“Anyone who writes down to children is simply wasting his time. You have to write up, not down.” E.B. White
Enter a child’s headspace and you will find a perpetually unfolding space for stories and beauty. Children are driven by wonder and endless curiosities. Yet children’s books rarely capture this spirit. They downsize big ideas—in E.B. White’s words: “writing down to children”—even though kids are the most inquisitive creatures who happily swallow mind-stretching topics and swing from one discipline to another like a natural interdisciplinary student.
Recently, we are seeing a reemergence of children’s stories that, like children themselves, galvanize on little mundane things in life, like mornings, a blue bird, or a city’s soundscape. I call them ‘children’s stories for adults’ for its quality that transcends age and time. Working as modernized and simplified fables, these children’s stories for adults mark the realization that adults, too, are still little children inside. Continue reading “Writing Up for People”
Apparently, melancholy was a dark fluid circling through our body. At least that was what the Greeks think. Besides melancholy, there was also joy, lethargy and sensitivity, and anger. The inherent dogma, that sadness is a hormonal imbalance in the body, persists throughout the modern age under various clinical depression names. Despite this truth, we are reluctant to admit sadness in our life, assuming it as the enemy in today’s obsession to a “fulfilling life”.
Just a few days ago, while lounging on a chic-tropical terrace of a Peruvian restaurant in the middle of Ubud, as the sunlight made its dramatic come down against the palm trees, the slow drag of sadness came unto me. Indeed there is something about afternoons that’s distinctively melancholic. I refused to look at my phone since noising out sadness gives more sadness. So as the sadness sits there in front of me, I thought, what should I do? And it occurred to me that we are never taught how to embrace sadness. Should I think, should I feel? That’s the first question. Then, should I stay silent or do something? Should I listen or should I speak? I froze on what to do. All while sadness sips black bitter tea next to me. Continue reading “Oh darkness my old friend”
I’m fascinated with Time. This thing that rules over our world and limits our life. It’s always a question whether it is relative or not.
Time is such a big word for me. To me, it encompasses, identity, memory, consciousness, god-likeness, collective consciousness, universal purpose, and even universal truth. It’s an enemy to us humans because it entraps us into this limited entity in both time and space, but it’s also a friend because it is the medium onto which ideas grow. “Only Time can tell.” It’s a living mystery that conceals or unveils the truth.
Time is also an especially fascinating subject when we relate it to memory and identity. The memories of the past are just remnants of what we assume happened. Our perceptions of ourselves in the past are skewed. The stories we tell ourselves speak more about who we want to be than who we actually are. So we perpetually walk on this ever-changing sense of identity and this often makes us feeling fussy.
So in this series, again, I wrote few things in fiction about time. Many of these were actually written years ago, yet in my head, they are very much about Time.