A Life in Words

by You Jin

  But no matter what I said to her father, he was adamant. Even though I talked myself blue in the face, he would not budge. “I want Qinli to go to university. I know she can do it!”

  Qinli’s situation grew increasingly dire. Her face became expressionless, her focus slackened, and she cried wildly when I tried to talk to her.

  I met her father again, then another two times, trying everything I could to reason with him, but to no avail. To him, the only way to make it in life was to get an education, everything else was useless.

  One day in September, Qinli’s seat was empty. When I called her home, no one answered. The next day, her father came to school, his face downcast, and said, “I was bringing her to school, but she fell off the bike and was injured. She will need to miss a few days of school.”

  I went to the hospital to visit her, and she turned her face to the wall. She said, “I really want to die.”

  When I heard this, my hair stood on end. It had not been an accident when she fell off the bike.

  I told her father what I suspected. Enraged, he said, “How can that be?”

  I asked him to let her take a little time off from school, for the sake of her health, but even that was refused.

  A week later, she was discharged and returned to school. Her face had an alarming green pallor. At the time, the final exams were coming up, and all kinds of tests were going on. Qinli’s entire demeanour was that of a corpse. Two weeks later, her chair was again empty.

  That evening when I was watching the news, I learned that she had jumped from the 16th floor of her building, immediately ending her life. Not being allowed to choose her own path in life, she found a tragic way to leave this world of suffering behind her.

  Several days later, I received a phone call. It was a familiar, tear filled voice on the other end of the line. “Ms Tham, I just finished with Qinli’s funeral.”

  Just as I was feeling distressed, trying to find the right words to comfort this heartbroken father, he added, “Ms Tham, I’m sorry.”

  Today, so many years later, when I think of those words and the deep agony they expressed, the regret and self-blame, I still feel like weeping.

  After this, I often thought that the tragic event happened only because Qinli’s father was unable to recognise the troubling signs. He took the wrong approach in expressing his love for his daughter, and the cutting short of her precious life was the reward he received for his misguided notions of love.

  I believe many similar tragedies are in the making throughout the country. Perhaps some are already in the embryonic form. If I could use writing to sound the alarm, perhaps it would catch the attention of a few people and change their way of thinking. So, I wrote the short story “Xu Qinli: A Young Girl”.

  In my subsequent years of teaching, through my constant contact with students, I came across many moving stories and problems that were often overlooked. We often assume that young people exaggerate the troubles they face, but in fact if we are willing to stop and listen carefully, we may discover that some of their problems should not be ignored. They need to talk to someone. They need a helping hand, our concern and our love.

  I always keep both eyes and ears open, communicating with them wholeheartedly. Then, through the beautiful style of a short story, I try to reflect their problems and give them a voice. I do not preach, but try to embed their problems in realistic stories, leading sensitive readers to discover the truth.

  My stories include a female student who had a crush on a teacher and falsely accused him of misconduct, a tragic young couple, battling brothers, a youth who spent too much money, a female student who ate forbidden fruit, student thieves, a boy who committed suicide because of a disagreement with his mom, a boy who was allowed to do anything he wanted because his parents spoiled him, a girl who was ashamed of her appearance because of her parents’ preference, and a young person’s deviant actions because of his parents’ separation. In writing stories based on these harsh realities, I discovered that every troubled student has problem parents in the background. A home can be the breeding ground for nurturing outstanding kids, and also the sickbed for growing troubled kids.

  Truth in Fiction

  In 1980, EPB Press signed a contract with me for five books all at once, books which would be set in Singapore—written about Singaporeans, and dealing with local issues. These five works were released one after the other, reprinted again and again, with some even reprinted nine times. The five titles were Burning Lion, A Smiling Dragonfly, Dancing Sunflower, An Entrancing Vortex and Rainbow Fragments.

  Later, New Asia Press published That Panther Woman, SNP Pte Ltd published The Sweetness of Light, and Lingzi Pte Ltd published Listen, Youth is Weeping. All were about local people, issues and settings.

  Of these, Listen, Youth is Weeping was written at the request of the editor of the Taiwanese Teacher’s Monthly, Mr Lu Zhengda. Mr Lu wrote in the foreword of this book: “You Jin’s articles have appeared in Teacher’s Monthly, and they always attract enthusiastic responses. Many of the issues she addresses are a reflection of the concerns all parents have.”

  In writing this novel, I adhered strictly to the principle of truth in fiction. The plot of the story could be constructed freely, but the real-life details still had to be realistic. I did not want my work to become a laughingstock, so I put a good deal of effort into preparation and research.

  In Burning Lion, I made use of the lion dance to describe the complex relationship between a father and son. I found a lion dance troupe and went to observe their strenuous training sessions. Hoping to move past surface impressions to a real understanding of what they went through, I learned the basics of their moves and talked to them about what went on in their minds. I learned about the different sects of lion dancing and the changes the culture had undergone. Only when I had gotten some understanding of all this did I start to write. While I was writing, I felt inspired by the lion dancers, as if their spirit moved my pen. When I grew dizzy from writing about the leaps and moves of the dancers, or felt myself overwhelmed with the booming pulse of their drums, I almost started to feel like I had become a part of the troupe myself. At the end of the story, I cried when the person on the top of the formation missed his foothold and fell.

  In the novella Rainbow Fragments, the narrative revolves around a koi fish. Since I did not know much about koi, I checked out tons of library books about koi and researched until I had some basic understanding. I went to a koi shop and talked to the staff about things I did not understand, asking questions non-stop until I learned a great deal about the quiet spirit of the fish. After that, I visited a koi club, where I squatted by the pond, watching the fish swim about. I watched for several days, until I even saw koi swimming in my dreams. When I felt my preparation was complete, I started writing about the fish. It was a smooth, natural process. By the time I finished writing, I had a new affection for those brightly coloured creatures. Now, I keep several in a pond in my house.

  In the novella That Panther Woman, the focus of the story is a Chinese bakery, so I went in search of the boss of just such a shop and asked him a number of very detailed questions. During my school holiday, I spent several days at his shop, watching carefully so I could learn how to make the pastries and cakes. The boss even allowed me to make some myself. As a result, the pastries and cakes that flowed from my pen were full of form and taste, enabling readers to see and savour them. The aromas kept wafting out from the lines of writing.

  Writing The Setting Sun Never Ages was especially interesting. The protagonist was a cat lover, but I had always hated the creatures, making a point to avoid them as much as possible, even purposely crossing the road just to stay out of their way. Now, for the sake of this article, I needed to write with great sympathy for cats, but I knew absolutely nothing about them. How in the world was I to proceed? While I was turning the problem over in my mind, I found a stray cat lurking outside my home. An idea hatching, I went to the supermarket and bought a b
ig bag of cat food. That afternoon, I put the cat food on a plate and placed it in an empty space in my back garden. I hid quietly behind, waiting to see what would happen. Before long, several stray cats came in uninvited. They surrounded the plate of cat food in my garden, jockeyed for position, and when their fight grew intense, their fur stood on end as they wrestled each other. However many days I placed food in the garden, they still showed up. I watched them with greedy eyes, which affected me so much I started to look like a cat on the prowl myself. Then I began writing my story. There was a very unpleasant side effect to this research. Even when I stopped putting food in the garden, that gang of stray cats came to my house every day, waiting like ghosts, begging for food. They really infuriated me, but I did not know how to get rid of them. Knowing I had only myself to blame, I held my peace and bore the consequences.

  In the novel Blood-Weeping Petal, the story takes place in MacRitchie Reservoir, but I could not remember what kind of flowers grew there. The more I thought, the more blank my mind became, so I turned off the computer, and drove there to do field research. When I had taken a good look, I went home and started my creative work afresh. The story starts like this:

  Night-time at MacRitchie Reservoir is a place for lovers. The fragrance of flowers, the crystal clear water, the lamplight’s glow, and the cool breeze all work together to create a serene, romantic atmosphere. A row of bougainvillea grows by the lake, the crimson blossoms gathering in full clusters on skinny branches, and in the dim night, their brilliance exudes a disturbing seductive air. The trees seem to be crying, not with tears, but with blood drops. Their petals are stained crimson by this blood.

  Another book in this series, The Entrancing Vortex, was especially difficult to write. It is over 100,000 words, my first full length novel. To use a simple illustration, if you see the novel as a loom, then the young generation is the shuttle, and family, school and society are the three main threads. These issues include caning (which sparked a lot of attention), a damaging drug addiction and puppy love.

  During that time, in order to gather information about drug addiction and trafficking, and to understand the culture of drug use and the process of becoming an addict, every day after school, I went to a drug rehab centre and held long conversations with the addicts there. I observed several addicts as they went cold turkey, and gained a great deal of first-hand creative material. After The Entrancing Vortex was published, many readers read about the soul-grasping high produced by drugs, and the hellish torture the addicts had to go through in rehabilitation, and they wondered at the realistic and penetrating descriptions. They were not aware that I put a lot of hard work into the research.

  When I set out to write long fiction, I was still a part-time writer, and so did not have one long stretch of time to concentrate solely on my writing. I could only make the most of what time I had, squeezing my writing into the spaces between my regular responsibilities. Despite fatigue after work, and in the dead of night, I did not rest or sleep, but wrote without a break. Sometimes, without realising it, I wrote until morning came. When the first ray of sunshine fell on my table, I then realised dawn had arrived. I would put down my pen and rest for a little, then force myself to enter another realm of my life. Sometimes inspiration would hit me like a river released from a dam, sweeping me up in its current, but unfortunately I was entangled in trivial matters at the time and could not escape to my writing. When I foolishly pushed back the rushing creative inspiration, suppressing the burning creative desire, the feeling inside could only be described as being utterly consumed. Often, when I had already quit writing, the characters in my story would continue to move about in my mind. Their joy and sorrow would transform into a smile on my face and tears in my eyes. I was myself, but also not myself. The characters came from my pen, but I often became mixed up with them. The line between reality and fantasy became blurred, often mingling together. During the long year and a half it took me to write the novel, I felt divided, living half my life on the page. Joy and sorrow mingled together, gripping me at the same time. The day I finally finished writing, the relief I expected did not come. I sat looking at the huge, round full stop at the end of that sentence, and felt myself falling into the black hole at its centre. I was neither happy nor sad, just numb. I was completely devoid of all emotion. Many days later, my feelings seemed to awaken from hibernation. I did not feel an overwhelming joy, nor a relieved calmness, but an unbelievable sense of loss. Had I really completed this story? I only half-believed it. When I printed the whole thing out and bound it, as I held the book in my hands, the feeling of joy finally became tangible. Ah, 100,000 words!

  This was the first full-length novel I had ever written. Many people assume that such a novel cannot be born in times of peace. But even in times of peace, many problems still exist, like dust scattered everywhere, quietly settling in corners where the sunlight reaches, or where it cannot. On the surface, the problems may seem trivial, but they are like sores. If you ignore them, they may swell and become infected with pus. Authors are not like doctors. They cannot cut the sores open and remove the pus, but an author can open up the sores and expose the poisonous pus to the world, then everyone can come up with a plan to counter it together.

  Many years of teaching gave me numerous opportunities to engage in the world of young people, to observe them, listen to them, and write their stories. These stories are not just for young people, but also for all teachers and parents. I drew out the heart of these issues with my pen, exposing the hidden virus to light, so that they, and society could see the problem.

  While I was simultaneously writing and teaching, I combined the experiences gained from field reporting and teaching into perfect harmony. I trained students to become little reporters, then let them walk out of the classroom to carry out interviews.

  In 1988, I was named teacher-in-charge of the Hua Yi Secondary School Chinese Society. This was the first time I had planned activities for a society. I asked myself how I could possibly help those members of the Chinese Society benefit from activities of substance.

  When I thought more about it, I decided to make going out of the classroom and conducting field interviews the focus of our training. I came up with some writing plans, which became the long-term development goal of the Chinese Society.

  The main reason I made this decision was that I discovered a very discouraging phenomenon during my long years in teaching: there were several gifted writers who, upon leaving school, gave up writing for good. The reason they gave up writing was that they had a wrong concept of it, thinking that creativity meant secluding oneself in a room and wrestling with words. They also felt that their own dull lives did not give them much inspiration to build a bright, creative world, so as soon as they finished their studies, they put aside their pens.

  I decided to use the Chinese Society as a starting point, and through a string of perfect plans, to bring the students out of the classroom and show them how to draw creative material from real life. For these young teenagers, going out of the classroom and conducting field interviews was a completely new concept. In order to help them absorb the idea better, I systematically carried out several instructive procedures. First, I took them to the newspaper office, the library and a publishing house to gather information. After that, I taught them to use the problems highlighted by this information to prepare for field interviews. Later, it was time to go out for interviews. There was a huge variety of ways to conduct an interview. All the various transformations worked. But the basic skills were to be thick-skinned, extremely patient, to hang in there and possess a glib tongue. On top of this, I taught them to be adaptable, hardworking, unafraid to ask questions and to have great tolerance.

  When we came back from our interviews, I held dialogues and discussions with the students, talking about the successes and failures of their work, identifying their weaknesses and coming up with counter-strategies. Then we went out to conduct more interviews. We went out to the field again and again,
until we had found enough material.

  Of course, after we had finished the research phase, we moved on to writing, which, after all, was the main point of the writing plan. Interestingly, when normal writing assignments were given in the classroom, the students’ papers would remain blank, even after racking their brains, but now that they were faced with this sea of material, they complained about having to leave things out. When I asked them to trim the seven or eight thousand words they had collected in an interview into a two-thousand-word article, they often found it difficult to let anything go, and felt miserable about it.

  Jade is perfected over long periods of time before it finally sparkles with an almost living glow. Likewise, it takes years for a few trees to grow into a forest. Writing is the same. Though a student’s first piece of writing might leave much to be desired, if he is given enough time and care, the work he later produces can really shine.

  In 1994, at the initiation of our principal Loke Kah Kee, the first collection of Writing Plan was issued, featuring ten interviews done by students. In 1998, when Olive Ooi was principal, the second collection was issued.

  Due to the novel composition and solid content of “Writing Plan”, when the two collections were published, the Chinese newspaper Lianhe Zaobao and the English paper The Straits Times each did a feature article on it, arousing wide public interest.

  An Important Choice

  In 1999, I was again faced with an important career choice. I had been at Hua Yi Secondary School for eighteen years. In 2000, it was scheduled to move from Depot Road to a new campus in Jurong. With the new campus, there would be a completely new intake. In other words, the students at the new campus would all be Secondary 1 students, while those in higher levels would be dispersed to other schools.