First newspaper review of Fuel
Thursday, January 27th, 2011The first four shops I popped into no longer had copies of the New Straits Times. So I drove a little further, to one of the news agents in PJ State. As I had come to expect, finding parking was a real pain in the pee hole. But I was eventually able to locate an empty square to hold my car.
The vendor had 5 copies of the Times left. A knot formed in my stomach. I forked over RM1.20, and purchased for myself the possibility of crushing news.
“I’ll buy more… only if it is good.”
I needed a quiet spot. There were many empty benches under the trees, but as I stepped in the direction, raindrops started to fall through the leaves. So I settled in front of a store that was closed for the day. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the newspaper gracing my lap, I peeled my way in. I was actually pretty Zen about the whole thing and took my time taking my time.
“No rush,” my body language conveyed. I had been living in a dream for the past year and a half, in a world possibly forged by my own wishful thinking. With every tentative turn of the page, I stood to be robbed of that world I’d been fighting so hard to preserve.
I arrived at the page I was looking for. My finger traced every word of the review. When I reached the end, I closed the newspaper, halved it, and walked over to the news stand. And I bought two more copies.
The day I was schooled in the true meaning of the term, bitter sweet.
You know what kills me? What really, really kills me? I was dead certain that it would’ve been my dad who’d call me one morning, and say these words to me, “Look in the paper. Look in the paper. They’ve reviewed your book.” This take. It has played in my head… oh so many times.
My mom read it out to him today in the ward. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and could not stay awake long enough for her to finish. My dad—my friend, my sports buddy, the biggest champion of my book—was there in body, but not in mind. Nothing feels more empty, than to find success, and have no one to share it with.
It is not easy, watching the dulling of one the sharpest people I know, of the tactician who taught me how to circle, to duck, to plan where to plant the next blow. The optimist from whom I learned to contemplate the worst, but not be consumed by it. The endurer who planted in me the soldier who does not feel like soldiering on, but does.
All my life I’ve observed the patience in this man, and absorbed it. And he showed me how the harshest punishment in the world, is to bestow kindness on those undeserving of it. A lot of who he is, has been passed to me, and from me to others. He is the single greatest role model in my life, and in being one, has unknowingly acquired for himself immortality on this planet.
Parent’s live their life through their children. Some more than others. I took my dad on my journey as a writer. And I think he had one hell of a ride. And while he’s not in a state to celebrate this milestone with me, I am glad he and I got to celebrate life together. I’ve demonstrated in my book, Fuel, that what matters is not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog. My Dad’s a fighter. One of the best in the business. And when he gets back on his feet, he and I will celebrate the next journey together. And the next. And the next…
Click here to read the review of Fuel in the New Straits Times
The first four shops I popped into no longer had copies of the New Straits Times. So I drove a little further, to one of the news agents in PJ State. As I had come to expect, finding parking was a real pain in the pee hole. But I eventually was able to locate an empty square to hold my car.
The vendor had 5 copies of the Times left. A knot formed in my stomach. I forked over RM1.20 for a copy of what could be crushing news.
“I’ll buy more… only if it is good.”
I needed a quiet spot. There were many empty benches under the trees, but as I stepped in the direction, raindrops started to fall through the leaves. So I settled in front of a store that was closed for the day. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the newspaper gracing my lap, I peeled my way in. I was actually pretty Zen about the whole thing and took my time taking my time.
“No rush,” my body language conveyed. I had been living in a dream for the past year and a half, in a world possibly forged by my own wishful thinking. With every tentative turn of the page, I stood to be robbed of that world I’d been fighting so hard to preserve.
I arrived at the page I was looking for. My finger traced every word of the review. When I reached the end, I closed the newspaper, halved it, and walked over to the news stand. And I bought two more copies.
Today, I was schooled in the true meaning of the term, bitter sweet.
You know what kills me? What really, really kills me? I was dead certain that it would’ve been my dad who’d call me one morning, and say these words to me, “Look in the paper. Look in the paper. They’ve reviewed your book.” This take. It has played in my head… oh so many times.
My mom read it out to him today in the ward. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and could not stay awake long enough for her to finish. My dad—my friend, my sports buddy, the biggest champion of my book—was there in body, but not in mind. Nothing feels more empty, than to find success, and have no one to share it with.
It is not easy, watching the dulling of one the sharpest people I know, of the tactician who taught me how to circle, to duck, to plan where to plant the next blow. The optimist from whom I learned to contemplate the worst, but not be consumed by it. The endurer who planted in me the soldier who does not feel like soldiering on, but does.
All my life I’ve observed the patience in this man, and absorbed it. And he showed me how the harshest punishment in the world, is an act of kindness bestowed on one undeserving of it. A lot of who he is, has been passed to me, and from me to others. He is the greatest single role model in my life, and in being one, has unknowingly acquired for himself, immortality on this planet.
Parent’s live their life through their children. Some more than others.I took my dad on my journey as a writer. And I think he had one hell of a ride. And while he’s not in a state to celebrate this milestone with me, I am glad he and I got to celebrate life together. I’ve demonstrated in my book, Fuel, that it is not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog. My Dad’s a fighter. One of the best in the business. And when he gets back on his feet, we’ll celebrate the next journey together. And the next. And the next…
