Tuesday Thoughts.

Review: The Casual Vacancy by JK Rowling.

When I first heard the great JK Rowling was publishing another book, and it wasn't related to Harry Potter I vowed to myself I will never ever read that book until she cave in and write about the tragic love story between Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy.

But somehow, I did get an ebook version of it and started reading it.

Reviews of it were in two camps, either they love it so much or claim that Rowling is a one-series wonder(a super rich one that is). It didn't really persuade me to pick up the book because I know I'll be reading it and thinking of how it should be in the HP world.

My advise? Do not expect another Harry Potter. Try to forget that its written by the woman richer than the Queen herself.

It has quite a complicated group of characters that I had to keep referring back to remember who was who.

Rowling weaved the characters together so tightly that by the time the climax part appeared, she just had to pull on the knot and everything slowly and surely unravel that the ending just comes like BOOM BOOM BOOM.

This book really showed the bad part of people. How sly, selfish, arrogant, racist, self absorbed etc people can be. There was one scene, near the end where a little boy of about 3-4 years old were wandering around a small park, crying for some water. Three of those adult characters saw him, all too occupied by their own problems that they merely ignored him and that led to an event that left me crying my eyes out about how people are so evil.

There was also a scene where a teenage character self harmed herself, and I cringed and cried reading that and her self hatred. 

I wanted to slap another character who, if were my son, would have been kicked out of the house on the first page of the book.

Rowling managed to make people fall in love with so many of the Harry Potter characters, and with this book, she managed to make me feel sympathy and disgust at the characters.

Should you read it?

Just give it a try. Especially if you like books that focus on the people and how real they are. Get down and dirty with the words.

How many stars?

Three and a half.

31% Done.

I've vowed to read 100 books this year, I'm sure for the past years, I'm bordering that figure, minus 10 or 15. But I'll never know because I never keep track of the books I read. But not this year. I swear on my collection of books. So today, I listed down the books I read, thanks to my idea of dividing my books into "Read" , "To Read" and "Read Ages Ago" piles.

I also included the e-books I read, but some are missing from the list because I read those on my laptop, which is still in the hospital at the moment. So far, here are the books I've read this year, in about a time period of 4 months.


Hit List by Laurell K Hamilton
Blood Noir by Laurell K Hamilton
Bullet by Laurell K Hamilton
Angelology by Danielle Trussoni
Daughters of Rome by Kate Quinn
Shade's Children by Garth Nix
The Jewel of St Petersburg by Kate Furnivall
The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Naked Without a Hat by Jeanne Willis
Water Witch by Carol Goodman
Grace by Richard Paul Evans
The Magicians' Guild by Trudi Canavan
The Novice by Trudi Canavan
The High Lord by Trudi Canavan
The Ambassador's Mission by Trudi Canavan
The Rogue by Trudi Canavan
The Traitor Queen by Trudi Canavan
City of Bones by Cassandra Clare
City of Ashes by Cassandra Clare
City of Glass by Cassandra Clare
City of Fallen Angels by Cassandra Clare
The Clockwork Angel by Cassandra Clare
The Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Clare
The Clockwork Princess by Cassandra Clare
Daddy's Little Secret by Tina Davis
The Casual Vacancy by JK Rowling
The Help by Kathryn Stockett
Polo by Jilly Cooper
The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan
The Brightest Star in the Sky by Marian Keyes
The Killer's Cousin by Nancy Werlin



31 books. God. So little. Well, that's about 7-8 books per month, or 2 books per week. If I continue at this pace, it would be about 104 books by the end of the year.

How many books have you read in 2013 so far?

When the Ending Comes.

In January, an idea came to me. Of a short story that I know will be one of my best efforts. I had a paragraph written out and showed it to Mokesart.

He said it was depressing yet interesting. He liked the concept and urged me to write it out. I tried. Multiple times but something was holding me back. 

You see, the story was based on someone I know and my creative interpretation of certain events. It was creative enough that the person can read it and not know its about them.

But the trouble was that I had no idea what the ending should be like. I told Mokesart that I need to wait for the ending to really happen before I can write down. 

So I did what a writer who writes from real experience would, set the idea aside and wait. Few days ago the ending came and I merely told myself that I now can write that story. 

Mokesart gave enough sad emoticons to make me realise I should be sad but anger was boiling in my blood. I was seething for an explanation, set to get it because the way the ending happened, was so so low of the person. 

I told myself that when I see them I would smile and question them if my usefulness had ended or was it a matter of them being an ass? Or I can just ignore them and be nice to everyone else around us.

I thought I would be sad because the ending sucks but it was what I expected, not the one I hoped for. But I'm not at all. I'm angry and hurt. And that will show in the story when I eventually write it down. 

I finally let the hurt set in this morning, the betrayal sinking in and I was glad I was home alone. It resulted in me withdrawing money and spending it on 2 pair of shoes and a bag.

Tuesday Thoughts.

22nd April.

There's a burnt taste to the air. Heavy with moisture and carelessness. I can taste it at the tip of my tongue, the bitter acid spreading and coating every buds.

The walls are pulsing with disapproval, doors creaking with speculation as I wonder the source. The exact point where the bitterness starts.

With a cluck of my tongue I let the reel of film rewind in my head, not images but tiny events jumping out every now and then.

I can feel the center moving about, the smell of its harshness suffocating my nose. It glides down, leaving the air above a bit cleaner. But the burnt quality still lingers.

The aura of puzzled fear pulses through the floor, underneath my feet. Confusion, guilt and sorrow.

All so familiar to me now.

A sigh of sadness escaped my lips as I wonder if some emotions would always make maturity fly to the horizon.

Proof I'm Not Being Cooped Up.

Lately, my posts are either Confessions, Tuesday Thoughts or Sad Creative Posts. I'm pretty sure people now think I have been cooped up at home, tearing my hair out as I write verse after verse. Well, throw in some cooking and According to Jim's episodes and you got it right.

Not. 

I have been living a nice life. Sharpening cooking skills, but still no curry. Made a pact with mom about baking classes. Fell in love with the purple KitchenAid mixer stand. And of course, books. Here are some pictures from my Instagram account, hanisgorgeous.

Wantan noodles with roasted duck at this Chinese Muslim restaurant.
I will stick to chicken.

Cheesecake in the making  

Of course, new books

.

White coffee while waiting to sit for IELTS.

At a wedding of a high school mate with old friends. The guy in the middle?
Cousin.

More books bought today. The Carol Goodman is a sequel to Incubus.
The gem I found last year.

Today at an aqiqah for a friend's baby girl. Kinda like a baby shower.

At a schoolmate's wedding with a friend.

The Heartbreaker's Heart.

The heartbreaker failed her task

Too busy looking in the harsh desert

For tiny glittering pieces

Of her own heart

Broken and stomped upon

By the muse to her imagination

As she weeps and tries to reconstruct

With blood stained fingertips

Her heart with the words

She wrote with a fevered hope

That he will come to read

And weep as pathetically

As she did.

I wrote this yesterday, while chatting to a friend about my day. He asked me if I have broke any hearts for the day and this poem, came out instead. I showed it to Mokesart, he said I was trying to drive him to suicide with all the depressing poems. He also said its incredible and I made some tweaks and voila.

Yes, thank you.

Confession No. 52

In a way, I have to thank you.

I will when the chance comes by.

I might end up dedicating the next book to you.

You'll like that, I bet.

Intimate Words.

Lately, I've been in a creative mood. Blame the contemplation of my future, or that cocktail of emotions swirling in my veins. I've been writing poetry, such as Fate. I also went for something a bit more artistic-ish and contemplative, such as the one about a baby god, and the one that seems to mean differently to the people who have read it.

On my phone is a notepad app, which is becoming my favourite so far. I have a handful of notes in there, some in poetry form, some not. But all of those seem to have this intimate feeling to it. Its like those words were plucked from inside of me and composed into something personal and so clear.

Longing, confusion and hope. 

It makes me hesitate to post them on here because the way I write makes it seem so sensual. Your first impression would make you think of skin on skin, lips on lips and such pleasure.

See, I did that again.

I don't know why I'm writing this post, just to tell you guys that "Hey, I've written things that I'm shy to show off." perhaps. But since I'm already baring this part of my soul, a tiny tiny part, I'll just let you read two lines of something I wrote.

The way he said my name was like

A heavenly sweetness dripping from those lips.

Tuesday Thoughts.

Fate.

Fate 

Is a cruel maiden aunt

Who can't resist the tiniest temptation

Of ruining another's chance at happiness

With a slide of her taloned fingers

A smile on her chapped lips

As she scatter pain over helpless mortals

Laughing at the forced strength

Clapping gleefully at the tears of despair

Sighing with contentment at the sound

Of another dream shattering

Into sharp pieces of glass

Embedded deeply in the hearts

Of jaded souls.

Confession No. 51

"Nothing is so firmly believed as that which is least known."

-Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592)

Baby God.

There's a baby god playing with pots and pans in the sky which is just light enough to show me the heavy clouds. I pull close the golden curtains, a sigh at another few hours to live with. Before I can slip into temporary death.

Shedding the layers that covered my shame, I pull a thin cloth around me before pulling the heavy darkness around my face into a messy 'do.

The smell of honey and lemon danced in the air as the moistness sticks to my face with a promise of a glow that rival the night's lover. Narrowing my eyes at the looking glass, I killed Narcissus' whisper a moment too late.

The coolness in the air seemed to soothe the insecurities, or perhaps it was the love of my resting place. The ticking of the time piece reminded me of what I'm supposed to do.

In a graceful movement, the cloth pools on the floor as the wood creaked at every step. 17 steps before the baby cloud drizzled down over me. Cool drops of water has never felt as refreshing.

Hands on skin. Hands filled with almond bubbles. Hands that soothed and calmed. A flick of the wrist, a tilt of the head and an infusion of milk and aloe that promised a gleaming softness.

Soft skin. Yummy skin. Drops of water trickled down a caramel toned length. Heavy lashes of soot wiped away. Worries put aside in jewelled boxes. Insecurity folded and kept in a drawer.

As cloud maidens danced on the roof to the baby god's tune I finally give freedom to the demon inside of me. The one I love and fear the most. He dances. He touches.

And whisper into my ear. Every desire hope and want. Longing that lead to sadness.

He tells me a story of what I know will never happen. He tells me the plot in the tiniest details with such a glee. A smile on his face as I succumbed to the cruelty of the love child of imagination. Daydreaming. A wicked laugh at the first tear.

The baby god keeps playing.

Tuesday Thoughts.

Random Letter No.5

Dear Random Person No.5,

Its pretty amazing how in such a short time period, you were able to take my beliefs into your hands and give them a really good shake in a more effective manner compare to anyone else I have ever met/known.

You managed to make me take a step back and really think about certain things that I was once so sure of. It was like, all this time I was really sure that the sky is pure blue and along came you and I was now thinking that the sky is a lovely purple. It made me take a seat and question myself.

Do I really care about those things?

And what bothered me even more is that I got the answer to that so quickly. 

I didn't care.

It left me feeling like I'm spinning around in a room full of bright colours and techno blasting from the speakers before falling back onto my bed, low lights and Adam Levine crooning into my ears.

Breathless and happily confused.

But then, sometimes I wish I could just cut off that time period of knowing you, because it just made me less satisfied with what I have. I was blissfully ignorant, in a sense, before that. And to know that someone with that many checkmarks really exist but to not have the tiniest of a chance, is just very very cruel of life.

Or of you.

I don't know which to blame, apart from myself.

Maybe you.

Sincerely,

Me.

Reflection at Then.

Laying here on the ancient red carpet, hair damp with the smell of lavender and skin lotion soft and allergy red; I have never felt more at peace.

Artificial cool wind stroke the bare skin of my thighs as the radio crackled with bad reception; I wish for the feeling to last. 

The book that seem to be that spider web thin thread between me and crushed belief, an empty notebook waiting patiently for ink beside it; I imagine so much.

Scratch. 

Scratch.

Sigh.

But what is this, the difference, the impact, the bitterness, the hope, the wish. 

Nothing more than a motivation for it.

Spread those wings baby butterfly.

Make the sun shine in your colours.

I'm Not Gonna Write Cause You Ask Me To.

They say if you make a writer, a poet or a song writer fall in love with you, you will continue to live on eternally in their work. But they also say if you break those people's hearts, you will continue to be condemned indirectly for doing so.

I've always wanted to fall for someone who writes. But then I thought to myself, that might not be as interesting and exciting as it is for another girl when its me. Why? Because I write myself. I'm used to being the one who might write a poem about the thoughts that come to mind at how a guy smells like. Or dedicate a paragraph in a story about the way someone can say a name in fifteen different ways.

Would I truly appreciate someone doing that for me? Or would it be some kind of competition where I'll feel I have to write something in return? 

No, I'm not falling for anyone who writes.

I would rather fall for someone who reads. Who dreams and plans of trips to different places. That would make a perfect combination with a girl who writes and dreams.

On the other hand, I would like to thank to everyone who has managed to spark some emotion fireworks because hell, that just helps me write more.

And how can someone not love this song? 

Tuesday Thoughts.