A few days ago I met up with an old friend from my primary school here in Johor. We bumped into each other in January 2016, said we’ll catch up someday, and it’s not until a year later that we had the chance to.
I remember her as someone who was very neat, wanted to grow up to be a cartoonist (she’s in Biotech now). Oh this is her, by the way. I hope she doesn’t mind me putting her face on my blog.
She said that she remembered me as the one who told them stories. I was caught off-guard. I know that after I moved from Johor I discovered my love for writing stories in Singapore. Nadia added that while we were waiting for the bus back home or something, they saw me as the person who would entertain them with stories.
Wow. It all made sense. I remember the stories I told, yea. They were bizarre. I could have just walked past an empty house and the next day I would tell stories about how I walked past a house with a crazy naked person inside. I could have just found out I slept on a cotton pillow and I would’ve made up how a Pontianak wants her fruits back. She said they used to ask, “Are you for real?” and I would say yes. I told her rest-assured, my stories are now real, as I focus more on people I meet than imagination in my head.
When I moved to Singapore my teacher wrote in my report book that I was a student who excelled in writing original stories. In my last year of primary school my teacher sent my essay about children spies to a national competition which I won 5th place in Singapore. My friend who wrote about a dark theme about divorce (I watched cartoons, not dramas) won first. I didn’t think about what a big deal my fifth place to be called on stage was until I realised that there were other friends who earned 50th place and yet my teachers were gleaming with pride.
In secondary school I excelled in Literature and a poem of mine was chosen for something. I still don’t know what it’s for. Sadly they didn’t offer Literature later and I had to take History. I loved History, but there was a boy I was avoiding and people were always teasing me with him that I opted for Geography. It was stupid, but eh, teenagers. I did fine in them because of “Crapping Skills Essay,” a term coined by my friend, where you needed a bit of understanding in the topic and with a bit of “Crapping Skill” you’ll do well in it. It worked.
My English teacher, who said she remembered me for my writing, also wrote that my content is A material (but my grammar pulled them down to B).
I also started a blog when I was 11. Always being angsty on the blog. Almost everyone I knew read my blog. Shake my head.
Why am I writing this? To remind myself that writing and stories are not something “new” to me. That I always have had people telling me they like my writing. And that I shouldn’t be so insecure about who likes it or not. Practice can make better. And I will continue practising.
(also I have to wake up at 3 AM tomorrow so I’m not going to edit this)