Noisy Neighbors

 

When I read and write, I prefer zero distraction—no music, no conversation. This is amusing to me because I can multitask with everything else. I can fully concentrate on driving while listening to complicated stories or music or basically doing everything else, but not reading or writing.

When silence is not an option, my other way to do it is to blank out on the surroundings. I wrote my first book while confined in a small space with my parents blasting music and movies. They were there for me and to help me back then, so I couldn’t complain and wouldn’t anyway, so I created my own bubble and zoned out. It worked, in the expense of not paying attention to everything else, which I try not to do.

Now, three of my nearby neighbors are doing heavy construction, one of them directly next to me. The houses here are basically next to each other. Not only are there loud sounds like drilling, hacking, nailing, or whatever, but recently, they added one more thing: music. Not the kind of music that I like—that’s the worst part. There is no peace, and I have been having regular headaches.

While all my quest, life goal, and firstborn are dedicated to telling them off, either by barging in there or blasting it in the neighborhood group chat, HAVE YOU NOT DONE ENOUGH WITH YOUR NOISE TAKE EVERYTHING AND SHOVE IT… I grit my teeth and contemplate my decision.

I’m not a pushover, no, but I exercise caution for safety on everyone who can monitor my habit, schedule, and know where I live. However, on top of that, I consider something else.

Maybe you live in different places with different cultures, where one should comply with noise regulation, HOA, or everything is ‘proper.’ To put this into perspective, I know because I have worked in a construction-related field for a significant period of time in the past, the regulation here is very lacking, and so is workers’ welfare. They weld without eye protection, they work without earbuds, masks, or helmets, and there is no such thing as a drilling schedule.

The noise disturbs me a lot, but that is probably the only thing that helps them work. They don’t have earphones, and the volume is most likely to overcome the noise level of their work. When I hear them sing along happily, it’s like a confirmation that maybe I should put on my earphones (I try to limit this since I’m uncomfortable), or enter my bubble and try to endure it.

That is what I decided to do, but maybe one day I will barge in and yell at them with veins in my forehead. I can’t promise. Fortunately, the last few days have been better (or have I gotten used to it?). I believe they have toned down their volume, which is great. Maybe someone else had barged in and yelled at them.

Anyway, wish you peace and quiet, if those are your preferences.

Please take care, and thank you for enduring my ramble and not yelling at me.

If you are looking for books, here are some to consider

Dystopia Ever After

My Collection

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How Introverts Make Friends

 

Locky: I found this stick, can we bring it home?

I used to chuckle at this meme, thinking it was not true, I am capable of making friends!

How introverts make friends:

1. They don’t
2. An extrovert found them, liked them, and adopted them 

Then, a few days ago, I answered a question on X about stray dogs we befriended on the beach. I told someone I was happy I still had the chance to meet a stray who had been adopted by a kind-hearted person, and she asked me how. This stray, Molly, was adopted by a dog feeder who goes to the beach regularly, bringing Molly so I get to meet her and know she is doing well. When I recalled the story, I realized the above had happened to me. 

I like to stroll the beach with Locky, my dog. We meet many strays along the way. Each usually occupies a territory, so I meet them in their respective places and get to know them over time. We play with them, I give them treats, and I sit and walk with them (they love treats/food, but most of them crave companionship and stay with us until we go back). 

Over time, someone (human, in case clarification is needed!) initiated a conversation with me. I imagine it was not easy because I remember her smiling and waving several times from a distance when I just smiled back and moved along with my entourage, thinking it was just a passing, friendly gesture. One day, she was on my path and introduced herself. That was when I realized she also had a group of dogs. I found out she fed the dogs regularly, that was why she always stood in the same spot while trying to catch my attention. She noticed I had my way with dogs, so we bonded and shared stories and knowledge about the strays around. We became friends, and from her, I knew several others who care about the strays as well. There was no drama, no agenda, just people with similar passions. 

If you are curious about the stray situation, feel free to ask me. I know things can be different in different places, but before you feel judgmental, don’t feed strays, and don’t blablabla (it happens!). Please educate yourself about the situation first. I find it surprising that people are very quick to judge and ‘compare’ the situation with their ‘ideal’ ones. It only shows me how little they know and how close-minded they are. Every place is different. Every situation is different. 

Anyway, in a way, I looked back to my history and realized that I was adopted as a friend by many, and when I make my own, they are fellow introverts.

What is the moral of this post? Nothing! Maybe I’m just grateful for those who give me a chance.

I just want to keep in touch. I hope you are not bored with my ramblings.

Here is Molly!

 

My One and Only Co-writer Circa 1995

Just a few days ago, I reached out to an old friend from high school. We haven’t been in contact privately for 30 years (gasp). It was only during COVID time we had a group Zoom call (it was a nightmare for me, and I had only done it once voluntarily) between several ‘close’ high school friends. Close as in, three decades ago. To be honest, I struggle to find similarities now because we all studied in different places, took up different majors, and grew up with different adult aspirations. The video call was awkward (to me, at least). Every question felt like interviews or strangers stuck in the same place trying to pass the time by asking basic but invasive questions.

I guess they all felt the same because no one suggested another Zoom call. Actually, maybe they do it regularly without including me, and I’m very fine with that! We also have a group chat, and again, it feels bizarre every time just to have birthday greetings, golf claps, standard replies, and small talk, and it dies down again. I skipped some birthday wishes because I couldn’t take the formality anymore, but they are very lovely people. I finally go along with it, say my wish, and get it over with. We never seem to go beyond the mandatory small talk and occasional jokes. I think the problem is too many parties in the group. Everyone would talk to everyone and ask generic questions because we don't want to alienate the others, so it’s hard to make actual connections after so long.

The one friend I reached out to privately was my best friend back then. We clicked well, we played together, and we were the only two who never used staircases to go down because we preferred to slide down through the railings (we still had to go up manually, dang gravity). Unfortunately, we grew apart during the significant phases of adult life and never caught up again except through the awkward group.

However, she holds a special place in my heart because she was my best friend and was and still is my one and only co-writer. Both of us developed a novelette together for fun. I wrote a part or a chapter, she continued, and we passed it back and forth without knowing what the other had in mind. Most times, we also had no idea about how to continue the story until we wrote it. It was handwritten, of course. It was 1994-1995.

The good thing about that time was that we didn’t have handphones, internet, or other entertainment that consumed time the way they do today. That was why we had a flock of fans, our schoolmates. We wrote that in the third year before we graduated. We were in different classes, so we could only exchange the story during recess time and took turns to bring it home. I still remember how the ‘book’ looked, a stack of torn (neatly) pages from books (with lines) stapled together. Many would read it during the day. Those schoolmates studying in the same class would pass it around and snuck it between textbooks to read them when the teachers faced the other way. It would get back to me or her so that we could continue the story.

We finished the novelette in a few months, with holiday and examination breaks. We ‘published’ it. Each fan got a copy, and I asked her to hold the original because she initiated the writing.

I can’t speak about other authors, to me, books are very personal. It sounds exaggerated and mushy, well yes, sometimes I feel like it’s like baring my soul, and I have to kill those who have read it. Don’t worry, I only feel this way for people who know me in real life. (I’d love for you to read my books. No harm will be done! Promise!) It took me years to tell a handful family and friends. Only after my latest book above did I reveal it to my two good friends, the current one who only knew I write but didn’t know my pen name or books, and the long-lost one mentioned above. How? With tremendous difficulty. I know I shouldn’t feel that way and make this more difficult than it should be, but I couldn’t help it.

After doing that, it feels liberating. I want them to like my books, of course, especially my one and only co-writer. We loved each other’s writing back then, so I hope the odd is in my favor. Whatever it is, I am at peace. I think I have done what I need to do. I have reached a point where I feel confident enough and have pulled the band-aid.

 

P.S. Locky is my current 'co-writer.' He always makes sure I get enough love and attention.

P.S.S. It's hard to type with a dog on the lap but not impossible.

My book A Scarred Drifter 

A heartfelt post-apocalyptic dystopian about human struggles in a world where almost everything has been replaced by automation. 100% human effort, with sweat, tears, and a tiny bit of blood.

I hope this is your cup of tea/coffee/beer/any beverage of your choosing.

If you pick up the book, thank you so much. It really means a lot and keeps me going. Again, a very special thank you to my beta readers.
And, of course, to you all, thank you always for being here.

Have I said too many thank you? NEVER!

 

Two Celebrations!

 

Two celebrations!

My buddy, sunshine, and best friend Locky celebrated his tenth birthday yesterday. We went to his favorite beach, named after him (Google magic), and I gave him a haircut, a hand-drawn birthday hat, treats and toys. Long may he reign and many happy returns. 

 

I'm also happy to announce that my newest book is ready for pre-order. I was too afraid (please keep this a secret, I want to be fearless in Locky's eyes!) I'd expect something by setting up a pre-order, but then again, I'd never know if I'd never tried. After all, this has been a challenging journey, and why not make it more torturous? I hope you'll give my book a chance. 

Here is the pre-order link, the blurb and the cover. I made the cover from scratch, it's not much, but 100% human. Same thing with the book, genuine human author's blood, sweat, and tears.

CLICK HERE FOR PRE-ORDER

A Chopped Index Finger

 

It's great to write about things without first-hand experience. Research, reading about them, just like today when my search history is full of questionable things like how to knock someone unconscious, collapsed lung recovery, which side is more damaging when you stab a neck… Yeah, I have asked around before, and this is the problem with every writer who doesn't write in normal, harmless genres. My search history is sparkling, totally not a serial killer's vibe. Definitely normal, move along, nothing to see here. Oh, besides the grim stuff, there are many light research topics as well, such as how to make a pencil a certain way, types of berries, etc.

It feels even greater to write about things I've experienced before. There are several of them in my upcoming book: a chopped index finger, riot, fish attack, and mountain climbing, to mention a few. I don't want to be dramatic, so I will write about the lamest one: a chopped index finger. It sounds fantastic as a title, too.

It was late at night in my hostel. I needed to make a model for my design, which was the big task of that semester. With so many things to do, I didn't sleep for more than a couple of hours for days. We didn't have good facilities and resources, so I had to do everything on my floor and save on more cost-friendly materials, like real wood instead of fancy model wood (that is softer and much easier to cut but much more expensive). As you have guessed, after many slices, it happened. I was pushing my left fingers hard on a metal ruler on top of the wood. I needed multiple slices before I was able to break the wood, since, again, a saw would be a more appropriate tool instead of a box cutter (we call it a pen knife or just a cutter), but it would be difficult because of the small size, and a box cutter was all I had. I had done this countless times, and each time I got more confident and faster, increasing recklessness came with it, too, with the desire to get it done in less time. Every time I sliced, the position of my hand would move a little because of the pressure and movement. I had to adjust it, but there was a time when I sliced way too fast before proper adjustment, and the box cutter sliced through the top of my index finger. It had gone beyond its original position and protruded from the metal ruler. Since the knife followed the metal ruler outline, and the tip of my index finger was on the way, it took a good chunk of it.

They said (actually, it's my own theory) the pain in the fingers connects to the heart, while the pain in the mouth connects to the head. Think about the headache that comes with a toothache. Anyway, it was bloody painful, but I concentrated more on the missing tip, from where I could see a dancing mini fountain now. I don't know if it's anatomically or medically possible, but I swear the blood spurted from its centre pulsed like a tiny fountain (Apparently it's a sign of arterial bleeding, thanks to Google search). I don't know if my mind fooled me, but the memory of the sight was engraved into my mind. I had learned many shabby first aid courses and knew I had to put pressure, but there was so much blood and it didn't stop. So, I ran out of my hostel room, thinking of haunting some people and banging on their door asking for a bandage or whatever. Thankfully, one of the occupants was there watching late-night football, and he had some knowledge. It sounded ridiculous then, but we didn't have the luxury of a proper pharmacy or anything in the middle of the night (or day!). He tied those basic rubber bands (not the fancy ones, think of the only type that existed thirty years ago) on the middle of the finger, asked me to elevate it above my head so the bleeding would stop, and of course, abandoned the assignment that night.

So, I slept, pointing at the ceiling, and it actually worked. It took a while for the tip to grow back after I had resigned on looking forever at the slanted shape. To my delight, that assignment got an almost perfect score of 95 out of 100. Blood sacrifice? I guess so.

The next day, when I told my classmate about what happened, she shared a similar story, but it happened on her big toe. Like an empathetic person I was, I laughed out loud, thinking about the slanted big toe. To her credit, she laughed with me, and she became one of my good classmates.

Okay, this story is real, just like every ramble in my newsletter. My books are fictional, of course. The latest one is coming up soon. I finished drafting it in two months but took a year to refine and edit it. I'm very happy with it and want to try setting up a preorder. It's scary to hope because they say the key to happiness is low expectations. Argh! My target is to have the link by the next newsletter. I shall not fail to do so! However, there is no blood sacrifice. Just sweats, aching fingers, dark moments as I immersed myself with the character, and many edits with the help of my awesome alpha and beta readers.

 

Thank you always for being here.

I wish you a great life, no blood sacrifice required.

Grandma Is Mine!

Blogger is moody today and doesn't allow me to upload pictures.

Here is the complete post elsewhere: https://sotto.substack.com/p/grandma-is-mine

When I adopted Locky, I had given up my desire to have a dog because I traveled frequently. Then, a colleague who found out asked me to take him because they had too many dogs at home (with a new puppy litter). It came with a perk that Locky could stay with them anytime I traveled. I hesitated. I liked bigger dogs and almost adopted one from a shelter, but this perk and a pup that needed a home won the consideration. The arrangement is still ongoing, although all the other dogs (six of them, including Locky’s mom, siblings, half-siblings, and another dog) have crossed the rainbow bridge.

My colleague’s parents are always the ones who take care of the dogs. They are very kind, and although their way of caring for the dogs is more ‘traditional,’ they love those dogs unconditionally. They are always happy to see Locky, and Locky loves them all the same. Besides the lack of visual communication (they don’t keep up with technology), I feel safe leaving Locky to them when I have to. When all their dogs had passed not too long ago, I would bring Locky to the market where his ‘grandma’ works so they could meet for a while.

Now, they have another dog. He is still a puppy, less than one year old, but unexpectedly a big puppy (they were misled), and when I called yesterday, I found out that Locky is a demanding bully. He would walk with a swag and give this Kiddo a yap whenever he felt like it (he is probably 1/3 the size). Kiddo is not allowed to walk in front of his space, which is basically everywhere he could see. He seems to emphasize that although Kiddo stays there now, Locky was there first, and Kiddo doesn’t want to mess with this small, cute, but grumpy old man. Then, my little aholish fluff demands that his grandma pay no attention to the Kiddo. He doesn’t want to share his grandma; she is ‘not allowed’ to do anything with the Kiddo, and he complains whenever his grandma even walks in the Kiddo’s direction, while his grandpa, whom he loves slightly less than grandma, is allowed. Grandma doesn’t mind, and we laugh about it. It makes her feel special in a way.

So, yeah, I am currently away for family health reasons and miss him so much. How I wish I had a way to travel through space to meet my loved ones at any time.

Enough dog story for a day; I have plenty for another day. Now, books!

I want to say thank you to my beta readers; you all have been wonderful. I really appreciate your time and effort. I read and consider all inputs, they really help in making this WIP a better book. This has been an ongoing, wonderful, and humbling journey. My cover is almost ready, and I have finally decided on the title. Woohoo! My schedule is still on track, and everything is shaping up great.

Thank you always for being here.

I hope that today, everything that troubles you will be resolved, and that everything that makes you happy will be cherished and stay with you. Take good care of yourself.

The Curse of the Left Staircase

 

My second job working abroad was with a big corporation. The first one didn’t really count, it was a start-up, and the company went bankrupt in less than a year. However, it gave me some credentials to apply for permanent residency in that country. This second job in this corporation was somewhat related to my field, but I wasn’t very good at it yet (It was a new skill). I had no idea why they hired me after multiple interviews, maybe because it wasn’t a common skill back then, and I was a fresh graduate, just obtained my Permanent Residency; therefore, they could pay me peanuts.

I lasted five years there, but my first year was torturous. I felt anxious; I had no one to ask, and the internet was not that common/readily available yet, so I couldn’t just google what I didn’t understand. I had to be able to do what they paid me to do. I acted confident, but behind that, I struggled like a duck paddling underwater while pretending to be calm and collected. I learned, practiced, and worked late on my own so that I could deliver results and survive another paycheck to pay for rent in the foreign land, or I would die!

Fortunately, I improved as time passed, and most of my colleagues and my boss were decent.  However, there were nightmarish times and restless days. Unhappy boss, unreasonable deadline that I wasn’t good enough to tackle, and uncooperative hardware and software.

Then, I noticed one peculiar thing.

I had to take the subway every morning. Just like that daily montage in mind-numbing movies, I would take the same-timing train, board the same car, and alight at the same station through the same door in the middle of the train. It was as mundane as it sounds. After alighting, before me was a wide stair that would branch into two sides, right and left, because there was a lift core in the middle. Both sides of the stairs led to the same exit platform, so it shouldn’t be a problem whichever side I took right?

Wrong!

Every time I took the left staircase, my day would be horrible. I wasn’t happy with my work, anxious time, had imposter syndrome, high stress level, computer crashing, unsaved work, my mug looking at me funny, my colleague trying to kill me, something along those lines. I started to notice and didn’t believe it at first, and of course, it must have been a coincidence, with a splash of logic. The left staircase was closer to the exit, which I chose whenever I was in a hurry. Sometimes, when we were in project competition season, the schedule would be very tight, so I wanted to get to the office faster. The irony! Those were the times when the stress level and demand were high; therefore, it linked to horrible days.

Still, why would I risk it? I started taking only the right stairs, and for some reason, my days were better. The logic was that I was getting better at my work and was able to juggle the tasks, schedule, and expectations better. But hey, the stair theory worked!

Am I a superstitious person? I don’t think so. I am not superstitious, but I am a little stitious. However, I grew up in a family that respected tradition, including ‘good days.’ This belief exists in many cultures, there are good days to do important things. My mom uses this practice as needed. She picked our wedding dates (it works well!). She doesn’t just open up the calendar and select a good-looking number (just like all volume levels should be even numbers or dividable by five or the world will end!), but there is a ‘calculation.’ Date of birth, time of birth, type of thing to do, etc.

I have been asking her to pick my book publishing dates. So far, it doesn’t work well because I could never get the dates right (yeah, that is the reason, not because I suck at marketing) because of the time zones. Amazon’s time zone was in a twilight zone because I swear, on my last book release, I stayed up late to sync the timing, the one I am alive in and the one in Amazon’s universe so they both would fall on the same date that Mom had picked for me. It still didn’t work and the date was still wrong!

This time, hopefully, I will get it right, although I have no idea how to do that since I did everything right the last time. Yes, all these rambles are just a long-winded way to let you know that I’m happy to announce that my new book is coming out soon. It was supposed to come out in 2024, but my and my dog’s operations occupied us too much. Yeah, I’m stubborn and will continue to write if there is another person who likes it.

Authors' Drama

 

I don't go to Twitter daily. I tried to, but I must be in a good mindset to log in. It used to be miserable; I would 'sit' in the corner because I had no one to talk with, and my posts were not seen. Well, now my posts are still mostly unseen, and I am crawling, barely existing, but at least it's more enjoyable now. I've made some connections with other genuine authors, and although only a few of them see my posts, it's okay. I prefer quality over quantity, thankful my circle is decent and supportive. At least I feel more confident about just putting my thoughts out there (with many restrictions because some people might be offended merely by others' breathing).

I usually log in at odd times because of the time zone, when almost everyone sleeps. Then, of course, I always missed all the dramas (this is not a complaint).

I thought the writing industry was peaceful, but nah. There are so many writing dramas. If I missed them, I didn't really try to find out, but most of the time, I would get the context, or someone would explain it somewhere. To my surprise, most of the time, the dramas are between authors or by authors.

Dramas about what?

So far, an author faking reviews to thrash other authors because she saw them as competitors (this one blew up everywhere), authors criticizing other's writing styles they don't like (constructive criticisms are good, but the ones I saw were not those), authors spewing curses on some writing methods/formats, authors criticizing reviewers (rating, review style, review length), author attacking other authors for something not related to books, something related to books, and many more.

Apparently, some think their styles are the best, others are wrong, reviewers should abide by them, and other authors are competitors. I thought this should be a somewhat educated and intelligent industry. Apparently not. Why would other authors become competitors? Readers don't read one book, call it quit and stop reading. They are not betrothed, married, or surgically attached to ONE author and can only read one author because otherwise, the earth will open up and swallow everyone, Krakens will rule the land, and T-rex will come back with muscular and properly-sized hands. Most likely, if they like a style or a genre, they will seek something similar. We need other authors to keep the industry alive! To fight the Terminators!

For me, as much as other authors' negativities do ruin my day sometimes (the harshest words and reviews mostly come from authors), I take the positive of the community. There are many great, supportive authors and readers out there, and I cherish them because the industry is hard enough. Some criticisms are good, and some are harmful, so IMHO, the most important thing is to write for yourself and your readers, don't be discouraged. If you haven't and want to start writing, don't be discouraged. If you are a reader and/or a reviewer, thank you, and don't be discouraged. Most authors appreciate you and don't let a few ungrateful ones ruin what you do.

As far as I know, all industries have their ugliness. I usually expect the ugliness to come from other sides, not those who are supposed to be on the same side.

You are here. It means you are awesome. Thank you.

As for my book, I need more time to sort it out. I had a family reunion last month in my hometown; I slept on the floor, many interactions stressed me out, I didn't have privacy and couldn't concentrate on writing. It was tortuous but the food was good, I was properly fed. I love them.

The Ultimate Price of Growing Old

 

I’ve just tidied up some of my book collection, reminiscing the days I bought them home and devoured them. However, just like any other normal sensical reader out there, there are many that I haven’t read yet.

When words started to get blurry, and I had to get my first glasses, I gradually enjoyed reading and other meticulous hobbies less. I thought that was the price of growing old. When I breathed and sprained a muscle instead of being immortal when I was young, I thought that was the price of growing old.

They are not. The ultimate price of growing old is watching my parents and loved ones do the same. My dad is no longer the strong man I know, capable of almost anything. It pains me to see him taking longer and longer to get up from the floor (he loves playing with Locky) and how his back hunch, how my mom has less and less ability to do her hobbies, but regardless of that, both are still the first one to be there whenever we need them. It’s hard to hold Locky in my arms and know that the more I prepare for the imminent day of losing him, the harder it will be.

I wrote about humans being fragile and full of flaws because of our attachments to others and the what-if options of not having them. A projection, much? I think it’s fair to say that it’s a very real fear for many forever.

Somewhere, if you are not in a good place because you are missing someone or harboring the same fear as me, I wish you peace and strength.

I'm at another editing round of my new book and will be looking for beta readers soon. As long as one person likes my book, I'll continue writing. (Oh yeah, myself included) (I'm not as strong as my younger self, but I'm more stubborn and spiteful, and those keep me going :)

Fake Author Plague

 

One day, I got a follower on Twitter. Whenever I get followers, I check them out, and if they look genuine, I follow back. Sadly, those sexy profiles who are calling me sexy are bots. I know that because I can’t be that sexy.

Anyway, this one is from an author. I created Twitter to market my book. Obviously, I fail to do that because I don’t want to flood others’ feeds with unsolicited advertisements. I only mention my books when it feels natural and fits into the topic, which is not often. Fortunately, while starting as a miserable existence, I enjoy Twitter now because I get to connect with authors and readers. So, imagine my delight that this follow came from a well-established author—or so it seemed.

With a lot of books and an avatar with a face (I don’t even have that!), she has an underwhelming number of followers ratio. It didn’t flinch me at all because I know how sucky it could be to exist on social media. I followed back, and ding, a few seconds later, there was a DM from her. Wait, what? I get to chat with a famous author? She has many successful books with more than thousands of ratings while I almost sold my left toe to get one review. It started with a simple ‘Hello.’

At that time, I had these influxes of book marketers pestering me to use their service by flooding my DM without bothering to check on my work. The process was similar: they followed, and I followed back; since they were not sexy bots (I was a sweet summer child), I thought they were genuine users who were there for their businesses. (After all, I am, too!). However, a second later, I'd get a DM. They would then ask questions about what kind of books I wrote, etc., mostly things they could find out by checking my profile if they really cared. Of course, they didn’t. I assume they use algorithms or some kind of premade responses because if I engaged with them, the conversation would feel weird yet not totally detached. If you watch any video about scam baiters, these are similar kinds of conversations: trying to sound interested, but the conversation is all over the place unless they offer their services.

Anyway, I eagerly wrote back to reply to her hello, and with my gullible behind, I also included ‘I am so glad you are a real author. I was afraid this was a DM from another persistent marketer. I had too many of them lately’. She lol-ed and proceeded to ask what I wrote (fair enough btw, but I assume one would check before initiating contact, just like when I checked her profile and books before even following back). I answered and complimented her books (which indeed look impressive) and where she was from (Japan, a country with many things I’m impressed with). She replied, although she sounded a bit odd (again, detached but trying to keep me on), and gave me links to her book, throwing hints about how awesome they were. It went on for a bit.

Okay, I started to feel weird and unnatural. The conversations are mostly one-sided, and I felt like we were talking about different things that reset every time she DM-ed. So, like the civilized anti-social ahole I am, I spaced out and stopped responding. Nothing happened for a few days, and then it started again. ‘Hello.’ I recognized this pattern with all the marketers and shady characters who had DM-ed me. The conversation with the fake Japanese author probably took longer than usual because imagine being fake and my first conversation was, 'I am glad you are not fake.' They had to attempt to recover from that first, which also makes me think, most likely, that these fakers are mixtures of bots and humans.

During this time, there were more and more posts on Twitter from genuine authors about fake authors. These fakers personate famous/successful authors, even adopting their links, bios, and avatars. They then initiate chats with unknown authors like me. What is the purpose? Apparently, they will offer their services (I am not even sure) because they are awesome and successful, and we suck, basically, so we have to 'learn' from them. This sounds idiotic and obvious, but sadly, most authors appreciate others' input, and we didn't think there would be fake authors out there for this purpose. We are also over the moon thinking successful authors are engaging with us. Look, I worship no one, but I would probably shake in my boots if I had that kind of connection. I haven’t experienced it that far, but some authors said these fakers would go on to criticize and berate their work ‘nicely’ about their covers, statistics, sales, marketing efforts, etc, and that we are in dire need of advice. It might sound trivial, but most of the time, we question ourselves and our books daily. Most of us are treading on shaky foundations because it’s hard to justify doing this. We don’t need these craps.

Since then, I have ignored all similar DMs, especially from those who would DM in seconds after I followed back (marketers, fake authors and artists are flooding Twitter now). This industry continues to amaze me because I thought struggling authors were already at the bottom of the barrel, yet there are elaborate scammers out there still. Dang it.

Fortunately, after a long drought, I got a wonderful review about my book, The Bet of the Monsters. It gives me the spark to remember I should never give up. To think that there is someone who likes my book besides me is exhilarating, especially when they really understand my story.

Review for The Bet of the Monsters

As always, thank you for being here. I hope that for every doubt you have about what you do, there is something that will restore your faith.

One Resilient Boy With a Cool Scar

I guess I forgot to update here, so I will consolidate my posts into one.

One and a half months ago, after going back and forth, getting my hope up and down and delays because of my own problem, it was confirmed that my dog Locky had to be operated to remove tumors on his head and below his left eye. We were worried about the one in the head because it was growing, and the size was significant. Tumor, as scary as it sounds, is the term given for every unusual growth; it could be benign or malignant.

It was an emotionally exhausting day, but we came home together. Locky has kidney issues, irregular heartbeat, and reverse sneezing (while all these don’t give him troubles, they increase his risk significantly in how he would respond to anesthetic); it didn’t help that several dogs we knew didn’t wake up from the anesthetic. So, those couple of months had driven me crazy, and the possibility of him not coming home with me after the operation paralyzed me with fear. 

Thankfully, here he was.

The recovery was challenging, especially for him, since he had to wear a big cone, and I can imagine the pain and discomfort. The stitches were scary, and after changing the dressing the bandage didn’t stay because his hair had started to grow, so I had to improvise a bandana. Most day, I needed to redress his wound twice daily. Above all, the waiting time for the biopsy result was terrifying.

However, the little guy was resilient and in high spirit, and endured all those processes. Look at his smile!

Finally, we got the result about two weeks ago, one month after the operation. It’s benign! It’s such great news. I can’t express how much it means to me. The test took very long because they needed to add a more advanced process, using specific ‘coloring’ because it was hard to detect some cells without that (a direct translation, I know nothing), which of course, didn’t help my anxiety.

And a week ago, he is out on the beach again!

At first, he couldn’t play in the water and had to be kept on leash.

But now, he is free again, rocking a cool scar and a biggest smile.

Life is good again.

I have forgotten how I used to live my life before him. He is my sunshine.

Another Spooky Tale for Halloween

 

Something terrifying is happening to me right now: my book sales have been flatlining for quite a while. I have no one to blame but myself because I suck in getting them out there. I'm not a fan of advertisements, so I also don't wish to subject others to advertisements about my books, and that earned me virtual smacks from several online acquaintances who tried their best not to yell at me, "How do you sell anything if you never tell anyone?"

Okay, I tell people through this newsletter. I am sorry you are the unlucky lots, but I feel safe hiding here. I almost always put my books down there after you are sick of scrolling unless I have a new book coming up or a promotion, which hardly crossed my mind. Not because I am stingy, but because I am really bad at this marketing stuff.

So here we go; I am trying and sorry for this!

Get In Ora for 0.99 on 1st & 2nd November 2024ZC1RM

Now that we've got it out of the way, in the spirit of October and the actual day of Halloween, as promised, I am here to share another creepy real story. This was told by my dad.

My dad worked in remote, untouched jungles from when he was a teenager until his forties. Yes, he was barely there during my childhood. I remember thinking, 'Hey, this stranger is very nice to me', not registering that he was my dad during one of his rare times at home, but he worked hard to provide for us. He is the best dad, and he has a lot of stories to share about his time in the jungle. While those stories are weird, they are 'normal,' about his work conditions, wild animals they encountered, the exploration of untouched areas, etc. He is a very honest person; I don't remember him telling a lie to me or anyone; he is the kind of person who would rather not answer you instead of lying, even for fun purposes.

So, this one story of his sent a shiver down our spines when he told us. It didn't help that he was also visibly uncomfortable, something I rarely witnessed. You must have heard some permutations of this in movies or fiction before, but this happened to my dad.

It took place in our small town in west Borneo near noon time during his walk (it was normal to walk around, not every place was reachable by public transportation), he came across an acquaintance who was also walking somewhere across the street, so my dad called him up. It was someone he knew quite well, and Dad wanted to check on him, knowing the person (let's call him John) had some ongoing health issue. So, Dad asked if John was feeling better, and John answered something along the lines of "It's fine," although it was not straightforward because he seemed distracted. It's like when you talk to a person whose mind is somewhere else, but he is still able to hold the conversation. They talked for a while, and Dad got the sense that John might be in a hurry because now he realized there was someone standing a distance away, and he was waiting for John.

According to Dad, the waiting man was unremarkable; nothing stood out or memorable; he couldn't even remember his face and the man never said anything. Thinking of nothing, Dad ended the conversation and let John go. John walked up to the person waiting, and they both walked away together while Dad made his way home.

On that very same day, he heard the news that John had passed away, but it didn't add up because John had passed since morning, and Dad met him around noon, a couple of hours after that. However, his family was with him, and they all confirmed the time and the fact that John had never left the house.

I hardly think about it, but for some, they continue to look for answers about the afterlife and what will happen after we take our last breaths. Does this mean we at least have someone to guide us? Is he some kind of grim reaper or just someone to show the way? I don't know, I am not really curious about afterlife. For Dad, he always wonders what would happen if he didn't let John go or insisted on having a cup of coffee or bringing him back to his home? I guess we'll never know. It has never happened again, but this story is embedded forever in our minds.

There you go, enjoy the spooky spooky for those who celebrate it. I'll eat some candy bars as a form of solidarity.

Do You Have Spooky Tales?

This is not Locky trying to be spooky. He just tested if he was big enough to cover my TV (15inch monitor). Why do other things when you have a dog, right?

It’s October. I don’t celebrate Halloween, it’s not something common where I am. Yes, the cinemas here are populated by horror movies, but that is common all year round. What’s up with that? I guess the market is good, and most probably, horror movies require smaller budgets. Make everything dark, there are many settings that already look scary, adapt local urban legends and true terrifying stories, make it even darker; the recipe for good profit margins is there. I have only watched a few horror movies in my life, but this is not my opinion only because I have heard other similar inputs: Indonesia and generally Asian horror movies are the scariest horrors.

To be fair, Indonesia is very mystical. We have plenty of scary beings. I’m not sure what to call that, but there are many creatures out there with A LOT of eyewitnesses. There are many jungles and unexplored places. I have heard actual scary tales from my friends, my dad, and people I trust and witnessed weird stuff myself.

The ones I witnessed were ‘indirect.’ Back then, I went on many camping trips, from junior high school to university. They were not those fun camping, but we went to remote areas to learn about survivalism, explorations, and expeditions. The most modernized gadgets we had were magnetic compasses; I am not even sure it’s easy to find one now. We relied on paper maps (if any) and almost no communication methods. On more proper and bigger scale explorations, the organizer would have walkie-talkies, but that was all.

I witnessed on three separate occasions of my fellow campers being ‘possessed.’ I wasn’t sure what they did; we didn’t go around and disturb old burials or anything, although we came across them on some trips. Our activities were educational and responsible, and everyone I knew held up to those values. I still remember some of the mottos: kill nothing but time, take nothing by pictures or keep nothing but memories, and leave nothing but footprints. We were not those hippies, Instagram nuts nowadays who climbed Balinese sacred mountain, went butt-naked on the peak, posted on social media, and were deported for it. Idiots. Disrespectful idiots.

However, it happened. I didn’t get too close to them, but it was surreal to witness. I could see the physical transformations, no, not those elaboration movie styles, but the people possessed looked different. They screamed, they cursed, and their eyes went wild, bulging and sometimes red. They were unrecognizable, and their facial expressions were intense, not those we normally see unless we go to extreme lengths to make faces, and even so, it would not be easy to duplicate. One looked extremely angry, while the other was confused and wailing; one had to be held down because he started to destroy things. The weird similarity, fortunately, was that they were all staying in relatively the same area, as they didn’t go around, go wild, actively attack people, harm themselves, or go missing. On these occasions, the organizers would seclude the rest of us in a distance while a team of them would try to calm, negotiate, talk, and maybe pray. All of us would stay in silence and just hoped it would pass soon. It could take some time and even hours, but eventually, the person would pass out and wake up with no memory of what had happened. Fortunately, no one was harmed on these occasions, but it could be traumatizing. 

My first experience was when I was just fourteen, and one of my schoolmates was up there on the table with contorted bodies, screaming in a language no one understood, and it happened subsequently to multiple other students. It didn’t help there was a storm that night, and we had to huddle together in some old abandoned school (maybe that was why?) Almost every student was crying, traumatized, and swore off similar activities. I’m also not sure if those organizers prepared for those kinds of events; I wouldn’t be surprised if they did. I was always a participant only in those bigger groups.

It might sound unbelievable; there might have been another explanation for why these people were going berserk. I keep my mind open, but from my experiences, it looked pretty legit to respect and maintain my peace.

In university, I joined an outdoor organization where the explorations went to even more remote areas. We were all students just doing our outdoor hobbies and some social work. Here, I was taught not to leave my mind empty because it would be easier to ‘occupy’ (not a problem for me because that nosy brain never stops talking); we had to respect everything and excuse ourselves when we entered strange/remote/abandoned areas. To my amazement, everything went smoothly. I never had scary incidents except for one questionable expedition. It was the smallest group I had been in, five of us climbing a stratovolcano mountain. Nothing spooky, actually, just weird. I saw a cat that night when we camped near the peak. Not a mountain cat, cougar, or whatever wild cat, but a black house cat. This was not a popular mountain, and it was the year 1997; we were the only one there and had to open our own trail, so it was a relatively untouched mountain. Is it weird to see a house cat there? I don’t know. I also heard regular wave-crashing-the-shore sounds, and we were very high (2800+ meters/9200+ feet), but I tried not to think about it and went on to sleep well.

There was a legend out there, which we obviously didn’t comply that we should always have an even number (for small groups) because otherwise, something would even it out for you. Maybe that was the purpose of the cat?

Those are spooky October stories for you. I have more but I don’t want to blabber too much.

I hope you are well over there, wherever you are. Whatever struggles, sorrows, or hardships you are trying to overcome, I am rooting for you to win the battle. Don't give up.

Take care, and thanks for being here, as always.

It Has Been A While

 

It has been a while. I was away for a family reunion and had an unexpected health issue that required hospitalization, but it’s all well now.

Before they knew what to do with me, I was put in a big room and wheeled here and there with many other patients. The room was full, filled with beds in every corner; some were even put in the middle. We never stayed in the same spot, they would take us to the X-ray room, Ultrasound, blood test, this corner for picture taking, and other corners for questioning, insurance, making sure you pay, interrogation, confession, presentation for your appliances’ expired warranty, etc. So, every staff member was busy and it was not easy to even ask for a pillow.  It was an A&E area where I had a chance to observe human vulnerability.

Obviously, due to the nature of hospitals, we are reminded about how dependent we are on all these technologies and other human beings during sickness. The feeling of being completely in others’ mercy, skills, and knowledge is humbling. I have watched too many true crimes and documentaries about how easy it is for people in the medical field to harm or mess up, but those didn’t bother me that day.

It was more about what I witnessed. I saw all kinds of people in one of their most vulnerable conditions. We wore ill-fitting issued clothes, and we were like lost puppies looking at the staff, trying to catch what they were whispering about, decipher the displays on the monitor, interpreting the hmm and the nods or head shakings, the dread of finding what made you there, the hope pairing with the anxiety of getting your turn, and the constant beeps of everything around. Many elderly were distraught and kept looking for their loved ones, mainly their children; some couldn’t even communicate.

It’s heartbreaking to witness the helplessness and vulnerability, and how amazing it is to see a face I am familiar with, my rock even when I am strong.

Oh well, I always think we are created with too many flaws, but someone would whack my head and say that makes us human. Whatever it is, I wish you all strength and happiness.

My schedule is messed up now, and I would need more time to prepare for my new book. However, your holiday is over! I am here to ramble again. Thank you for being here.

You Are Not Alone

 

June is Male Mental Health Awareness Month, and Father’s Day also falls in June in many parts of the world.

Around 2002, I worked as a junior staff member in this big company, with multiple departments on multiple floors. My department (around a dozen people) was located next to another (around four-five dozen). The workflow sequence was from ours to theirs. I don’t need to liaise with them in Department 2 since I only did technical presentation work exclusive to Department 1. Still, I know their faces and sometimes their names because we shared communal facilities, and there were some team-building activities now and then.

I had a small lunch group of around five people or less. Sometimes, one or two people from Department 2 would join us, but it was rare. I didn’t really enjoy lunch for personal reasons (story for another day) and because working-hour lunch was hellish. Everywhere was jampacked, it was always rushed, it was harder to secure a table for a group, and before you finished half of your food, other patrons would stand behind you to wait for your seats. I don’t exaggerate this; it’s still happening now. So, the food court was a nightmare, but that was what most of us could afford.

One day, this middle-aged guy from 2 invited us for lunch in a more private restaurant. He had ‘booked’ us the day before. I knew him only from passing interactions as a nice, hardworking, quiet, respected, and polite guy. Sometimes, we exchanged small talk in the pantry, but I never had lunch with him. I wasn’t sure; it was only my first year, and most likely, one or two guys in my group had. Anyway, it was nice to have a peaceful meal once in a while, sitting in a comfortable restaurant without needing to rush. I didn’t know he could be very social and chatty; he was friendly and seemed happy to know us better.

The day after, he jumped to his death from his high-rise apartment.

He was a father of two, and no one, not even people who were so-called close to him, expected that. Twenty-two years now, it still makes me sad to think about how nobody knew what he was going through. I still don’t know why, and out of respect, I didn’t go around and ask. Most people just speculated, and it became a blurred line between reality and assumption.

I don’t need anyone to scream at me about depression doesn’t recognize gender etc. While it’s true, it’s also true that many men decide to face it themselves because they feel they can’t talk about it without prejudice. Sometimes, it’s a stigma, sometimes, they don’t think they have good support around them, and sometimes, they actually don’t have anyone to help them. Although the roles have shifted, most responsible men hold big burdens on their shoulders about what they should be in the family and society and work hard to be the pillar for everyone. It’s very tough, and I really respect them for that. I could only wish that everyone else could also be the pillar for them when they need it.

I want to share this video; it always gets me every time I watch it.

Many Happy Returns

 

We have just celebrated my dog’s 9th birthday two weeks ago. 

I have always loved dogs and almost went through the adoption process with a rescue shelter, but unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be (some scheduling and other issues). After that, I decided not to get a dog at all since I was traveling quite often, I didn't want to leave my dog in boarding houses often.

My colleague learned about it in a passing conversation, and a few weeks after that, she offered me a puppy for adoption. It was a coincidence there were three new puppies in her home (on top of the existing four dogs), and they couldn’t take care of all of them. Since she knew my difficulty, it came with a perk: I can put him with them whenever I travel.

My dream dog back then was a big dog, a mongrel, like the ones my family had. Mongrels dominate rescue shelters, as people here prefer pricey, purebred, ‘cute’ dogs. So, I was looking at this puppy picture and thought, oh dear, this looked like those fancy celebrity dogs. I hesitated, but how could I resist helping give this puppy a home with a perk that solved my problems?

When I brought him home, he was scrawny and smelly. He loved eating rocks and was scared of other puppies, waves, water, and the sea. He pooped on his bowl and tipped over everything. But he is the most intelligent dog, and with some training and patience, he becomes the most confident dog who surfs and is fearless. He is a well-behaved dog, never destroys anything, and has many toys because everything is as good as new, and he loves to play. No bias!

Here he is on his 9th birthday. He is my best friend, my companion, my therapy dog. He is not a lap dog; he would push me off with his paws for unsolicited cuddling (unless it’s pretty cold!), but whenever I am sad or angry, he would sit on my lap and nudge or lick away my sorrow until he is convinced that I am no longer sad or angry. One of the reasons I quit my job was because I wanted to spend more time with him. I arrange my life around him, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do to make sure he is happy. We have an unbreakable bond, and everyone says he takes after me. He doesn’t like people, screaming children, or high-pitched and repetitive sounds. We howl together every time an ambulance passes us in traffic and bark at the neighbor’s chickens when they get too rowdy.

These were the pictures sent to me before adoption. He was around two months old.

His first day with me at home, he was three and a half months old. The killer eyebrows! I know!

Now. Today. A wise and grumpy nine-year-old. Wishing for many more years together

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