me type bood gody at first *facepalm*) and a d*ck.
 2 - The language is simple, easy to digest and deadpan funny.
 3 - No heavy topics involved other than sex and booze and parties and her continuous unemployment.
 4 - It's a girl talking about sex life, usually a taboo, or mostly looked down on, so...most people wouldn't mind peeking into the mind of such a lady.

- Book B would most likely be the lesser choice because:
 1 - The writer is also a celebrity but of the err...less savoury kind and is also regaling his life of promiscuity.
 2 - While simple in writing style, the weight of his words lend more character and reality that he is indeed a normal person.
 3 - The topics range from heavy to light-hearted, and the heavy is enough bring a bit of tears to your eyes.
 4 - Yes, it's about sex sex sex, but it's about not from the eyes of the most good-looking of people in showbusiness.

But you know what, despite everything Book A is, I loathed it so much I stopped reading it by the third chapter and never even thought to continue --- EVER. Book B, which I read on a whim and out of curiousity of such a lifestyle, made a very insightful read that actually made me feel. I'm still reading it now, and I have to say, I can't put it down. Well, actually I do, but just so people can't see what I'm reading.

Now, this has nothing to do with my so-called off-beat tastes, but I know that people who know me are likely to attribute my liking Book B to this particular quirk of mine. But I do think anyone who appreciates quality writing would choose Book B over Book A, and I would think that the more casual reader who would never delve into real literature would sniff at the idea of reading Book B. That's what I think anyway.

Book B is surprisingly warm at times, especially when you think the cold reality is really that cold in the industry. But really, it paints a picture of real people living against a backdrop of fantasies who, despite the high life, would really just like to come back down to earth.

Anyway, dah dah I don't want to say anything more about these two books. But one day when the zombie apocalypse comes, and you've somehow managed to hole up somewhere and you get bored and happen to stumble upon these two books and only have space for only one book in your backpack, go with Book B, I'd say. In the absence of human connection and humanity, Book B will help you connect again and help you believe in the goodness of human beings. Yes, Book B talks about fake human connections that are exploited for money, but hey, it's more genuine that Book A.

So anyway, this is Book A:
 

I admit, my headlines are not as interesting as this one.

Thought: To become a sub-editor, is a formal education on the English language necessary?

That was a topic of discussion, or rather, argument between Ash and me a few minutes ago before he dropped me off at work. Yes, we are both hard-headed and will keep on arguing to prove a point :-P Don't worry, it's my favourite part of being in the car with him, we always have some kinda something to talk or argue about.

Now I'm not trying to prove a point, but just using myself as a case study to explain why I think the education itself is not necessary. Instead, I think it all boils down to talent.

Big headed kan? But hear me out.

I've spoken English all my life. It's my first language, as in the first language I started speaking and the language I prefer and choose to converse in. I only started speaking Malay later around the age of seven or so. Until now, I have not been able to master it.

I read a lot. Not so much now as before I started working, but I definitely read more than the average Malaysian. And yes, I read almost only books written in English. I started reading at a young age, and spent a large amount of my time burying my head in a book while growing up.

On top of that, I love literature and pop culture. References and allusions don't go by me unnoticed.

I grew up being entertained by tv shows and movies. I was the only child and my father did not encourage me to go out, so besides books, tv was a constant companion.

Mix those key ingredients together and you have my brain, a non-stop pot of words boiling and mixing and absorbing each other. Granted, I'm not very creative, but my lifetime love affair with words and how they work has brought me right here at this desk at Setar.

Words have a certain flavour, you can tell when they don't mix or have been placed in the wrong order or combination. Sometimes I make mistakes, yes, no one is free from mistakes, okay? But the point is, I know if I'm wrong and know how to correct it. And in the face of my job, I know when words don't flow right or have a better way to be worded. I can switch them around and put them together again. And to top it off, I'll try to give it an extra punch with a catchy headline. It's not always possible due to space, but when the occasion calls for it, I can provide a noticeable punch.


Now, my argument with my significant other was somewhere along the lines of whether or not education enables a person to have my job or do my job.


For me, the answer is 'no'.

My job: Read. Edit. Layout. Write headline.

Reason? For one, I think I got this on talent. I may not be the best they've seen, but I'm one of the best they've got.

(Yeah yeah, perasannye)

Well, I'm not great at this, maybe not yet, but I can do this. I think this kind of work takes years of experience to get those creative juices on tap.

Two - At the end of the day, my degree is really just a piece of paper. Yes, I have a degree in English Language and Literature. I took it because that is what I have dreamt of studying since I was 12. I wanted to learn more, be among people who appreciated the English language and its literature (well, not quite), I wanted to soak in the ambience and discuss theories and lines out of poetry and research the history from when the words were written. Tough luck, my expectations were not entirely met, but in any case, I enjoyed IIUM. But...

In terms of learning about language and literature that I would later use in my career, that didn't happen -- much.

No, don't get me wrong, I'm not saying IIUM did not play a role in making me the sub-editor I am today. My literature classes and  sociolinguistics etc helped a lot in understanding the role of language in attracting readers. I learned quite a bit from Discourse Analysis about making words sound good but I hardly absorbed much from all that pure linguistics and have never applied anything I learned in my work (applied linguistics, however, I enjoyed).

Truthfully, at the end of the day, I just wanted that piece of paper saying I graduated so that I could get out and get a decent job to earn a living. I learned a lot in IIUM, but not really of the academic variety. More in the experience sense, I would think.

But...in spite of that, I do believe that I am here for what I already was before I started my degree. It was part of my personality, not education.

I mean, if that were the case, all my colleagues would be from an English degree background. Really, it's not just English majors who are in this line of duty. We have lawyers, engineers, scientists....all who, despite what they studied, found their calling in words.

And, if I were to ask any of my fellow undergrads from my course to join me in my sub-editor-ness, I can hardly even provide you a handful of names who would be interested.

So there you have it. That is why I feel I was not chosen for my qualifications, nor did I choose this job because of it. I was all in my innate nature.

My writing poetry by the age of 7, keeping a journal since I was 8, collecting newspaper articles to read over and over at about the same age, and correcting grammar, even my own teachers', as soon as I entered school..It was all part of my tightly-wound nature of wanting things to be in order.

Yes, I admit it, I'm anal like that. But that's just what I am.

You know that kind of book? I think you do. The kind we hear mixed reviews about. Some say it's good. Some say don't bother.

Your interest is piqued, and you know you need to read it for yourself to decide whether it really is worth the hype. The little voice in your head tells you that you shouldn't be part of a passing fad, and yet, another voice asks you "What if it isn't?".

So you search for it in bookstores, URL and IRL. Bookstores and Amazon. Under every possible category, you look for this coveted title. Everytime you think you've found it, it turns out it's a similar book but not what you were looking for. Or, it is a mere rip-off masquerading as the real deal.

Disappointment fills you. You wonder how others have found this book but somehow not you. Perhaps you should have latched onto the bandwagon when you first heard the whispers about it among friends? Perhaps now that it is so popular, it makes it all the more unattainable.

At this point, you either settle for a wannabe version of this book, just to get an idea of what the real one might be like, or, you forget it altogether, popping by bookshops every now and again hoping to catch a glimpse of what you would really prefer. Or, for some, you give up altogether.

But then you find it. I don't know, perhaps at the bookstore where it was waiting all along. But there are those who find it hidden in the nook of a hole-in-the-wall shop, or a second-hand book at the back of a car, or someone's forgotten copy left on the train. It could be anywhere. But when you find it, it's likely that you feel like meeting an old friend, like someone you've been waiting to meet, and yet never had the chance to until now.

The thing is with this book, the way some books are, you can't find the synopsis in the back. Nor within the sleeves. Not even in the preface. You don't know what it is about. All you know is that many people have good things to say about it. But every person is different. How do you know whether you will like it or hate it?

So, do you read it?

Perhaps you will dare to venture onto the first page, and maybe you won't.

Whether or not you regret it, that is up to interpretation.

Love...is like that book.

People talk about it all the time. From the moment you are old enough to have the stirrings of emotions for the opposite sex, you've heard the stories, how wonderful it is. But then some tell you it's all not worth your time, sometimes they say it's just a ploy to get into your pants.

And despite all the horror stories, the cliches, the glorified tales...you want it for yourself. An understandable decision with an almost impossible solution.

Now you have to look for it.

Sometimes you find it, and sometimes it finds you. But what you find can sometimes be what you need and want, or it could also sometimes spell heartbreak.

But when you do hold the promise of Love in your hands, the synopsis is not written on the back. You don't know what you're getting. Will you be happy at the very end, or will you be left crying? Sometimes you do cry along the way, but it doesn't mean it will end badly. Sometimes it'll be happy all the way through, and sometimes you won't. It's how you read it, how you live it.

Love and me, we've had our ups and downs.

Once someone found their book in me, or he only thought he did. Because I could not give love in return, not in the way he wanted at least. We have always been good friends, but I to me he was always just that, and could not see him as anything more. I closed his book for him.

And when I thought I found my book, and he his, in each other, we found that while we shared common themes, we never really complemented one another. And in the end, we ended up drifting apart until he found another book to read and left me to find mine.

He was the way some books are. Not a bad book, but not entirely easy to read either. And at the end, he was the moral of the story, a lesson to be learnt. And while it took me about many years to realise that, I never did hold it against him. 

And then I found a book. My Book. He was sitting in the backseat with me. He was sitting across the small metal table from me at the Karak highway McDonald's early one morning. He had his arms tentatively testing the waters, slowly wrapping around me underneath my brown jacket that covered us one cold morning while out with friends. And he gave me my first kiss.

Try as I could, I could not find the synopsis to our story. I was scared I would not find what I wanted. I was scared of just reading for the sake of having the book. I was afraid of being hurt yet again. I was afraid I would find happiness, then have it change to sadness instead. I was afraid of a good many things.

But I would never know what was in store unless I smoothened out the pages and read the story with my voice, tasted the words on my tongue. And so I read on. We read on.

This is our story. And I never want it to end.

There is this street in the town of Seremban which, on weekends, is closed off to make way for the street walk. This is when people come to open little roadside shops where they sell knick-knacks, curios, old magazines and books, and a myriad of other things. You never know what you will find. There is always something that would catch your eye.

Just being there gives a whole new meaning to another person's trash is another person's treasure.


I am quite the thrifter. I suppose I get it from my dad. I love going to junkshops and shops where they sell used stuff for a fraction of the original price. And with each junk comes so many possibilities. Like the retro heart-shaped sunglasses that will soon be on my Vintage shop. Or out-of-date handbags they wanna shove off, that is now also a vintage collection of mine.

But I think one of the things I like best about going to the street walk is the book stall. There, all the books are strewn in boxes and all over the road unceremoniously. I'm not kidding, the books are just dumped there like so much trash. And you, the potential buyer, would need to dive in and do a little spelunking to look for a book you might  like. But it's not that hard. You can find a good one in every five books you pick up. By the time you are at the end of your tether, you'd have a stack of 20 books at least. But the most wonderful part is that, the books are mostly RM3-RM5 each :)) The last time I went, I forked out RM33, for about 11 books. What a steal!

On the last trip, one of the books I picked up was the book above, Inside the Kingdom by Carmen bin Ladin. I got it for RM3 by the way. And I read it about a week back. This wouldn't be the first time I would have read books -- fictional or non-fictional -- that describe the life and status of women in Islamic countries.  I've read Soheir Khashoggi's Mirage and Nadia's Song, Fauziya Kassindja's Do They Hear You When You Cry, Betty Mamoody's Not Without My Daughter and a few other titles I do not remember right now. Some of these books are about women who grew up in that environment and wanted to get out. And some of them are books on women who were brought into that life via marriage etc. So I am no stranger to these books and stories.

This book by Osama's sister-in-law is quite the interesting read. While it was not really that thick to be really immersed in it and it didn't take that long to read, it was so engaging that I kept turning the pages to know more and more. Although, at the end, it didn't really leave me with much to think about.

Let me clear a few things first about the book: If you're looking to read a first-hand experience on living with Osama bin Laden, then this is not the book for you. If you're looking to read about women being terribly mistreated then this is not it either. It merely is a story of a woman who fell in love, got married, followed her husband to his home country, and saw a way of life that she did not agree with.

But of course, I am not living in a Islamic country where women are made to leave a cloistered life. Nor am I an European woman. Perhaps it's not my place to say how one should think. But this book was written for the masses to read, and so a reader will form opinions, it's a given. So my opinion on this book is based on what I think as a person by just reading this account and not judging any sides.

Carmen, the woman who married Osama's elder brother, tells what she witnessed in the Laden household. She saw oppression, injustice, fanaticism and/or extremism, backwardness and a lack of education. They, the women of Saudi Arabia, saw responsibility, a show of faith, an obligation and honour. Who really is the one missing out?

For me, after reading many books such as these, I have both a sense of pity as well as a sense of respect for women who live their lives shielded from the eyes of any other. I say pity, for as a woman who is (almost) free to do as she pleases, I cannot imagine being forbidden to do the things I love. For example, read, listen to music, pursue knowledge.. These things that people take for granted are things that these women are forbidden from enjoying. But then again, if they were born into that life, then they might not miss it to begin with, since they would have never known such things. But other than that, I pity them knowing that they (might not) have the freedom of choice, the freedom of opinion and speech and the freedom of knowledge. But I also say I have a sense of respect for them because, for the love of their religion, they are ready to forsake their earthly pleasures. Although their extreme thoughts on Islam are not the same as mine, and their practice of that belief is not in line with what I think should be, I admire their will and dedication.

And the author? Well, I cannot help but think that she is too judgmental of others. I don't blame her for not being able to accept the culture, she is after all from a totally different background. But she didn't seem to make an effort to acclimatize herself and seemingly spent a lot of time complaining. Not that I don't agree with her, as a number of her opinions did ring true with what I thought, but for the most part, she did act like a princess who is too used to getting her way all the time; and would go as far as being disrespectful to another's culture to get what she wants.

Compared to the other books I have read, she got it easy. The Laden family is filthy rich, and could afford her all the luxuries she could ever want (albeit in limited supply or choice). She was not physically abused in any way. She got to travel back to Europe several times a year and also contact her friends in the States and from Switzerland. She had it all, just not in the right place.

I, of course, do not know how it feels. I suppose feeling homesick and lonely and far from everything you know plays a large role in all of that, too. So, who is the wrong party, really? Hard to say, since everyone wants to be right, and everybody would have a plausible answer. So unless every race, nation, continent and basically everyone on earth unites and live under one, absolute set of rules, there will always be a difference in ideas.

And Osama? Well, he hardly gets that much of mention in this book. He is often mentioned from glimpses of him, or brief run-ins with him; but besides that, nothing much. Here is a story of a woman who, in a place foreign to her, discovers herself and makes every effort to retain what she almost lost.

I can't say I liked the book. I can't say I hated it either. It was an entertaining read, that is all, for me. Substance-wise, it left a lot to be desired. Content-wise, it was engaging enough. It just didn't jive with me. But from reading this, I do have somewhat of a better appreciation of what I've got. It's not much, but it's everything to me. And I am content.

Love,
Lin

In my earlier days in IIUM, I quite liked borrowing novels from the campus library. I say this like it is a big thing because, first and foremost, the idea of being loaned a book and then having to return is a heartbreaking experience for me. I'll prolong my possession of the book for the longest time possible, cos I don't wanna return it. Mostly I'll avoid borrowing if I can. And second, well, the IIUM library does not have that many books of the fiction genre anyway.

But yes, I did borrow fictions in those days (in my senior year I was more immersed in journals). I was adjusting to my new life there and was looking for things to do to occupy my time. I can almost imagine Ash rolling his eyes and calling me "nerd" right now :p

One fine day, I saw this book: The Lovely Bones. The synopsis on the back piqued my interest and so I took it back to the room and started on it.

I was crying by the end of the first chapter.

You are faced with your own mortality and weakness when you read of a young girl being raped and killed. You know that, put in the same situation, you wouldn't fare any better, and I cannot imagine how it must have felt to know that no one could save you as you died alone. I remember waking up with a start once when I dreamed that I was being held down and I could not scream after reading that book. It affected me so. To the extent I was painfully scared of being alone in secluded areas.

Reading The Lovely Bones put me in an ordeal, trying so hard to finish the book but finding it hard as I was crying at every few pages and had to put it down while I calmed myself down. The story is told by Susie, the girl who was murdered, who watched family, friends and other people she knew live their lives after she died. She watched the futile police investigations on her disappearance. She watched her family crumble, watched her friends grow up and do things she never will, and basically saw how people moved on without her. It was painful, wistful and sad. She was only 14, and had so much to live for.

Sometime in 2008 I heard that Peter Jackson was taking up the movie to adapt to the silver screen. I felt scared, anxious and doubtful. Translating a story based so much more on emotions rather on plot is not an easy task, assuming that it is not interpreted wrongly. With the absence of words to describe the matters of the heart and soul, visuals would need to do it justice. On top of that, with the story covering the lives of so many characters, you can only hope that the story would not be snipped and changed too much from the original to fit in to a movie.

I, however, will give Mr Jackson the benefit of the doubt. I'm sure he'll manage to pull it off. The movie's coming out very soon, and I'm very anxious to see the outcome. Perhaps for me, it is not so much about the story. I'm not so bothered on how true it'll stick to the book, cos I've learned to just accept that movies could never adapt the exact storyline from books, it's just too difficult and complicated. Although I do wish that the essence of the story won't be distorted too much. What I'm more worried about is whether the emotions that was told so heartbreakingly well in the book could be captured in the movie. I want to see whether what made me cry from start to end would be there as I watch rather than read. That is my utmost hope, for the emotions to not be overlooked.

Anyway, here's to hoping that the movie will be as good as the book. From what I saw from the trailer and all, it looks pretty good. And having enjoyed a few movies by Mr Jackson, I suppose he wouldn't do too shabby. So let's wait and see. And for those who has read the book, too, keep your fingers crossed!

Love, Linzy

P/s: After reading TLB, Aaina lent me a Alice Sebold book which told about Sebold's own rape experience. I never could finish reading it, it was too horrible. Like any other woman, I find rape to be the biggest betrayal, something that I fear and have restless thoughts about.