Hello world, after months of birthing pains, this is now a real thing that you can hold and read and buy. If you have ever liked my writing, please support me by buying my book. Shipping in Singapore is free, and if you live overseas it is a flate rate of SGD17, which means that that is a perfect reason to buy lots and lots of things to read. I used to work at this bookstore and am familiar with many titles, and am happy to give book recommendations if you’re not sure what else you want to buy. Continue reading “MY FIRST BOOK IS HERE”
I have actually paid for a domain and you can find me on the official website nataliewang.me
I’ve been fairly anal about logging down all my reading activity on my Goodreads account and have technically completed 76 books this year, with like 15 other books I started but never got round to finishing. I’m a little disappointed that I got so close to a full 100 (I had almost 60 books in August so you can tell I really fell off the bandwagon there). BUT if you count the sheer amount of fanfiction and /r/nosleep horror stories I have read, not to mention that ridiculously long web novel which is supposed to be three times the length of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, I did good.
- Circe by Madeline Miller – I read this book three times this year, that’s how good it is. Greek mythology + feminist retelling seems like an overdone formula but Miller really brings the characters to life.
- The Adventures of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke – This was slow going at first because a lot of the first three hundred pages is devoted to solid world building.
- Hoshimaruhon series by Wena Poon – A hilarious but still deeply moving trilogy that that is a bizarre landscape of East Asian tropes – think swordsmen training in the mountains, and fox spirits, and ninjas – and also a loving tribute to all of these things.
- Gaze Back by Marylyn Tan – A lot has been written about how this book is obscene or taboo stomping. All true. It is also pushing at the boundaries of how we understand form and language in poetry. Go read it.
- Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik – For anyone who likes high fantasy. Devoured this 600+ page edition within a day because it was a story that was easy to swallow.
- The Book of Lost Things by John Connelly – A fairytale for adults that like all fairytales uses a literal adventure as a metaphor for grief and change and growing up before you feel ready to. This is basically the kind of novel I want to write at some point in my life.
- Pachinko by Min-Jin Lee – I first read this book in 2017 while on holiday in Japan and almost started crying in my tiny one-room Airbnb when my favourite character died. The book was no less brutal on the feels on a second read. This was probably my third book by a Korean author (the first two being Han Kang’s The Vegetarian and Human Acts) and was a complex family saga that spanned three generations which dealt with complexities of Korean-Japanese relations in the 20th century with so much grace and humanity. Highly recommended.
Continue reading “Literary Roundup 2018”
(After Topaz Winters’ ‘July’ and Samuel Caleb Wee’s ‘August’)
Bless the green hills & the robins
who sing at 8pm & the sheep
who flee the camera-wielding tourists.
Bless the lamb who become haggis & kebabs
that we masticate during the cold nights.
Bless the swaying grass in the gardens
that I keep calling the ang moh lalang,
the brick walls & white columns
& the black-veined marble we imitate
at home with plaster & paint. Bless how
“old” here means something to be kept so
bless every building torn down at home
for ours is a country with no time
for the past which is only sentiment
& still we make the Victorian buildings
by the river our heritage sites.
Bless the statues of white men we inter
on high, who when alive fled whenever the going
got tough & whose names we still use
as a mark of quality & perhaps this explains
the state of our nation today.
Bless every child who thought that
our country began in 1819 & who raged
against this tragedy of history after.
Bless the fictions in our textbooks that tell us
that peace make a country strong & bless
the ones who do not believe this.
Bless our government who feared the implosion
of elections around the world & decided
to make the correct choice for us & I cannot tell
sometimes if I am being sarcastic or not.
Bless the prince who did not know a lion
from a tiger from a fox because can you imagine
having a fox-fish as our national mascot?
Bless the great white merlions who guard our rivers
& who I still believe will one day descend down
from their posts with their laser eyes
& beat a tsunami with their fins
if those invading boats ever do come
& this time our guns will face the right way.
Bless every poet that has written about fall:
the air, the apples, the leaves,
the old man who sits on the chair
telling stories to the other months of year.
Or do I call it autumn in this country?
Because when young I learnt all the Englishes,
the difference between ‘z’ and ‘s’, the extra ‘u’,
but my mouth swells as I try to say
Worcester, Reading, Magdalen
& it feels as though my own mother tongue
has been stolen from me. Bless the actress
who practices Gloucester, Gloucester
to herself before a mirror. Bless the mother
who told her child to study hard & get scholarship
& go study at Oxford. Bless the student
who made it to Oxford but had no idea what to study.
Bless the Singaporean at SingSoc booths in London
who remembers to talk to the students
who are not Chinese. Bless the Singaporeans
who tag #blessed when they upload their selfies
& mean it. Bless the Singaporeans who move
into rich autumns & wet winters & still think
of the endless summers as home.
Bless the Singaporeans who do not
but come back anyway. Continue reading “OCTOBER”
So I have been saying this to friends: I don’t believe in public apologies.
Because I don’t. The entire ritual always feels like some kind of sham; person says something hurtful or distasteful or just morally suspect, the pitchforks come out, there is a lot of blustering and arm waving on both sides, and then the person appears with a metaphorical shaved head to show their contrition, and proceeds to announce that they are donating their chopped off hair to charity. Or announce some tangential inner pain or suffering that they have been going through. Or the apology is either so insincere or tone deaf that it just makes things worse.
So no, I will not do a theatrical performance because I have already done what I needed to do in private channels. So this is not an apology. This is just to say: I fucked up.
Ten years ago I dated a transman. Only he didn’t identify as that at that point in time, and he was what I thought was just my senior when we were studying in an all-girls school. After finding out recently that he has transitioned, I have used his gender as a punchline to a tasteless joke, and not even a funny one at that – no I don’t dare date another girl because I’m so straight they’ll change their gender after dating me. And that’s something I should have known better not to do, given my interests and access to literature. I admit that I should do so much more to read up on trans issues, and I will. Continue reading “On Calling In vs. Calling Out, Growing Up & Being An Emerging Writer”
The other day I said about a friend – every time she posts about her heartbreak I feel better about my life decisions. And then I added – but she always has something to write. As though art was a graveyard that I must keep excavating. As though pain was the only kind of story worth hearing.
And here’s the thing right it doesn’t matter that I had to break up with the boyfriend who didn’t even have the spine to leave me properly after he lost interest, just as it didn’t matter that I spent my lunch break crying into my soup because I found out the one I had been sleeping with was now with other girls or that I got drunk and someone I thought was my friend started taking off my clothes after I just cried to him about how I am so sick of people wanting me only for my body I still turn up to fucking work as though my ability to pretend that nothing had happened was my armour.
And now I have the material to make the kind of pain porn indignant women like me scream at every slam for an audience to judge and a part of me is measuring where my experience rests on a scale of trauma and a part or me never wants to speak of it again, if only to become less of a cliché.
And at the same time I want to write that poem that says fuck respectability and fuck anonymity and fuck any kind of pretence at art that is still divorced from the pain of the artist I want to write the thing that will name every boy who has ever disappointed me and the ones who I still see at events will cross their legs and shift when they hear it because I will not let them hide from the consequences of their actions anymore.
At the same time I want the poem that will give me the answer to every question I had too much bleeding heart and not enough spine to ask – the questions like Why was I never enough for you to stay. Like Was sex the only thing you ever wanted from me was that why you could only tell me you loved me (as a friend) when we were leaving?
And still, I want the poem that says This is worth it. The one that, when finished, when read, when performed on a stage will take all this cracked ground teeth and tensed back and silent tears and it will be as if they were fat caterpillars chewing on my insides until they curl up and this was worth it released into the air to flutter under the lights and brush themselves against skin and they will sigh and all my muscles will finally unclench themselves and there will be a hand that will stroke my skin and say yes it was worth it and I will no longer need to search for answers to all the questions I dare not voice.
This is my ‘Angry Woman’ poetry set
because in the fog fugue of my days the only thing
that moves me is the flint strike of another man’s
words sparking with the same air of a schoolboy’s glass
burning through ants under a beating sun and you would think
after all these years i would have learnt to stop pressing
this knife of indifference against my chest whittling down
all my longing until the dagger weight of it slices through
my body and after all these years love and pain still come
together clutching hands that will not let go and i think
of my mother and how she cradled my rag doll limbs
telling us that our swollen faces were nothing
next to our father’s and his rage was only
a difficult guest that we would one day understand.