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It’s a new dawn, It’s a new day, It’s a new life …๏ฟผ

… and I’m feeling good.

Cheers, folks! It’s the eve of a new year here where I am. The morning air is crisp and I spy orange hues in the sky from my bedroom. I am celebrating because there are so many things to be cheerful about despite the media’s constant doom and gloom reports. Yes, there is a new variant circulating the globe. It has multiplied in the hundreds of thousands and travel regulations are changing again. But, cheers! Cheers because I am still alive and will be celebrating a new year. Let’s see what 2022 brings.

Recently, I took part in a 12 Days of Christmas with Julie Hedlund. It’s a group where picture book authors share their thoughts. As that group is a private one, I thought I’d share my thoughts here. We will start with Day 5.

๐™ณ๐šŠ๐šข ๐Ÿป: ๐™ป๐šŽ๐šŠ๐š›๐š—๐š’๐š—๐š๐šœ โœจโœ”๏ธ๐Ÿ. ๐’๐ก๐จ๐ฐ ๐ฎ๐ฉ, ๐ฌ๐ก๐จ๐ฐ ๐ฎ๐ฉ, ๐ฌ๐ก๐จ๐ฐ ๐ฎ๐ฉ, ๐š๐ง๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ž ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ญ๐จ๐จ. I wish I had said this but am co-opting it from Isabel Allende, my muse. I show up everyday, gummy-eyed and bear-breath, with a caffeine-juice, waiting for that moment when my brain kicks in. Then I put in an hour or two of work, writing down rubbish, rants, and ruminations. I split my day up into 3 parts: morning pages for stories, lunch litter for reivisons, and pre-dinner ponderings for story ideas. This I learned from a young artist who sadly joined the angels five years ago. He told me to just get on with what I had to do — write. โœ”๏ธ๐Ÿ. ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ฅ๐ข๐ญ๐ž๐ซ๐š๐ซ๐ฒ ๐š๐ซ๐ญ๐ฌ (๐š๐ง๐ฒ ๐š๐ซ๐ญ ๐Ÿ๐จ๐ซ๐ฆ, ๐Ÿ๐จ๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐š๐ญ ๐ฆ๐š๐ญ๐ญ๐ž๐ซ) ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐›๐ฃ๐ž๐œ๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ๐ž, ๐š๐ฅ๐ฐ๐š๐ฒ๐ฌ ๐ž๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ž๐ซ๐ข๐ž๐ง๐œ๐ž๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐ซ๐จ๐ฎ๐ ๐ก ๐š ๐ฉ๐ž๐ซ๐ฌ๐จ๐ง๐š๐ฅ ๐ฅ๐ž๐ง๐ฌ. I wish it weren’t the case, but we are human beings and that is what stories do — resonate with us in different personal ways. I learned to not be too precious about my writing because someone will shrug after reading, someone else will attest to it being meh, and yet another will award me 5 stars. I take what helps me improve and leave to rest what doesn’t resonate. โœ”๏ธ๐Ÿ‘. ๐“๐ก๐ž๐ซ๐ž ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ซ๐ฎ๐ญ๐ก ๐ข๐ง ๐œ๐ฅ๐ข๐œ๐ก๐ž๐ฌ. This is true: a prolific writer is a voracious reader; a great writer is an astute reader. This is also true: you’re as good a writer as you want to be … the rest of it is learning to be better … and there is always room for improvement. Finally, true too: Writing is a craft and it can be learned. โœ”๏ธ๐Ÿ’. ๐๐จ๐ญ ๐ž๐ฏ๐ž๐ซ๐ฒ๐จ๐ง๐ž ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ก๐š๐ฉ๐ฉ๐ฒ ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐œ๐œ๐ž๐ฌ๐ฌ, ๐ค๐ž๐ž๐ฉ ๐ญ๐ก๐จ๐ฌ๐ž ๐ฐ๐ก๐จ ๐š๐ซ๐ž ๐œ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฌ๐ž, ๐š๐ง๐ ๐œ๐ž๐ฅ๐ž๐›๐ซ๐š๐ญ๐ž ๐ญ๐ก๐ž๐ข๐ซ๐ฌ, ๐๐ข๐ญ๐œ๐ก ๐ญ๐ก๐จ๐ฌ๐ž ๐ฐ๐ก๐จ ๐š๐ซ๐ž๐ง’๐ญ, ๐š๐ง๐ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฌ๐ก ๐ญ๐ก๐ž๐ฆ ๐š๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐›๐ž๐ฌ๐ญ. But first, be like Saint Francis of Assissi and learn to tell who these folks are. It is different strokes for different folks, and in every community, there are those who make you feel safe and those who don’t. We can’t change people, nor should we want to, but we can learn to manage how we want to interact with those in our community. โœ”๏ธ๐Ÿ“. ๐–๐ก๐ž๐ง ๐ฌ๐จ๐ฆ๐ž๐จ๐ง๐ž ๐ญ๐ž๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฌ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐ญ๐ก๐š๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐  ๐Ÿ๐จ๐ซ ๐œ๐ก๐ข๐ฅ๐๐ซ๐ž๐ง ๐œ๐š๐ง’๐ญ ๐›๐ž ๐ญ๐ก๐š๐ญ ๐ก๐š๐ซ๐, ๐ง๐จ๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ก๐ž๐š๐ ๐š๐ง๐ ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ๐ž. Smile, not smirk. Do not take offence because you know that this person doesn’t know what they’re talking about. And when they do start to write for children, be that encouraging friend for they will need one. โœ”๏ธ๐Ÿ”. ๐„๐ฏ๐ž๐ซ๐ฒ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐จ๐ซ๐ฒ ๐ก๐š๐ฌ ๐š ๐ซ๐ข๐ ๐ก๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ ๐›๐ž ๐ฌ๐ก๐š๐ซ๐ž๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐จ๐ซ๐ฅ๐. Some are written and documented, others are whispered into the ears of attentive listeners, and many are passed down through retellings of family lore and history. All stories are important and when the time is right, yours too will find themselves transcribed and told. Keep on writing because a journey starts with a single step. Although I write towards getting my stories published, I also write for myself. ๐™ท๐šŽ๐š›๐šŽ ๐šŠ๐š›๐šŽ ๐š–๐šข ๐Ÿผ ๐š๐šŠ๐š”๐šŽ๐šŠ๐š ๐šŠ๐šข๐šœ ๐šœ๐š’๐š—๐šŒ๐šŽ ๐™ธ ๐šŽ๐š–๐š‹๐šŠ๐š›๐š”๐šŽ๐š ๐š˜๐š— ๐š๐š‘๐š’๐šœ ๐š“๐š˜๐šž๐š›๐š—๐šŽ๐šข.

Working backwards, we go to Day 4.

๐™ณ๐šŠ๐šข ๐Ÿบ: ๐™ฒ๐š‘๐šŠ๐š•๐š•๐šŽ๐š—๐š๐šŽ๐šœ, ๐™ณ๐š’๐šœ๐šŠ๐š™๐š™๐š˜๐š’๐š—๐š๐š–๐šŽ๐š—๐š๐šœ & ๐™ต๐šŠ๐š’๐š•๐šž๐š›๐šŽ๐šœ. Well, this is a challenging one, but I will try to share this in small chunks: ๐—–๐—ต๐—ฎ๐—น๐—น๐—ฒ๐—ป๐—ด๐—ฒ๐˜€ ๐Ÿ. ๐–๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐  ๐ญ๐ก๐ซ๐จ๐ฎ๐ ๐ก ๐š ๐ญ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ง๐š๐ฆ๐ข ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐๐ž๐ฉ๐ซ๐ž๐ฌ๐ฌ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐š๐ง๐ ๐›๐ซ๐š๐ข๐ง ๐Ÿ๐จ๐ . ๐Ÿ˜ฅ ๐Ÿ. ๐Ž๐ง ๐ฆ๐ž๐ง๐จ๐ฉ๐š๐ฎ๐ฌ๐š๐ฅ ๐๐š๐ฒ๐ฌ, ๐ข๐ญ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ญ๐จ๐จ ๐ก๐š๐ซ๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ž๐ฏ๐ž๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ง๐ค, ๐ฅ๐ž๐ญ ๐š๐ฅ๐จ๐ง๐ž ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ž. ๐Ÿคฏ ๐——๐—ถ๐˜€๐—ฎ๐—ฝ๐—ฝ๐—ผ๐—ถ๐—ป๐˜๐—บ๐—ฒ๐—ป๐˜๐˜€ ๐Ÿ. ๐ค๐ง๐จ๐ฐ๐ข๐ง๐  ๐ญ๐ก๐š๐ญ ๐ˆ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐š๐ฅ๐ฐ๐š๐ฒ๐ฌ ๐›๐ž ๐ฌ๐ž๐ž๐ง ๐š๐ฌ ๐š ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ž๐ซ ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐œ๐จ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ … ๐ฎ๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ฐ๐จ๐ซ๐ฅ๐ ๐›๐ž๐œ๐จ๐ฆ๐ž๐ฌ ๐ฆ๐จ๐ซ๐ž ๐ž๐ช๐ฎ๐š๐ฅ ๐š๐ง๐ ๐ž๐ฏ๐ž๐ซ๐ฒ๐จ๐ง๐ž ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ฌ๐ข๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ฉ๐ž๐จ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐ž. ๐Ÿ˜” ๐Ÿ. ๐๐ž๐ข๐ง๐  ๐ญ๐จ๐ฅ๐ ๐ˆ ๐š๐ฆ ๐›๐ž๐ญ๐ญ๐ž๐ซ ๐š๐ญ ๐ฉ๐ซ๐จ๐ฌ๐ž ๐ญ๐ก๐š๐ง ๐ซ๐ก๐ฒ๐ฆ๐ž. ๐“๐ก๐ข๐ฌ ๐ค๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐›๐ฎ๐๐๐ข๐ง๐  ๐ฉ๐จ๐ž๐ญ ๐ข๐ง ๐ฆ๐ž. ๐Ÿ˜ญ ๐…๐š๐ข๐ฅ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ž๐ฌ ๐Ÿ. ๐‡๐š๐ฏ๐ข๐ง๐  ๐Ÿ’ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐ž๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ฉ๐จ๐œ๐ค๐ž๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ๐ž๐ง ๐š๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ญ๐ก๐จ๐ฌ๐ž ๐ฒ๐ž๐š๐ซ๐ฌ ๐š๐ ๐จ ๐ซ๐ž๐ฃ๐ž๐œ๐ญ๐ž๐ ๐œ๐จ๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž๐ฒ ๐ฐ๐ž๐ซ๐ž ๐ญ๐จ๐จ ๐ง๐ข๐œ๐ก๐ž, ๐ญ๐จ๐จ ๐ช๐ฎ๐ข๐ž๐ญ, ๐š๐ง๐ ๐ง๐จ๐ญ ๐œ๐จ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ž๐ซ๐œ๐ข๐š๐ฅ ๐ž๐ง๐จ๐ฎ๐ ๐ก … ๐Ÿ˜ž ๐™ฑ๐šž๐š ๐™ธ ๐š™๐š•๐š˜๐š ๐š˜๐š— ๐š‹๐šŽ๐šŒ๐šŠ๐šž๐šœ๐šŽ ๐š ๐š‘๐š˜ ๐š”๐š—๐š˜๐š ๐šœ, ๐š˜๐š—๐šŽ ๐š๐šŠ๐šข, ๐š–๐šŠ๐šข๐š‹๐šŽ ๐š˜๐š—๐šŽ ๐š๐šŠ๐šข …

As folks know, my next book (not a picture book this time) will be releasing on 22 February, 2022. You’re looking at the cover, which I shared on Twitter and LinkedIn a month back. Authors need to do this kinds of things now — market and promote their work. Authors like me, I mean; backlist authors like me, I mean. The world of publishing is a BIG one and there are more books published in this world than anyone of us will ever and can ever read. It is what it is as the written word is king. Like I divide my writing day into three parts, the publishing world divides their authors into three lists: frontlisters, midlisters, and backlisters. You get the drift. As I show up to write everyday despite how I feel, I also show up to tell people about what I’m writing about and have written about despite it being trรจs tiring. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, folks.

Here’s a report on the publishing trends for 2022. Now, I’ll go to Day 3.

๐™ณ๐šŠ๐šข ๐Ÿน: ๐š‚๐šž๐šŒ๐šŒ๐šŽ๐šœ๐šœ๐šŽ๐šœ ๐Ÿ. ๐’๐ข๐ ๐ง๐ž๐ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ญ๐ก ๐€๐ ๐ž๐ง๐ญ ๐‹๐ฒ๐๐ข๐š ๐’๐ข๐ฅ๐ฏ๐ž๐ซ ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐ƒ๐š๐ซ๐ฅ๐ž๐ฒ ๐€๐ง๐๐ž๐ซ๐ฌ๐จ๐ง ๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐”๐Š ๐ข๐ง ๐‰๐š๐ง๐ฎ๐š๐ซ๐ฒ ๐Ÿ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ ๐ฐ๐ก๐ž๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐”๐Š ๐ฐ๐š๐ฌ ๐ฎ๐ง๐๐ž๐ซ ๐ฅ๐จ๐œ๐ค๐๐จ๐ฐ๐ง. ๐‹๐ฒ๐๐ข๐š ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐œ๐จ-๐ซ๐ž๐ฉ ๐ฆ๐ž ๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐”๐’ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ญ๐ก ๐ก๐ž๐ซ ๐œ๐จ๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ž๐š๐ ๐ฎ๐ž. ๐Ÿ“ข ๐Ÿ. ๐’๐จ๐ฅ๐ ๐Ÿ‘ ๐ฉ๐ข๐œ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ž ๐›๐จ๐จ๐ค ๐ฆ๐š๐ง๐ฎ๐ฌ๐œ๐ซ๐ข๐ฉ๐ญ๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ง ๐Ÿ‘ ๐ฆ๐จ๐ง๐ญ๐ก๐ฌ ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐ฌ๐ข๐ ๐ง๐ข๐ง๐ . ๐“๐ก๐ž๐ฌ๐ž ๐š๐ซ๐ž ๐ฒ๐ž๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ ๐›๐ž ๐š๐ง๐ง๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐œ๐ž๐. ๐๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ฒ๐š๐ฒ! ๐“๐ก๐ž๐ฌ๐ž ๐ฉ๐ข๐œ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ž ๐›๐จ๐จ๐ค๐ฌ ๐š๐ซ๐ž ๐œ๐จ๐ฆ๐ข๐ง๐  ๐จ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ข๐ง ๐Ÿ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ‘/๐Ÿ๐Ÿ’, ๐ฌ๐จ ๐ˆ’๐ฏ๐ž ๐›๐ž๐ž๐ง ๐ญ๐จ๐ฅ๐. ๐Ÿ˜ƒ ๐Ÿ‘. ๐‹๐š๐ฎ๐ง๐œ๐ก๐ข๐ง๐  ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐๐ž๐›๐ฎ๐ญ ๐˜๐€ ๐ก๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐จ๐ซ๐ข๐œ๐š๐ฅ ๐Ÿ๐ข๐œ๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐จ๐ง ๐…๐ž๐›๐ซ๐ฎ๐š๐ซ๐ฒ ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ, ๐Ÿ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ. ๐ˆ๐ญ’๐ฌ ๐š ๐ฉ๐š๐ฅ๐ข๐ง๐๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ๐ž ๐๐š๐ญ๐ž ๐๐š๐ฒ: ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿ๐Ÿ. ๐–๐ก๐จ๐š! ๐Ÿฅณ ๐Ÿ’. ๐–๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐  ๐š ๐›๐จ๐จ๐ค ๐Ÿ๐จ๐ซ ๐Ÿ“+ ๐ซ๐ž๐š๐๐ž๐ซ๐ฌ ๐Ÿ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ž๐ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ญ๐ก ๐ฆ๐š๐ ๐ข๐œ ๐š๐ง๐ ๐Ÿ๐š๐ง๐ญ๐š๐ฌ๐ฒ ๐š๐ฌ ๐ซ๐ž๐ช๐ฎ๐ž๐ฌ๐ญ๐ž๐ ๐›๐ฒ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ž๐๐ข๐ญ๐จ๐ซ. ๐ˆ๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐›๐ž ๐š๐ง ๐š๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐€๐ฌ๐ข๐š๐ง-๐œ๐š๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ฌ๐ญ๐จ๐ซ๐ฒ ๐›๐ž๐œ๐š๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ž ๐ซ๐ž๐ฉ๐ซ๐ž๐ฌ๐ž๐ง๐ญ๐š๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐ฆ๐š๐ญ๐ญ๐ž๐ซ๐ฌ. ๐Ÿ˜… ๐Ÿ“. ๐Œ๐š๐๐ž ๐ข๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ˆ๐ญ๐š๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐Ÿ๐ข๐ง๐š๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐Ÿ๐จ๐ซ ๐š ๐›๐ฎ๐จ๐ง ๐ง๐š๐ญ๐š๐ฅ๐ž ๐ฐ๐ข๐ญ๐ก ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐Ÿ๐š๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฒ. ๐ƒ๐จ๐ฎ๐›๐ฅ๐ž ๐ฒ๐š๐ฒ-๐ฒ๐š๐ฒ! ๐Ÿฅฐ๐Ÿ”. ๐–๐ซ๐จ๐ญ๐ž ๐ญ๐ฐ๐จ ๐ž๐ฌ๐ฌ๐š๐ฒ๐ฌ ๐š๐ฆ๐ข๐๐ฌ๐ญ ๐š ๐Ÿ๐ฅ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ซ๐ฒ ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐ซ๐ž๐ฏ๐ข๐ฌ๐ž ๐š๐ง๐ ๐ซ๐ž๐ฌ๐ฎ๐›๐ฆ๐ข๐ญ๐ฌ ๐Ÿ๐จ๐ซ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐Œ๐€ ๐‚๐ก๐ข๐ฅ๐๐ซ๐ž๐ง’๐ฌ ๐‹๐ข๐ญ๐ž๐ซ๐š๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ž ๐š๐ญ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐” ๐จ๐Ÿ ๐‘๐จ๐ž๐ก๐š๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ญ๐จ๐ง. ๐“๐ก๐ข๐ฌ ๐ˆ ๐œ๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐ญ ๐š๐ฌ ๐š ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐œ๐œ๐ž๐ฌ๐ฌ ๐›๐ž๐œ๐š๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ž ๐ž๐ฌ๐ฌ๐š๐ฒ๐ฌ ๐š๐ซ๐ž ๐ก๐š๐ซ๐! ๐€๐œ๐š๐๐ž๐ฆ๐ข๐œ ๐ฐ๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐ง๐  ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐œ๐ž ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ฅ๐š๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ญ๐ข๐ฆ๐ž ๐ˆ ๐ฐ๐ž๐ง๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฌ๐œ๐ก๐จ๐จ๐ฅ ๐ก๐š๐ฌ ๐œ๐ก๐š๐ง๐ ๐ž๐ ๐ฌ๐จ๐ฆ๐ž๐ฐ๐ก๐š๐ญ. ๐Ÿ˜… ๐š†๐š’๐šœ๐š‘๐š’๐š—๐š ๐šŽ๐šŸ๐šŽ๐š›๐šข๐š˜๐š—๐šŽ ๐š๐š›๐šŽ๐šŠ๐š ๐šœ๐šž๐šŒ๐šŒ๐šŽ๐šœ๐šœ ๐š๐š˜๐š› ๐Ÿธ๐Ÿถ๐Ÿธ๐Ÿธ ๐šŠ๐š—๐š ๐š๐š˜๐š’๐š—๐š ๐š๐š˜๐š›๐š ๐šŠ๐š›๐š.

In short, I am counting my blessings.

๐™ท๐šŠ๐š™๐š™๐šข ๐™ฝ๐šŽ๐š  ๐šˆ๐šŽ๐šŠ๐š›!

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Silencing the Female Voice … no more

Crispijn de Passe the Elder (1564-1637), Tereus cutting out the tongue of Philomela c. 1600, Pen and brown ink with brown and grey wash; indented for transfer | 7.2 x 13.0 cm (sheet of paper)


Royal Collection Trust, acquired by George III, King of the United Kingdom (1738-1820)

The wife of the king rolls out the cloth

and reads the miserable fate of her sister

and is silent (to have been able is a miracle): pain restrains her mouth,

and her tongue cannot find sufficiently outraged words,

lacked them. – Ovid

The silencing of the female voice is a popular trope in classical literature and art. Behold this image, inspired by Ovidโ€™s Metamorphoses, by the Flemish artist, Crispijn de Passe the Elder, depicting the story of Philomela and Tereus. In this sketch, we see Tereus holding a pincer (his hand is raised), pulling Philomelaโ€™s tongue out, her tongue which he had cut off, to silence her as soon as he had raped her in the woods. Not only did Tereus violate his sister-in-law by raping and then mutilating her, he had also left her for dead. So afraid of what she might do โ€” speak up โ€” so he did what he knew how to do โ€” censor her. Violating and censoring a woman is what the Patriarchy does and does well, unfortunately. But as we also know, a woman scorned is a woman with a loud voice. Philomela couldnโ€™t speak, but she could still spin a yarn. She weaved her story into a piece of tapestry which she gave to her sister, Procne, the wife of Tereus. Procne was shocked into silence after learning what her husband had done to her sister. Procne was beside herself with rage. She had no words to express herself but she raged and in anger, she committed the most unspeakable crime โ€” she murdered Itys, her son with Tereus, and served Itys to Tereus on a platter. 

The story ends with both sisters transformed into birds: Philomela into a songbird, the nightingale and Procne into a graceful swallow, while Tereus metamorphoses into a cawing hoopoe, a bird that has the most awful voice. Ovidโ€™s Metamorphoses is replete with many stories of transformation and in Philomelaโ€™s story, we see how rage can transform a woman into activism speaking up against oppression. Karen Rowe, a feminist scholar of folktales and fairy tales says that storytelling, in particular that of the fairy tale, is โ€˜semiotically a female art.โ€™

While women spin tales, men appropriate them. It is no surprise that the collectors and collators of fairytales are primarily men โ€” The Brothers Grimm, Charles Perrault, Ovid. The women of the past were uneducated, especially those from the lower classes. Women from the aristocracy could some read and write, but these endeavours were mostly left to the privilege of the men. So, women spin yarns. And when women learned to read and write, they wrote yarns. The pen is mightier than the sword, as we know. The womanโ€™s plume mightier than the manโ€™s nib, as I like to say. So, I wrote down the story of slave girls found in 1930s British Malaya, the story of what the colonial administration termed โ€˜The Mui Tsai Problemโ€™. I felt that these girls, whose voices were at best muffled, at worst silenced, needed to be heard. And by the might of the pen invested in me, I gave these little girls words to tell their story, through the voice of Ah Lian, who spoke through Ah Mei. 

The House of Little Sisters (Penguin Random House, SEA, 2022)

THE HOUSE OF LITTLE SISTERS will be in print in February 2022. This is my debut YA (Young Adult) novel and it is a work of historical fiction, weaving folktale, folk religion and lore, with magic-realism and poetry, so that I can share the plight of little girls (aka mui tsai in Cantonese) with the world. Their voices shall no longer be silent. 

Advance Praise

โ€˜An engrossing read โ€ฆ a testimony of Eva Wong Navaโ€™s attention to period details and exquisite storytelling skillsโ€™ ~ Felix Cheong, award-winning author of Sprawl: A Graphic Novel.

โ€˜This is an exciting piece of historical fiction anchored by relatable characters, and is the best way to experience the past.โ€™ ~ Audrey Chin, author of The Ash House.

Reference:

Rowe, E Karen. โ€œTo Spin a Yarn: The Female Voice in Folklore and Fairy Taleโ€ in Fairy tales and Society: Illusion, Allusion, and Paradigm, ed. Ruth B. Bottingheimer. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania Press, 1986, pp 53-73.

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A Community of Saints

  Cima da Conegliano (Giovanni Battista Cima),  Polyptych,  C. 1486-88,  Tempera on panel. Parish Church of St. Bartolomeo, Olera (Bergamo), Italy

Behold this nine-panelled polyptych with the Virgin and Child taking the top panel, presiding over the congregation and the community of saints below. The standing figure in the middle (a statue) is Santo Bartolemeo or Saint Bartholomew the Apostle. He is also known as the patron saint of the Armenian Apostolic Church, and is therefore beloved by the Armenians. 

We didnโ€™t travel to Armenia to get a sighting of St Bartolomeo. We took a little drive from the city of Bergamo to the hillside village of Olera to visit a church perched on a verdant hilltop, surrounded by quaint village houses. The church is dedicated to St Bartolomeo. So, it is apt that this polyptych takes pride of place at the centre of the church. 

The polyptych was painted in 1489 by Giovan (aka Giovanni) Battista Cima from Conegliano, Veneto. This is the reason why this altarpiece is also attributed to Cima da Conegliano โ€” Cima from Conegliano. 

I am not a practising Catholic, although Iโ€™ve had a convent education spanning 10 years, and have lived amongst the staunchest of Lutherans, Protestants, and Catholics for more than three decades of my life. I’d admit that Catholicism will always remain close to my heart. I love Catholic saints for the stories they tell. There are just some very sagely trivia that I love to study about these saints. I donโ€™t have a photographic memory, so I donโ€™t always remember all that Iโ€™ve read. But I know that Bartholomew was one of Jesusโ€™ 12 apostles. Legend has it that Bartolomeo (his Italian name) was skinned alive and beheaded. His emblems are a knife (the one that he was skinned with) and his flayed skin. For this, he is beloved (in some perverse way) by tanners and those who work with leather, or skins of all sorts, I guess. 

The bottom far right panel is that of San Rocco. He is the patron saint of dogs (woofy funny), bodily afflictions and diseases, such as the plague and rashes, amongst others. San Roccoโ€™s emblems are a staff and he is always depicted with a wound on his thigh or knee. 

Born of nobility in Montpellier, France, in 1295, San Rocco gave his riches to the poor, attended to the sickly and dying, and legend has it that he miraculously cured some people. It is also believed that San Rocco was born from a miracle, his mother having been barren for many years, with a birthmark that looked like a cross on his chest. As an adult, he was arrested on accounts of espionage and imprisoned. He languished in jail for five years without him ever once mentioning his noble connections. Apparently, he was cared for by an angelic presence until he died in 1327 of natural causes. By then, he had already done many things. 

Luca Signorelli โ€“ San Rocco 
1515-20. 29.6 x 16.3
Academy Carrara (Accademia Carrara), Bergamo.

San Rocco is now the all important saint invoked in the Catholic world. His help is needed to get rid of the pestilant COVID-19 virus that is circumventing the globe today. 

Above San Rocco is Santa Caterina or Saint Catherine. She is the patron saint of literature. Known also as Catherine of Siena, Santa Caterina was an activist, mystic, author and was conferred Doctor of the Church for her contribution to theological studies. She was the second woman in the Catholic world to be given this recognition. Hence, this makes her the only female saint on the polyptych. 

Her attributes are a crown of thorns, a rose, a book, a crucifix, amongst others. She is invoked for her power to cure the sick, for miscarriages, and bodily afflictions in general, amongst other divine powers that she possesses. [It is good to note that saints are living divine beings as Orthodox Christians and Coptics believe them to be.]

Caterina di Jacopo di Benincasa was born in Rome in the year 1347. She had a twin sister, Giovanna, who unfortunately died in the arms of the wet nurse. Caterina’s mother, Lapa Piagenti, was the daughter of a poet, and she was what doctors today call a geriatric primigravida when she had the twin girls at the age of forty. Not only that, Lapa had given birth at least 22 times before Caterina and Giovanna were born. Half of her children had died by that time. Twenty-two times!! โ€” that in itself is a miracle and Lapa Piagenti shouldโ€™ve been canonised for the sacrifices she had made with her body. By the time Caterina was 2 years old, her mother had givnen birth yet again. Caterina finally had another sister named after her late twin. This would be Lapaโ€™s 25th child. 

Caterinaโ€™s father had a cloth dying business which he managed and ran with his sons. (If I were Lapa, Iโ€™d have made sure he died in a bath of red dye for impregnating me this many times. But hey, I am no saint.) All in all, Caterina was born into a middle-income family. Her parents played a big part in Caterinaโ€™s life, as most parents do. With so many children to feed and protect, the Benincasas ran a tight ship. When Bonaventura, one of Caterinaโ€™s sisters died at childbirth, she was asked to marry her widower. Caterina flatly refused because she knew how Bonaventura had suffered as his wife: Bonaventura had to go on a hunger strike to force her husband to be better. It is not known if he was a wife-beater or a bully. But for Bonaventura to take such a drastic action, he mustโ€™ve been most undesireable. A jerkass in todayโ€™s lingo. Following in her late sisterโ€™s foot steps, Caterina fasted as well when she was told to marry her brother-in-law. I shall just say it as it is โ€” she went on a hunger strike; to fast would be putting it mildly. She never married Bonaventuraโ€™s widower. In fact, the only marriage Caterina ever had was with God. 

It is a well known fact that women use their bodies to challenge the status quo. The suffragettes went on hunger strikes in the early 1900s to protest against not being imprisoned as political prisoners for they saw themselves as fighting a political cause โ€” the right for women to vote. The authorities forced-fed the women as a means to keep them alive. This force-feeding became the most poignant docuementation of the suffragetteโ€™s fight for gender equality and a basic human right. You can read more about it here

Caterina di Jacopo di Benincasa had a love for God so strong that she became politically active in  fighting for clergical reforms. She travelled widely preaching and advocating her beliefs. She used her body to challenge the authorities, to show her love for the common people and for the Catholic Church. She cared for the sickly and dying. She walked miles to get to places and people that needed her. She wrote reams and reams of letters to the Pope asking for this and that reform. And, she starved herself: fasting was her means to get closer to God. This was ironically  frowned upon by the clerical authorities. Not the getting close to God part, but the starving of oneself to get near Holiness part. The authorities, it has been said, felt that fasting was unhealthy.

It was indeed unhealthy because in 1380, Caterina suffered a massive stroke after months of refraining food and water. She faded away because there is only so much an anorexic body can take, and letโ€™s not forget a dehydrated one too. I think it is a miracle that she managed to last so many months before finally succumbing to the angel of death. She passed away at the age of thirty-three, commending her soul and spirit to God. By that time, she had written The Dialogue of Divine Providence, her most important and remembered work. There were also over 380 letters to the Pope (as well as many to women) and prayers that sheโ€™d penned that are still whispered today. Santa Caterina di Siena was indeed a woman of letters. She is my patron saint.

A Community of Writers

I was recently invited to join a community of authors who have come together to find ways to promote our books and work. Weโ€™re a hodgepodge of authors ranging from childrenโ€™s to YA to adult fiction and nonfiction.ย 

Top left to right: Daryl Kho, Joyce Chua, Vicky Chong, Middle left to right: Audrey Chin, Nabeel Ismeer, Eva Wong Nava, Bottom left to right: Nidhi Upadhyay, Vivek Iyyani, Leslie W [photo credit: Joyce Chua]

And behold, we are also a nine-panelled polyptych:

  1. Daryl Kho โ€” Mist-bound
  2. Joyce Chua โ€” Land of Sand and Song
  3. Leslie W โ€” The Night of Legends
  4. Audrey Chin โ€” The Ash Houseย 
  5. Vicky Chong โ€” Racket and Other Storiesย 
  6. Vivek Iyyani โ€” Engaging Millennials
  7. Nidhi Upadhyay โ€” That Nightย 
  8. Nabeel Ismeer โ€” The Hunterโ€™s Walkย 
  9. Eva Wong Nava โ€” Minaโ€™s Magic Malong and The House of Little Sisters (forthcoming)

I hear you asking what our emblems are.

These, my dear reader, are pen and paper, computer and wifi (for research), a vase of imagination, a feather of creativity, a walking stick of kudos, and a mettle of bravado. 

My colleagues and I will vouch that our sacrifices are many: time stolen from family, sleep deprivation from working in full-time day jobs and part-time grave yard shifts writing, anguish when the page is blank and fear that our ideas have run out, cardiac palpitations as the deadlines loom and we still have half a book to write, to name but a few. And letโ€™s also not forget, the long TBR list that forms the basic ingredient to good writing. And for some of us, research โ€” years of research for this is what historical fiction and nonfiction requires. Add to this, the brainwave and physical effort to promote our work because publishing budgets for underrepresented, debut, and back-listed authors are small (unless, of course, your debut novel was acquired through a nine-way auction).

I think every writer is a saint. The Church of Writing has canonised many and these have become household names, sanctified and revered, much like the various saints (santi (m) and sante (f) in Italian) whose names Catholics invoke. 

And like the many saints, these canonised authors are mostly Caucasian/White. Such is the way with publishing. But that is starting to change. And I am so excited to be part of this change. More on my forthcoming picturebooks with Walker Books and Scholastic UK soon.

This aside, the question always comes back to why writers do what they do? And since weโ€™re talking about saints today, letโ€™s flip this and ask, โ€œWhy are people canonised?โ€ Well, I can put my hand on my heart and say that I donโ€™t write for fame and fortune (if only), or to enter the canons of literature (thatโ€™d be lovely, though). No one who has ever picked up a pen to write or typed away on their computers would say that their motivation is to be canonised. We write because our lives depend on it. We have stories to tell that we would like you to read. And, I feel, most of all, we write because we really do enjoy writing, hard as it is, under the various circumstances and situations that afflict us, and the stiff competition that we face in the publishing world as underrepresented and marginalised writers of colour. (And you know how I dislike this term). Too many adjectives for this nine-member strong community, I feel. But hey, I didnโ€™t invent those descriptors. 

What can you do to help? I pray thee, my dear reader โ€” go buy our books. If not, our efforts would have all been wasted, and that would be a shame. 

For those who are interested in understanding and rethinking diversity in publishing, click here

Blog

Painters of Colour

Andrรฉ Derain
Henri Matisse 1905ย 
Tate
ยฉ ADAGP, Paris and DACS, London 2021

Fauvism is an art movement that was started in the 20th century by a group of artists who felt that vibrant and complementary colours, and painterly skills such as strong brush strokes were more important than realistic representations of the world. A famous fauvist was Henri Matisse. His partner in crime was Andrรฉ Derain. Both artists left a legacy of work, many of which decorate the walls of museums and collectorsโ€™ homes today.ย 

The year was 1905. It was the salon dโ€™automne once more. Paris was flooded with art lovers, art enthusiasts and art critics. Louis Vauxcelles was in Paris that year on the look out for refreshing new styles to write about. His eye rested on the canvasses of Matisse and Derain. These painters are like wild beasts, thought Vauxcelles, and he called them les fauves.ย 

Were the artists savage beasts painting portraits by wildly throwing bright colours on the canvas? Or were they simply artists who understood that colours work well in pairs, especially when they contrast one another, yet complement each other? Colour theory was already in existence when Matisse and Derain spent a summer in Collioure, where they experimented with a new way of painting people and landscape. They took the science of colour theory up many notches.ย 

Their pieces were not only abstract, they were bold, and they hit oneโ€™s eyes with an array of complementary colours that looked like they were freshly squeezed out of their tubes. A dab of green here, one over there, but this time red, an emphatic yellow stroke around here, another one of violet to contour the face. And, we have a man. The art world had never seen anything quite like this before the 1905 salon dโ€™automne. It drove the people wild.ย 

People of Colour

As a joke, I often call les fauves people of colour, because they were. These were painters who understood colour theory: how colours complement and contrast one another. They saw how red and green (a mix of yellow and blue) marry well. And if they mixed red and blue, the result was a shade of violet and this complemented yellow. They knew their primary colours โ€” Red, Yellow, Blue, and their secondary colours โ€” Orange, Green, Violet. And if they mixed the three primary colours, they saw Black. White was formed also by mixing the three primaries, and by adding more and more colours, lightening the mixture until a white paste was formed. It was basic, they thought โ€” elementary. Colours are what we see around us, they said. Why not use them to our advantage by making riveting pieces of art? So, the two artists spent the summer in the South of France, where the light is always exquisitely ample and the landscape marvellously sprinkled with different shades of colours, squeezing tubes of paint onto canvasses, dabbing them with primary colours and brushing secondary colours next to the primary ones.ย 

Mixing colours โ€” this, I promise you, is a fun game for kids on a rainy day. If youโ€™re gonna make a mess, make sure itโ€™s a colourful one. 

I am a person of colour. Alas, I am no artist. Only a person who is not white, therefore, always known as a POC. This acronym sits very uncomfortably in my stomach, where I would love to regurgitate it and flush it down the loo forever. In the colour wheel of racism, there is white, black and brown. As someone of Chinese lineage, I am yellow. But it is not P-C to call an East Asian yellow anymore. So, in the US, I am a person of colour, and in the UK, I am known as a minority ethnic person (BAME).ย 

Karl Schmidt-Rottluff
Dr Rosa Schapire 1919ย 
Tate
ยฉ DACS, 2021

How does all this make sense, you ask? 

Well, it doesnโ€™t. Not to me anyway. I can understand and respect it if someone of African lineage wants to be known as Black. Not all Black people are Americans, so not all Black people are African-Americans. Like not all brown people are from India. Many are from Pakistan or Bangladesh or even countries like Malta and Madagascar. They could even be from Zimbabwe (once named Rhodesia), Kenya, Malaysia, and/or Singapore. As for East Asians, we are so many โ€” Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans, and those of us who are from dual-parentage families. Not all are Asian-Americans, Canadian-Chinese or even British-Chinese, nor do all East Asians come from China or Japan or Korea. Many are from Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia and countries in Southeast Asia like Thailand, Myanmar, Vietnam and Cambodia. Let’s not forget Jamaica, Trinidad and Tobago, and French Polynesia. And I can tell you that the ethnic Chinese in Southeast Asia are more brown than yellow.ย But I digress, as always.

Where was I? Ah — les fauves. Fauvism faded away after 1910. The movement developed around the same time as German Expressionism, proving that ideas are not original and that great minds think alike. Fauvism opened the doors to Cubism, and made many things in art possible, like Pointillism and Structuralism.

So, how now brown cow?ย 

I say we get rid of the acronyms POC and BAME. Letโ€™s begin afresh and just call people people. Humankind, rather than the Human Race. We can pull humankind apart and start by being kind to another human being. And yes, human being, a person simply being. After weโ€™ve processed this term, letโ€™s then race to tear down the colour bar that keeps us apart, segregating people into different shades of colour for the purpose of maintaining the status quo and hegemony of those of us White and those of them Coloured.

Have you noticed that a White person is never a person of colour? And that it is ok to say someone is black or brown, but never yellow? Red, too, is long gone a colour to call someone who is indigenous to the land. And, it is faux pas to categorise someone who is native to their countries/nations as โ€˜Indianโ€™, a term used by white colonisers to label people who were not from India, but thought to be so. Language evolves with time, and I feel itโ€™s time to rid the English language of phrases like people of colour and Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic. I am feverish with desire to put a stop to being labeled a minority ethnic and a person of colour. Minority ethnic? My ancestors come from the most populated nation in the world โ€” China. If all of them spoke English as their mother tongue, they would outnumber the mother tongue English speakers on our globe. So, next to South Asians, I am hardly a minority. And, yellow I am definitely not. Iโ€™d like to think I am a little bronzed with a hint of gold myself. But then, weโ€™re back to colouring ourselves again. So, no! Stop already! ย 

Hereโ€™s a piece of flash fiction inspired by a condition known as Yellow Fever. A condition that I heard a white woman speak about during my sojourn in Southeast Asia.ย 

As long as we, non-white people, continue to use the label POC or BAME to identify ourselves, we are continuing the colonial legacy of these labels, giving them the power and significance that they shouldnโ€™t have and hold. As much as I understand that race is and will continue to be oneโ€™s identity, much like mother/father or being trans, cis or bi are identity markers, I feel that ridding the English language of POC and BAME, we start to break the conditions that fetter us, and remove the status quo that keeps some of us marginalised and underrepresented. In this way, we also start to get rid of racial stereotypes or stereotypes of any sorts, and then, one day, see the removal of any unconscious racial biases or prejudices that plague us. This would free humans to just be. And, we start to become human beings, not coloured and (post)-colonised beings. Donโ€™t you want this as much as I do?ย 

And whilst weโ€™re at it, letโ€™s also remove the acronym WOC โ€” Writers of Colour. I am a writer, like every person who writes for a living โ€” simply a writer. I am not defined by colour as a writer.ย But I can certainly write many colourful stories that paint the world red and orange, yellow and green, blue, indigo and violet too.

Blog

The Sporting Spirit

Roman mosaic of two bikini-clad woman playing ball (close up)

I love mosaics. Just look at this one from Villa Romana del Casale in Sicily, a UNESCO World Heritage site. 

The villa can be traced back to 320-350 A.D, so weโ€™re talking 4th Century, A.D. The villa where each room had exquisite floors with figures and motifs made up of mosaics probably belonged to a member of Romeโ€™s senatorial class. Heโ€™s someone of high class and exquisite taste. I say โ€˜heโ€™ because Roman senators were always male. Archeologists have said that from the handiwork, the construction of these floors were made by artists from the African continent, particularly North Africa. The evidence comes from the mosaicsโ€™ varying styles and narratives spanning from mythology and to Homeric poems. 

This one is my favourite. Itโ€™s a close up showing two bikini-clad women playing a game involving a ball. Beach volley, perhaps? 

I love how modern the scene is, considering that this was made well over 1,500 years ago. Iโ€™m imagining that it is a hot day in Sicily, a summerโ€™s day. The locals are out enjoying the sea air and playing games at the beach. Bikini-clad bodies are everywhere during the summer months of July and August on Italian beaches. These are the two months that Italians go to the sea

That women still play ball in bikinis or are expected to do so is, of course, sexist. I canโ€™t believe that the Norwegian womenโ€™s beach handball team was fined for not wanting to play in bikinis. In the 21st century too. Come on, people! I hate it that sexism still exists. 

I love mosaics. I love how little bits of ceramic, glass or stone can be used to make a bigger picture. But I hate jigsaw. Love vs Hate โ€” two very basic human feelings. There is no better a place and time when this binary human emotion is displayed than in the sporting arena. 

George Orwell said it best, โ€œ[โ€ฆ] sport is an unfailing cause of ill-willโ€ฆ.โ€ 

Youโ€™ve just got to look at what happened after England lost the European Cup recently. Marcus Rashford, Jadon Sancho and Bukayo Saka were booed, bullied and blamed for Englandโ€™s defeat. 

If youโ€™ll allow me another quote: โ€œI am always amazed when I hear people saying that sport creates goodwill between the nations, and that if only the common peoples of the world could meet one another at football or cricket, they would have no inclination to meet on the battlefield.โ€

Hereโ€™s George Orwellโ€™s full essay. Read it and weep because it is so insightful, intelligent and eloquent. 

Orwell is a pacifist, it would seem. The battefield he mentioned in his essay was still in his mind for the essay was first published in December 1945. The Second World War had ended only two months earlier. Todayโ€™s battlefield is the internet. The battles taking place in this battlefield is a war of words. Some may even say, a war of the thumbs and fingers. Keyboard warriors bashing other keyboard warriors, other keyboard warriors defending other ones, with many venting their frustrations online for the world to read. The screen has become a shield of sorts. 

The world is now glued to their TV screens watching the Tokyo 2020 Olympics. Team GB did very well in swimming. Adam Peaty won a gold for GB and โ€œbecame the first British swimmer to retain an Olympic titleโ€, the BBC says. What Peaty retained was the gold medal for the men’s 100m breaststroke. 

In other parts of the world, on a small island in the tropics, where skyscrapers sweep the skies and migrant workers sweep the roads and pavements, a swimmer named Joseph Schooling was booed, bullied and blamed for not โ€˜defendingโ€™ his gold medal in Tokyo. Schooling is Singaporeโ€™s golden butterfly. He became Singaporeโ€™s first Olympian champion after he took home a gold medal in Rio for the the menโ€™s 100m butterfly in 2016.

Hereโ€™s a stroke by stroke analysis of Joseph Schoolingโ€™s performance that only Singapore can do so well. Analyse, analyse, analyse and learn, learn, learn. 

Being a champion is not easy. Being the first to win a gold for oneโ€™s country is not easy. There are now expectations and hopes placed on the champion to retain his title. Expectations add pressure to say the least. And Joseph Schooling went to Tokyo with this pressure on his shoulders. 

What many people in Singapore weren’t expecting were the many hurtful and frankly, pathetic comments made online about Joseph Schoolingโ€™s performance in Tokyo. Comments, for example, alluding to the state of Singapore having paid to train Schooling. This prompted Schooling’s supporters: friends, fans and family to go public about the truth. Thereโ€™s integrity in putting people in their places when theyโ€™ve been unreasonable or plainly unintelligent. 

Jospeh Schooling paid for his own training. Not one cent of Singapore taxpayerโ€™s money went into sending Jospeh Schooling to America to be educated and trained in swimming. His scholarship at another American educational institution was paid for by taxpayerโ€™s, yes. But it was NOT taxpayers of Singapore that funded this, since the university where Schooling received his schooling and scholarship was situated in Texas.ย 

I feel compelled to write this post because it aggrieves me that once again, Singapore has made the local headlines (see this post for another reason) for some citizensโ€™ pig-headed and pig-hearted comments. Instead of choosing to be empathetic, some small-minded, myopic and rather annoying Singaporeans have chosen to be pathetic. And, on social media too. Of all things to mimic, some Singaporeans would choose to mimic equally small-minded, myopic and unintelligent racist Britons. 

RACE TO RIO, David Seow

So, instead of griping, grinching and grinding your teeth over Schoolingโ€™s performnce in Tokyo, read this instead. Itโ€™s a picture book by veteran picture book author Dave Seow. RACE TO RIO is a creative nonfiction picturebook tracing Joseph Schoolingโ€™s steps to being Singaporeโ€™s Gold Medalist in the 100m menโ€™s butterfly. 

Then, take a look at this touching photograph and weep. A champion will always be a champion no matter what some losers say.

Jospeh Schooling being comforted by his coach,  Sergio Lopez Miro.