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Kathryn Tse-Durham: Falling Leaves – Musings on Dementia and the Power of Evocative Fiction

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It is a sunny morning, and Hannah has just eaten breakfast. She is playing peek-a-boo with her baby daughter in the living room, basking in her crescent-eyed giggles. Her son is building another LEGO contraption in his bedroom, intermittently calling out: ‘Mummy, come check this out!’ Her dog is chewing a rubber bone at her feet. For a moment, life feels perfectly happy.

Then in her peripheral vision she sees her mobile phone light up. Her heart does a little gallop, as it usually does when he calls.

She reluctantly pulls herself away from her baby, who is now old enough to sit up by herself on the carpeted floor, surrounded by plush cushions. She answers the call.

“Hello, Dad?” She tries to sound upbeat.

“Hannah?”

She recognizes that tone, and braces herself. “What’s the matter?”

She can hear his panicked breathing. “I was making my way to see Dr. Lam. Been there a hundred times. But…But I got down here at the lobby, and then my mind just went blank. I…I lost any sense of direction. I don’t know where to go. So…So I’m going back home now. I’m going back up now.”

Hannah closes her eyes. It is happening again. Another episode.

She takes a deep breath. “OK, don’t panic. Just go back home, sit down, and drink some water. Where is Mary?” She is the domestic helper.

“I don’t know where she’s gone,” he says hoarsely. Hannah glances at the clock and guesses Mary is probably at the wet market. Her father can never keep track.

“OK, just wait until she gets back. I’ll call her and tell her to hurry back. Do you feel any physical discomfort?” Hannah worries that he might be having a minor stroke. His speech isn’t slurred, and he can still formulate sentences. But he seems to be having more difficulty retrieving words, his pauses longer, and this time his confusion and disorientation seem worse.

He says he doesn’t feel any pain. “But I’m all muddled, Hannah. I can’t…I can’t think.”

“Don’t worry about the appointment with Dr. Lam,” Hannah reassures. “I’ll call him and ask to reschedule. You go to the clinic later with Mary, ok? Just stay put until she gets back.”

“What appointment?” He sounds perplexed. She can almost hear the cogs in his brain grind and groan. 

“Dad, you made an appointment with Dr. Lam,” she says slowly. “You called me earlier this morning to tell me you had some pain in your right ear, so you wanted to have it checked out.”

He grunts. “I don’t remember that.” He pauses. “I tried calling your…your…what’s his name…”

“Ray?” Her older brother was probably in a meeting and couldn’t pick up.

“Yes, yes. Ray. But no answer.” 

Hannah glances longingly at her baby daughter, who is now playing happily with some musical toys, occasionally looking over at mummy, who doesn’t realize she is frowning deeply, with the phone pressed to her ear. Hannah smiles at that sweet round face, blows a kiss, and walks into the hallway. Her son has started on a drawing, thankfully occupied. “It’s OK, Dad. Do you have a pen and paper there? Just write down the appointment time when I tell you later, alright?”

“What appointment?”

Hannah knows she shouldn’t, but she simmers a bit. “Dad. Your appointment with Dr. Lam. You told me you wanted to see him because of a pain in your right ear.”

“Oh. Did I? Right. Right. I just feel…I haven’t felt like this before. It’s like a virus has invaded my brain.” He talks as though this is the first time it’s happened.

Hannah glances at the clock. She has clients to see after lunch, and she had planned to spend the morning hanging out with the kids, with no distractions. But there is never enough time, and when you have an ailing parent, distraction-free is a luxury. “It’s OK. Stay calm, rest on the sofa, drink some water. I’ll call back.”

After two minutes, Hannah tells him that she had made an appointment with Dr. Lam for 1:30pm.

There is a long pause on his end. “Wait, what appointment? Why do I have to go see him?”

He calls back five or six more times, and he asks Hannah the same questions over and over again like a broken record. She spends the next hour trying to reassure him; and finally, blessedly, the mental fog lifts, and he is somewhat back to normal again.

That evening, Hannah is quieter than usual, and her husband notices. When she puts the children to bed she hugs them a little tighter, a little longer, breathing in the scent of their sweetness that she wants to cling to her forever. And when she goes to the dining table to eat with her husband, he opens his arms and she falls into them, spent, and she buries her face into his broad chest and weeps, grieving for what her father has become, and is becoming: the gradual devolving of this man who had once been such a giant to her, the gallant bread-winner who devoted himself to his family. Watching him gradually lose his mind, witnessing that slow erosion of his selfhood, has been more draining than she’d realized.

Based on research surveys, many would rather choose to be afflicted with diseases where one still gets to keep one’s mind intact, than be doomed with dementia: a cruel, incurable, degenerative disease that slowly and insidiously strips you of your identity, sanity, and dignity until you are nothing but a hollow shell of your former self. When faced with such a ghastly condition, we find ourselves mulling over the existential questions: Who are we without our memories that connect us to our loved ones, and our past and present? Who are we without a grasp on reality and the conviction of our values and beliefs that define the very essence of our being? I believe in the soul. But what happens to one’s soul as their very essence of selfhood sloughs off bit by bit?

Hannah’s father still recognizes his loved ones in the immediate family. He is still lucid enough to function without full-time nursing care, and his dementia hasn’t yet turned him into a total curmudgeon. But it is only a matter of time. The cracks of cognitive decline are getting bigger and deeper, the chasms of confusion and garbled memory growing wider and more insistent. He often forgets and struggles with the many small details of daily life that we, the unafflicted, manage without a second thought. He forgets what he had for lunch, or even whether he already had lunch; he has trouble taking the MTR because he gets easily disoriented and no longer comprehends even simple directions on a map; he often cannot recall his own address; and he relies on his helper to type text messages for him because he no longer knows how to do it.  All these easy, auto-pilot actions for us have become insurmountable chores for him, causing extreme confusion, anxiety, and even insomnia. He relies on Hannah to manage every aspect of his life; yet he is oblivious to his incapacities, instead blaming others for everything he finds incomprehensible.

Hannah’s father has embarked on the process scientists call retrogenesis: a cognitive return to birth. Therein lies the tragic irony: as Hannah’s children continue to grow into adulthood, her father continues to deteriorate into toddlerhood. One day, he will no longer recognize Hannah. One day, he will no longer care about seeing his grandchildren, because he will forget that he has them.

The world is full of fascinating and wonderfully mind-boggling things, and every now and then I learn something that makes me pause and marvel at its sheer wonderment. I recently learned that when scientists look into a telescope, they are in fact looking into the past. Did you know that when we look up at the sun, we are not actually seeing the sun as it is in real-time? That we are actually seeing the sun as it WAS about eight minutes ago?

But what happens to our sense of self when we lose that ability to understand, when we are no longer able to learn and retain knowledge, think coherently, and marvel at beauty? I cannot imagine that terrifying, unknowable state of mind. David Shenk, author of The Forgetting: Alzheimer’s, Portrait of An Epidemic (2001) was spot-on when he said that dementia is essentially a radical slowing of death: “what is usually a quick flicker we see in super slow motion.”  Amidst all of this, we ask ourselves: is an immutable self still intact behind the disease’s neurofibrillary tangles and amyloid plaques? How do you locate the selfhood in someone who is, for neurological reasons, no longer the person you knew? Beneath the chaos of garbled confusion and worsening cognitive decline, can we still find something in our loved one that is transcendently human?

This is why only imagination can probe that unknowable state of mind. Dementia has been the subject of many great works of journalism and memoir (Thomas DeBaggio’s “Losing My Mind: An Intimate Look at Life with Alzheimer’s,” John Bayley’s “Elegy for Iris,” and Diane Keaton’s “Then Again”, just to name a few), but ultimately we are left with questions that only good fiction can answer: What do those end stages feel like? What is it like to lose oneself and still live? Could there be some essential grain of personhood that survives until the end?

No matter how much we want to understand, mid-to late-stage sufferers, lost in their aphasia (the inability to verbally express oneself due to the loss of language skills), can’t articulate it to us. So fiction attempts to explain it for us. Films adapted from books about dementia such as Still Alice, The Notebook, Supernova and Iris move us so profoundly because they make us question what it means to be ourselves, and that inevitably raises potentially uncomfortable questions regarding the meaning of life and what makes us uniquely human. In the critically acclaimed film The Father, Sir Anthony Hopkins (for which he won the Best Actor Oscar in 2021) gives a heartrending performance as an elderly man suffering from advancing dementia. During the devastating final scene, as he grapples with late-stage Alzheimer’s, his character is talking to his nurse when he starts sobbing like a child: “Who exactly am I? I want my mommy. I want her to come and fetch me. I want to go home. I feel as if I’m losing all my leaves. I don’t know what’s happening anymore. I have nowhere to put my head down anymore. I know my watch is on my wrist. That I do know, for the journey.” And therein lies the incomparable beauty of fiction: A good writer finds the words to effectively explain things that we find difficult to understand or imagine. The powerfully evoking imagery of a tree losing its leaves until it is a skeletal phantom provides a haunting metaphor for the slow, ultimately all-consuming progression of dementia; that it is essentially a stripping away of one’s essence, and every little memory and piece of selfhood that is lost, is in fact felt inexplicably by the sufferer, in ways that cannot be adequately explained without resorting to the abstract and figurative.

It is Sunday, and Hannah has invited her father over for lunch. She watches as he plays with her baby daughter, and she sees the pure adoration in his eyes, the way his face lights up at his grand-daughter’s giggles and smiles. And then Hannah is struck by the redemptive realization that this golden moment is to be photographed and treasured: for her father is still in there. The tree hasn’t yet lost all its leaves. He can still love, and feel love. And perhaps, at the end of it all, that is the only thing that matters.

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
31st August 2021

This blog post is also posted on Kathryn’s Facebook Page. Visit here.

Kathryn Tse-Durham: Please, Enough of the Dragons! – My musings on Asian Representation in Media and Literature

Kathryn Tse-Durham: Please, Enough of the Dragons! – My musings on Asian Representation in Media and Literature

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There was a time when my love for art eclipsed my love for books. When I was studying at an international school in Hong Kong, I had a brilliant art teacher named Mr Buck in Grade 10. It’s true what Maya Angelou said: at the end of the day, people won’t remember so much for what you said or did, but they will remember you most for how you made them feel. Mr Buck made me feel seen. He treated me like an individual whose ideas and work had something to offer the world.  Best of all, he made me realize how cerebral and exciting art can be, and for a time I dreamt of becoming an artist. We need more teachers that inspire us to dream, don’t we?

Our school had a very internationalized student body, so I never felt out of place. Having grown up as part of the Chinese diaspora in Australia, I was a third-culture kid, and my Chineseness was never something that stood out at my school. Those were happy days. So I was very sad when I had to move back to Australia for boarding school. It was a difficult transition, and for a time things turned dark and lonely. As if things couldn’t get any worse, my new art teacher, Mr V, was nothing like Mr Buck, whose class I missed terribly.

Mr V took me aside during class one day and held up one of my ink drawings, an intricate sketch of a strange, Dali-esque contraption. It was just a doodle really, but he seized upon it for an important revelation as he fixed his intense blue eyes on me. “Listen, you have excellent technique. You have extraordinary skill. That is not up for dispute. But you have to produce art that reflects you. Your culture, your background, your upbringing. Your art has to mean  something. Look at these, and you’ll see what I mean.” My throat seized up as he showed me sketches drawn by a fellow student, who, like me, was of Chinese descent. These were pencil sketches of sinewy, bulgy-eyed, snarling dragons like those frequently seen on traditional Chinese paraphernalia. Mr V looked at my bewilderment sympathetically and patted my shoulder. “Spend some time thinking about what reflects you, and we can talk more then.”

After that, I dreaded art class.

This sort of pervasive and presumptuous labeling and stereotyping contributes to how Asians are represented in popular media and literature. So many films and books I’ve come across represent Asians in a very narrow light, often against a clichéd backdrop of culture and festivals and folklore. This is especially true in children’s literature. In films, the Asian is often the one-dimensional sidekick depicted as a martial art enthusiast or bespectacled nerd who’s inevitably relegated to the friend zone by the attractive (and often white) protagonist.

Asians, like everyone else, come in all gloriously sized and shaded packages. Asians are not all yellow-skinned as depicted in traditional Western media. Some of us can be as white-skinned as the fairest, easy-to-sunburn Caucasian – like my baby daughter, whose beautiful white skin is so pale that I’ve nicknamed her Snow White – or as beautifully brown as Priyanka Chopra, who is considered one of the most gorgeous women in the world. Asians come in a wide range: Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, Fillipino, Burmese, Thai, Nepalese, Cambodian, Indian, and more. Most of all, Asians come in a myriad of personalities, with different quirks and talents, strengths and weaknesses. We don’t all like kung fu or sashimi; not all of us are good at math and science; nor is every Asian unquestionably filial and submissive, and we are not always shy and nerdy wallflowers. If you look around and really see us, you will notice that Asians can be tall and muscular, hot and curvy and sexy; we can be cool and witty and charismatic, artistic and creative and desirable.

Ann M. Martin was one of the first Caucasian writers back in the eighties to represent Asians in a more diverse and unconventional light when she created the character of Claudia Kishi, the popular, artistic, and fun-loving Japanese-American girl who, to this day, is considered by many readers to be the coolest character in The Baby-Sitters Club. That’s the type of representation we need more of in literature and the media. Asians are a diverse bunch of individuals with so much more to offer than good grades, kung-fu, fortune cookies, and accented English.

Because I am a fun and loving wife (husband rolls his eyes), I accompanied said husband to nearly every Marvel film in the past decade. It has struck me just how under-represented Asians have been in all these blockbuster movies, and it makes me wonder why we are given so little time of day. I mean, there are so many excellent Asian actors. And many are as photogenic as their Caucasian counterparts, if not more so. What are we missing?

After Black Americans celebrated Black Panther, Asians are finally getting their very own Marvel film called Shang Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, starring talented Canadian-Chinese actor, Simu Liu of the hit TV sitcom Kim’s Convenience. I am hoping that Shang Chi won’t just be another kung-fu fest amidst a sea of cone hats and firecrackers, dripping with tacky dialogue and cringe-worthy Chinese clichés. I really want to watch a superhero movie that portrays Asians in a diverse and more realistic light, because we are so much more than just the kung-fu chopping likes of Jackie Chan and Jet Li and Michelle Yeoh. With the refreshing likes of Ali Wong, Awkwafina, Mindy Kaling, Jameela Jamil, Gemma Chan, Daniel Dae Kim, Manny Jacinto, Sendhil Ramamurthy, Daniel Wu, and Steven Yeun (just to name a few) thrown into the mix, we’ll have a much better and representative variety of the Asian spectrum. The range of Asian characters in the much-lauded Crazy Rich Asians was a nice breakthrough, and we need more of this representation to show that Asians, no matter how rich or poor, are people you can identify with on some level because we’re all just human.

It came to my attention that a TV show my husband and I have enjoyed watching, Kim’s Convenience, has recently been embroiled in controversy. Actors from this popular Canadian sitcom have spoken out about what they say is the show’s poor approach to depicting Korean Canadians. Co-stars Simu Liu and Jean Yoon shared their frustrations on social media, saying that the writers’ room, which was “overwhelmingly white” lacked diverse voices yet declined their creative input, even after the actors voiced concerns about “overtly racist” storylines. Liu writes that he was “growing increasingly frustrated with the way my character was being portrayed”. “The characters never seemed to grow,” he continued, adding: “I remain fixated on the missed opportunities to show Asian characters with real depth and the ability to grow and evolve.” The producers’ and writers’ dismissal of their input has been frustrating, he said, given that “we were a cast of Asian-Canadians who had a plethora of lived experiences to draw from and offer to writers”. 

A writer has an important job. Some of the most crucial responsibilities of a writer are to imagine, to delve, to engage, and to go beyond the obvious and recognizable. We have to challenge our readers and not just show them what they might be comfortable with. Writers have the duty to question stereotypes and simplistic thinking. Thankfully, there are wonderful Asian writers who do challenge the audience by moving past the obvious and recognizable. If you are looking for good books that show Asians are indeed so much more substantial and diverse than what popular media portrays, then I would highly recommend these books about the Asian experience by these talented authors: Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng (this book so struck a chord with me and was so moving that it made me bawl); Free Food For Millionaires (excellent take on the Korean-American diaspora) and Pachinko by Min Jin Lee; the groundbreaking and award-winning Under the Pendulum Sun by Hong Konger Jeannette Ng (a fantasy novel with one of the most unique premises ever). I am grateful for the genius of Haruki Murakami, whose novels have captivated readers all over the world with his unusual protagonists and surreal storylines (some of my favourites are South of the Border, West of the Sun; and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle). Then there’s the incomparable Kazuo Ishiguro, whose achingly beautiful writing and nostalgic storytelling has set him apart as one of the greatest writers ever (e.g. Pale View of Hills, When We Were Orphans). 

Things are slowly progressing. Asians are starting to get more diverse representation in popular media and literature. Recently, Chloe Zhao made history by becoming the first ‘woman of colour’ to win the Best Director Oscar for Nomadland. I am grateful to her and others who forge ahead against all odds, and in the process breaking stereotypes and showing the world that Asians are a force to be reckoned with because we ARE your peers and your equals, and we come in all shapes and sizes and personalities. I like The Good Doctor, a TV show about a brilliant doctor on the autistic spectrum, in which several main characters are played by Asian actors like Will Yun Li and Christina Chang. I am so glad for K-pop and K-dramas that have garnered a huge international following, because they show the world that Asians can be just as attractive, intelligent, artistic, and dynamic as their Western counterparts. Internationally acclaimed Korean films such as Parasite and Minari are incredible breakthroughs, and neither had to feature any dragons, kung-fu, or flying daggers to mesmerize the audience. I am so grateful for these films, because they show Asians have real depth and the ability to grow and evolve, or stumble and disintegrate, just like anybody else; and along the way we glimpse aspects of Korean culture that blend seamlessly into the storytelling.

I write The Ellanor Chronicles in part to live out my dream to share my stories with as many readers as possible; and in part to challenge the stereotype that Asian writers best stick with crafting quintessentially Chinese-themed stories. I like to write about what I know, what I love – about elves and magic and adventure, and through The Ellanor Chronicles I want to show that regardless of skin colour and cultural background, we are all multifaceted people, nuanced and sometimes complicated, with our own story to tell. I’m not just someone you can label and put into a box. And neither are you.

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
25th June 2021

This blog post is also posted on Kathryn’s Facebook Page. Visit here.

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Kathryn Tse-Durham: Life is Like a Box of Chocolates…Preferably With Ganache

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Forrest Gump is one of my favourite movies. I watched it as a teen with my high school friend Karen. I remember the tears streaking down my cheeks as I watched Tom Hanks’ face up close, his mentally-challenged but heartbreakingly endearing Forrest talking at Jenny’s grave and telling his childhood sweetheart how much he misses her. Some stories are timeless. No matter how old I get, I just don’t tire of them. Perhaps you remember the scene where Forrest sits on a bench next to a sweet elderly lady and offers up a box of chocolates.

I love chocolate. Especially dark chocolate with ganache. My, what a slice of heaven.

Anyway, I digress. Back to Forrest. He’d bought the box of chocolates for Jenny, whom he was about to go meet after a long separation. Against decorum (but when it’s Forrest, we instantly forgive him), he’d already eaten a few of the chocolates himself. In his Southern drawl he says to his bemused companion, “Mama always says that life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.” And that line shall always remain iconic, forever nostalgic, a shared wisdom that would’ve easily been dismissed as tackiness of the Hallmark channel variety if it hadn’t been uttered by such a beloved movie character.

In response to Forrest, I can almost hear the Chinese elders shudder and touch wood and retort, “Aiya, it’s fine as long as you don’t know what good stuff you’re gonna get.” 

There is a saying, a sort of mantra, in Chinese culture: “出入平安” which translates to ‘May you be safe wherever you go’. Naturally, we all want to get through the day without crashing the car or getting mugged, least of all to meet a prematurely fatal end. This is essentially what the mantra is about: live another day well without mishap. In my experience as a Chinese person growing up in the West, I often observed this fixation on safety and well-being, which partly explains why, in general, the Chinese are known to be particularly cautious and less risk-taking than their Western counterparts (though this is becoming increasingly less pronounced especially in the younger generation). It is as if those Chinese elders believe that repeatedly uttering this mantra “出入平安” will magically immunize us against life’s inevitable pitfalls. A life of static peace and quiet, untouched by tragedy, is what they wish for us, perhaps because they themselves had seen too much pain and suffering back in a time when poverty and hardship was the norm rather than the exception.

But for all their well-intentioned wishes, life is not static, and life is not supposed to be all smooth-sailing, is it? Even for the most disciplined and straight-arrowed, and regardless of our life circumstances, sooner or later we will all look tragedy in the eye. Because nobody is immune to life’s curveballs, which comes in many forms. And absolutely nobody, unless it’s fiction, is immune to life’s ultimate curveball – the great beyond, the final farewell.

And when you come to think about it, it is the unexpected, the dramas of life, that provide the best material for stories. Stories – the greatest ones – are always about the unexpected, the twists and turns that uproot the protagonist’s life in some way. After all, nobody really wants to hear a story in which nothing out of the ordinary happens. Great tragedy is often followed by heart wrenching story-telling. Back in 2011, who knew that a tsunami would hit and devastate so much of South-East Asia? It was a tragedy that uprooted and destroyed numerous lives, and it inspired the book-turned-movie “The Impossible” starring Naomi Watts and Ewan McGregor. In 2020, who knew that the whole world would get hit by the COVID pandemic? The movie “Contagion” starring Kate Winslet suddenly became a wonder, something that Nostradamus fans look to as proof, no matter how nonsensical, that certain prophecies come true. And in a couple of years, when the wounds are not as fresh and it won’t be considered as offensive, Hollywood might make another blockbuster out of this global tragedy. In light of such disasters, when our mortality is at stake, we scale back and focus more on the basics – stay healthy, stay alive, be strong for our loved ones. And the Chinese mantra “出入平安” becomes ever more meaningful, for now we prize peace and quiet in a way that we never did before.

The older I get, the more it becomes apparent that life is what happens when things don’t go according to plan. Now, don’t get me wrong – I don’t mean we shouldn’t plan and work hard. My motto is that we should work hard and try our best, and leave the rest up to a higher power. Some of the best things in my life happened because things didn’t go according to plan.

In February, we welcomed our little girl – quite the unexpected curveball – to our family. It has been a hectic, life-changing few months, filled with sleepless nights and days revolving around her feeds, pumping milk, changing nappies, burping her, and getting her to sleep. Now that she’s so much more alert and inquisitive, I start seeing the little girl she might grow up to be. And it’s magical.

Life with two kids, a dog, work, and a household to manage (thankfully with a lovely domestic helper!) also means that for the next few years I won’t get a full night’s sleep. It also means that I won’t get as much time to write, so I’ll have to figure out how to maximise my time and do as much writing as I can with what free time I have. My fourth Ellanor book is still in the making – mostly in my head, because I’m still planning out the chapters – and so I won’t give any spoilers here, but only say that the next book will be full of action and drama, twists and turns. How will Elly and Goldie respond to life’s curveballs? Oh, and parts of it will take place in North and South America, and a couple of other places that I haven’t yet decided on. That’s all I shall disclose for now.

I look at my chubby little baby girl, now full of crescent-eyed smiles, and I watch her being cuddled by my son while my corgi lies close by sniffing her tiny toes, and my heart is full to bursting as my exhaustion melts away, and I think: sometimes, what you get is infinitely better than any ganache. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
30th April 2021

This blog post is also posted on Kathryn’s Facebook Page. Visit here.

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Kathryn Tse-Durham: Boys and Girls, What Will Your Verse Be?

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Recently, my boy turned five years old. Amidst the pandemic, we still managed to have a sweet and quiet celebration. It was a tranquil Monday afternoon, and I took him to the beach for lunch with our lovely helper and handsome corgi and had the best time. There was hardly anybody about. We were wandering around when we came upon a colourful store selling various party paraphernalia. Elated, I decided to get him one of those gigantic helium foil balloons for his birthday, and like any five-year-old with a penchant for big floating objects, he jumped at the idea. The shopkeeper was very friendly and enthusiastically presented us with several colour options for the “5” balloon. My son, who is currently obsessed with trains and Paw Patrol and Marvel and DC superheroes, adamantly proclaimed, “I want pink!” I laughed and asked him if he was sure, since he normally chooses blue, supposedly his favourite colour. Then the well-meaning shopkeeper commented, “Well, if he chooses pink, we can make it look less girly by pairing it up with a Superman balloon! What do you say?”

My boy thought it was an ingenious idea – after all, he wouldn’t forego the opportunity to get two huge balloons, and better yet, he could get more Superman paraphernalia! But as I was paying at the counter, something nagged at me. Why did the woman feel that we had to dilute the pink with something ‘masculine’? Why is it considered undesirable for a boy to choose pink, but perfectly OK for a girl to choose blue or green or black or grey? And it occurred to me that from a very young age, boys, including my son, are socialized and conditioned, either subtly or blatantly on a daily basis, to believe that they should steer clear of feminine things because boys should like boy things, and if you don’t you might get teased or even beaten up. But therein lies the double-standard – why are girls not encouraged to the same degree to steer clear of boyish or masculine things?

I grew up reading books about girls (who remembers The Baby-Sitters Club and The Sweet Valley Twins? Oh, the nostalgia!) and boy protagonists (The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter kept me up on nights I should’ve been studying). As a teen, I preferred wearing ripped jeans and cargo pants and baggy sweaters, and I hated pink and loved wearing black. Nobody berated me outright, though I think my mother secretly thought I should’ve worn dresses more. 

Before J.K. Rowling became a household name, Bloomsbury asked her to go with her initials instead of her first name, Joanne, because they anticipated that boys wouldn’t be as inclined to read books written by a woman. Rowling accepted this, wanting to go along with the big guns as she was young and poor and unknown. And when her books went on to become phenomenally successful, garnering millions of readers around the world of all genders and ages and backgrounds, and Rowling became the richest author in the world, the fact that she is female became a moot point. I have never known any parent to discourage their daughter from reading Harry Potter because it’s about a boy protagonist.  But I have known parents who discouraged their sons from reading books about female protagonists.

When I pursued my dream of getting published, I decided to write a story about a heroine named Ellanor, a preteen who would just be as dynamic and interesting as other boy protagonists, if not more so. And I wanted boys and men to read it and enjoy it, too (which has happened!). And when I got signed by Hedgehog Publishing, I decided to go from K.T. Durham to my full name, Kathryn Tse-Durham, so that boys would know that not only am I a female writer and proud of it, but I am also of Chinese descent, of which I am proud, too.

A few months ago, I read an excellent and thought-provoking article written by American author Caroline Paul titled ‘Why Boys Should Read Girl Books’. Paul talks about how a middle school declined her offer to speak to their students about her latest book, The Gutsy Girl: Escapades for Your Life of Epic Adventure, because the school reasoned that such a book would exclude boys. Paul was shocked and confused. Her book may not be about a boy protagonist, but that doesn’t mean boys are excluded. It just means that the book isn’t about them. This is America, supposedly the most progressive and open-minded nation in the world. In such developed societies, archaic views still persist, and are perpetuated, by those who appear to champion values like equality and inclusion. Paul then wrote about another writer who had written a book that featured girls, and when she attended a school assembly to speak to the students, she saw that many of the seats were vacant because the boys, it turned out, had been excused from the program.

Back in 2016 when Paul wrote her article, she took a look at the New York Times children’s bestseller list. At first glance, the books seemed to vary wildly. There were stories about magical cats, robots, and prepubescent heroes. But that week, and for weeks after, Paul found that of the top ten, nine featured Caucasian boys. Not a single bestseller had a sole female protagonist. Paul came to conclude that many authors and publishers are throwing their weight behind certain books because of this widespread, and ultimately damaging, belief that everyone will and should read about boys, but not about girls. So what does this mean?

In the timeless and wonderful film Dead Poets Society, Robin Williams’ character Mr John Keating, a charismatic and passionate teacher of English literature, says this in one of the most moving scenes ever: “No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world. We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering – these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love – these are what we stay alive for. That you are here, that life exists. And identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”

His words will always stay with me, not least because they were voiced by one of my favourite actors who died too soon. We all play a part in the scheme of things. What will my verse be? What will your verse be in the way that boys and girls are raised, in the way that the world is being shaped and transformed?

You see, we read to experience a myriad of perspectives. We read to learn about people and situations outside and beyond ourselves, so we can deepen our connection and understanding of the human experience. Because we are all different, and every person is unique, and it’s important that we respect our differences as well as celebrate the fundamental similarities that make us all human. We can learn to disagree with each other and still be friends. We read, and write, to prepare for life. So think about it: if we discourage boys from reading about girls and women, aren’t we raising our boys to dismiss other people’s experiences, and to believe that their needs and concerns are the centre of the universe? By encouraging them to dismiss stories about girls and women, as well as other community groups, in essence aren’t we raising our boys to lack empathy? The agreement that boys shouldn’t read about girls, that in fact it’s shameful to be interested in what girls do and think about in books, is an unspoken agreement that can ultimately lead to things like misogyny and abuse and mistreatment of girls and women. Look at how the media convinces boys that anything considered remotely girl-like is to be avoided, even reviled. When a boy is directed to books that reflect only a narrow aspect of the world, or he is shamed for any interest in what is considered a “girl book,” his understanding of girls and therefore of himself is awfully fragmented and skewed. 

I write The Ellanor Chronicles to entertain and to inspire joy and hope and values of love and friendship and inclusion. I also write the story to inspire courage and resilience in girls, and to show that girls can be just as cool and interesting and dynamic as boys. In some ways, it is also my way of protesting against the lame stereotypes many boys and men, and even some girls and women, hold of us. It’s high time that everyone sees that girls and women are as much doers as the boys and men. It’s high time that boys aren’t shamed for reading girl books, for everyone’s sake. On the bright side, some things are slowly improving. Today, I checked out the New York Times children’s bestseller list, and I’m somewhat encouraged to see that three out of the top ten feature girl protagonists. But there is still a fair way to go.

As a mother to a young boy, I believe it is my duty to raise him to appreciate the differences and similarities between people, and to respect both men and women of all skin colours and backgrounds and walks of life. And now that my daughter will soon be born (I’m balancing my Macbook on my massive belly as I write this), I want the same for her. I want my children to become dynamic people who can be strong yet nurturing, gentle yet firm, assertive yet understanding, adventurous yet wise. I want them to see that both mummy and daddy can team up and cook and clean and earn the bread and butter, and both can sing lullabies and change the dirty nappies. I want them to know that it’s OK for boys and girls to both like pink and simultaneously love superheroes like Superman and Captain America and Wonder Woman. I want them to know that both men and women can rescue each other and hold each other up, just as Ellanor carries Aron to safety when he is injured, and she berates him for thinking he shouldn’t be saved by a girl (as seen in my new book Ellanor and the Land of the Midnight Sun). Boys can enjoy girl books like The Ellanor Chronicles and love Iron Man and video games and football; and girls can enjoy Harry Potter and Percy Jackson and like wearing dresses and make-up and do ballet or weight-training. Because life, and people, exists on a broad and beautiful spectrum. We don’t all fit neatly into boxes. Otherwise, it would be an awfully dull world, don’t you think?

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
21st January 2021

This blog post is also posted on Kathryn’s Facebook Page. Visit here.

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Kathryn Tse-Durham: Silver Linings, Christmas Vibes, and a New Book

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Finally, it’s December.

It’s been a seemingly interminable year that can best be described by an amalgamation of negative adjectives: surreal, awful, restrictive, shattering, frightening, worrying, and humbling. Personally for me, like for many around the world, 2020 has been really hard. But it has also been strangely and wondrously miraculous. In hindsight, I’m amazed by how much got accomplished and was overcome, and I really feel grateful for all that we still have. I also hope that you, dear reader, have found some silver linings in the adversity, as I have. For one, amidst the chaos of this entire year, I managed to churn out the third volume of The Ellanor Chronicles, Ellanor and the Land of the Midnight Sun. Yes, it has been a long time coming – and it’s finally, blessedly here!

The third book has just been released and can be purchased online from the official publisher’s website, and in the days leading up to Christmas the book (along with the first two volumes) will be available at various bookstores in Hong Kong such as Bookazine, Commercial Press, Joint Publishing, etc. Also, in aligning with the social-distancing rules, Hedgehog Publishing is organizing a virtual book launch to be aired on December 29th which will be hosted by me and my friend Aaron Presley, an American who has lived in Hong Kong for seventeen years and loves a good story, and I’m flattered that he deems The Ellanor Chronicles one of them.

Those who have been following my blog, my apologies for the silence – my last blog post being in September. For the past several months have been exciting but intense and harrowing: polishing the manuscript with my lovely editor based in Sydney; working feverishly with my excellent illustrator, who is herself based in Sweden, on the gorgeous cover art and the black and white illustrations which grace the book; and final revisions and proof-readings which took up many frustrating, sleepless nights. As the author, I take it upon myself to personally revise and finalize everything from every misplaced comma, every misspelling, to every seemingly teensy plot hole or inconsistency. Birthing a novel of this scope takes an incredible amount of work, and I am so thankful to everyone who has been involved in this time-consuming, meticulous, and ultimately rewarding process.

As I write this, a plethora of random and relevant thoughts swirl around my head, and I am tempted to write more, because there is always some thought or inkling to share. But let’s keep it relatively short and sweet; for as we count down to Christmas, play those favourite vibe-buzzing songs and put up those twinkling lights and shining orbs and gleaming angels, we collectively breathe a sigh of relief that 2020 is finally coming to an end. Amidst such turbulent times, we all crave something light and up-lifting; so I shall reserve the more cerebral musings to my next blog, which hopefully will be posted in the New Year.

Meanwhile, I wish you all a wonderful and blessed Christmas season with loved ones even as we continue to social-distance and stay home. If you’re looking for a good read over Christmas, perhaps you can try venturing into Ellanor’s world if you haven’t already done so.

May 2021 see better and brighter (hopefully COVID-free) days, and much love to you all. Huzzah!

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
7th December 2020

This blog post is also posted on Kathryn’s Facebook Page. Visit here.

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Kathryn Tse-Durham: My Journey with Ellanor

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I’m driving to Central, and the sun is beating down as I meander through the traffic. As usual, there is another standstill. “Mummy, what is that?” my little four-year-old chirps, and I turn my head a fraction to the left and flinch. “Ow!” I groan, massaging my neck. The crick has been bothering me since I submitted my manuscript for my third book to my publisher a few days ago. I’d spent the last week staying up late into the night editing and making final revisions to the manuscript. The stress of meeting a deadline and hours and hours of sitting and typing must’ve strained my neck and upper back muscles. But alas – Huzzah! – the third installment of The Ellanor Chronicles is finally ready to come out at the end of this year! Elated and relieved, I ordered a bunch of delicious take-out and feasted with my hubby as we binge-watched Cobra-Kai and reveled in 1980s nostalgia. Amidst this pandemic, this has become the new normal – celebrating quietly and without much fanfare at home with loved ones.

People often ask me what it’s like to write and get a novel published. There are those who assume it’s an uncomplicated process where you sit down and type out the whole story in one go, and there you have it. I can’t tell you how far this is from the truth. If a writer takes their craft seriously and is determined to write a good story, especially one with a huge scope like The Ellanor Chronicles, it requires a tremendous amount of discipline and perseverance. It starts with brainstorming and planning out the story, outlining the chapters, followed by the actual writing which could take months, even years. It took J.R.R. Tolkien over ten years to write The Lord of the Rings (whose ethereal elves inspired my elves in The Ellanor Chronicles), and six years for J.K. Rowling to finish Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (which then got rejected by about twenty publishing houses until a sharp-eyed literary agent named Christopher Little snagged it).

After the first draft is ready, the strenuous process of rewriting and editing begins, and it is this last leg of the journey that can be most tedious and stressful because you want to polish your work to a shine before it gets revealed to the world. It is imperative to have an excellent, perfectionistic editor to guide you through this process to help enhance your writing, which involves correcting at least 90% of the typos and errors. But as the author, the final process becomes a personal crusade to fill in every little plot hole and inconsistency and edit every misplaced punctuation mark and inconspicuous misspelling that the editor has missed. Because even if it is fantasy fiction, the world the author depicts must still be convincing to the reader. So yes, writing a book to meet a professional standard is a great deal of hard work, especially if you are not James Patterson with a slew of ghostwriters and editors at your beck and call.

When I think back on my writing journey, I’m amazed by how much has transpired. There has been a series of triumphs, disappointments, surprises, frustrations, elations…But ultimately the journey has enriched me and made me grow. Back in 2013, I had been married for two years, working hard as a Speech Therapist and contemplating doing a Ph.D. I had already gotten in touch with some professors to see if they would want to become my supervisor. But embarking on a five-year academic journey meant that I wouldn’t have the time or the energy to do what I had dreamed of doing for years: writing and publishing a novel before I started a family. So I put aside my Ph.D. aspirations and set out to realize my childhood dream, no matter that it sounded foolish and fanciful. And the rest is history.

These days, bookshelves are overcrowded with young-adult fantasy novels about vampires and werewolves (don’t get me started) and dystopian futures. To be fair, some of these are excellent (e.g. the Scythe series by Neal Shusterman), whereas the success of some confounds me to no end. But I wanted to offer something different: a planned series in which elf and human worlds collide, and the heroine is a unique young elf much like a young female Indiana Jones, who lives out her dream of being a globe-trotting explorer after she is pushed through a portal into the contemporary human world. My protagonist is an elf named Ellanor Celendis, better known as Elly, who resides in the elven realm of Alendria. The series charts Elly’s adventures as she blossoms from an insecure twelve-year-old into a strong-headed teenager who learns to take on responsibility and fight for the people and the world she loves. Elly is sweet-natured and struggles with feelings of inferiority as she is ostracised at school for being an oddball as well as being the grand-niece of the one who allegedly betrayed his people to the goblins during a war that took place centuries ago. A recurring theme in this story is that appearances are deceitful; things are not always what they seem.

Through my story, I want to convey to readers that though there is much darkness and evil in this world, there is also light and much that is good. Through Elly’s adventures and expeditions, readers get to learn about various cultures and different life issues that affect the human experience. Through her inquisitive eyes, I want to convey to readers that regardless of race, skin colour, or social upbringing, we are all essentially the same in the most fundamental ways, and we should treat one another with respect and dignity. We live in a world where people of all ethnicities and cultures make society interesting, lively, and functional; this is something that I want to exemplify and celebrate in my story. The first book takes the reader to London, where Elly learns a bit about British culture as well as Chinese culture when she befriends a Hong Kong-Chinese immigrant family. The sequels take place in different parts of the world, including South Korea, Europe, and other places that I will keep mum about for now as I don’t want to reveal spoilers!

So you might ask – is all that hard work worth it? All I know is that one day I will be gone from this world, and if my books can make even the tiniest difference – if they can make my readers smile and dream and think and talk about things that matter – then yes, it would have been worth it. “If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead, either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” – Benjamin Franklin

Last year in October, I was interviewed by RTHK Radio 3 about my journey on becoming a writer and published author. You can listen to the interview here.

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
17th September 2020

This blog post is also posted on Kathryn’s Facebook Page. Visit here.

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Kathryn Tse-Durham: Of Beautiful Battle Scars and Flawed Utopias

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It is already July. I’m a mixed bag of emotions and thoughts as I reflect on how this year has transpired. I believe 2020 thus far has been a year of heavy trials and tribulations for many all over the globe, and for some the traumas and devastations will linger for years to come. There is a lyric in John Lennon’s Beautiful Boy that “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” How true that is.

With so much time spent social-distancing at home, one upside is that I’ve been able to catch up on some late-night reading after putting my boys to sleep. I devoured the excellent dystopian Scythe trilogy by Neal Shusterman. It is one of the most original and intriguing stories I’ve read. Though the books are aimed at a young-adult audience, the subject matter is actually quite dark and heavy. It is an easy read, and it leaves you with plenty to mull over. This is what great writing conjures: ideas, questions, epiphanies, and lessons learned. And from this story, a glaring moral lesson can be gleaned: in our quest to attain a perfect world, a Utopia in which humans are immortal and no longer fall sick, a world in which humans no longer have to fight for justice and freedom or strive for progress, a so-called perfect world where we can no longer identify with the tragedies and triumphs of Shakespeare…We’d lose essential parts of our humanity, wouldn’t we?

Once the very things that make up the essence of songs and poetry and novels and films  – turmoil, tragedy, loss, regret –  are somehow eliminated, then what is left? For how do we truly appreciate and treasure love, family, friendship, triumphs, and the sanctity of life in a Utopia where death and loss and tragedy are no longer part of the equation? Scythe cleverly and elegantly asks these questions, and though it is never explicitly told, we are shown (as all great stories do) the answer: though these are not the things we want in life, it is the difficult stuff that gives our life meaning and makes us grow. Think about your favourite, most inspiring stories. Les Misérables. The Taxi Driver (Korean film). The Shawshank Redemption. The Pursuit of Happiness. Schindler’s List. The Book Thief. The Theory of Everything. The Untouchables. These stories are worthy of telling because they celebrate the tenacity of the human spirit: that no matter how crushing life gets, we don’t give up, we survive, we forge on until the light emerges at the end of the tunnel. Because the darkness doesn’t last forever. The sun will rise, the skies will clear. We may stumble, we may cry and scream with anguish and tear our hair out; but then we grit our teeth, hold our head up high, and keep going. And therein lies the great contradiction of the human condition: we hate hardship and tragedy, we try to avoid pain at all costs; but without any of the difficult stuff, aren’t we just empty and stagnant vessels waiting to expire? As M. Scott Peck stated at the beginning of his wonderful book The Road Less Traveled: Life is difficult. So perhaps the least we could ask for is this: let the inevitable turmoil come, but at bearable dosages please.  

A little personal anecdote to show that sometimes, mishaps can be a blessing in disguise: When I was studying for my Masters degree in Australia, I was assigned to intern as a Speech Pathologist at a small country-town hospital. As a city girl, I was not happy about this. Why did I have to drive over eight hours cross-country by myself in my beat-up Volvo with NO air-conditioning in the searing summer heat while my classmates were assigned to nearby hospitals and clinics in the city? “Because you ticked the box that indicated you have wheels,” my supervisor laughed, and I mentally kicked myself. So I accepted my plight and set off for Bundaberg, a small town in the middle of nowhere that’s actually world-famous for its ginger beer and rum. There I was, speeding along the highway in that sky-blue tank of a Volvo with nothing but packed bags and a 2003 Nokia mobile phone (no GPS or smart phones back then!) when the steering wheel started shuddering and the hood started smoking! Images of kidnapping highwaymen and murderous psychopaths flashed across my mind as I slowed the car down and parked at the side of the highway. I waited for over half an hour alone on that huge expanse of road and dry shrubbery before the familiar yellow and blue RACQ truck arrived, and I prayed that the driver wasn’t some lecherous predator. The friendly bearded man fixed up my Volvo and gently reminded me that perhaps it was time to give up my ancient contraption for something like an amiable Toyota or Honda, before waving goodbye and driving off, leaving me deflating with relief as I quickly jumped back into my tank and sped away, thanking God I was alive and kicking. And you know what? Despite my initial reluctance and the rocky-road start, I had one of the best times of my life in Bundaberg.

As I reflect on this year of personal hardships and challenges, I also smile at my victories, some big, some small. Like everyone else, I have battle scars, and I am proud of them. And as Hong Kong, my beloved home, is embroiled in adversity, I want to say this on behalf of all of us who love this glorious city: we shall forge on. The sun will come up. One day, stories will be told of what we overcame. And I shall keep writing.

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
8th July 2020

This blog post is also posted on Kathryn’s Facebook Page. Visit here.

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Kathryn Tse-Durham: My Two Cents

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“Miss Kathryn, have you finished your third book?”

I often get this question from students and readers who have finished the first two instalments of The Ellanor Chronicles, my fantasy book series. After having hosted a number of creative writing workshops with the English Schools Foundation (ESF) and my private ‘Atomic Da Vincis’ classes, teaching about creative writing feels like a calling that I could do for the rest of my life. And yes, I have indeed been working on my third book, and the manuscript is currently with my wonderful editor. The truth is that writing a book requires a tremendous amount of hard work, and some people, bless them, may think it is as easy as jotting down notes on a piece of shorn paper.

I’ve been racking my brain about what piece of essential advice about creative writing I can impart. My two cents. Something that may seem painfully obvious, but just isn’t really emphasized and deserves mentioning. I mean, these days it’s so easy to find information about creative writing tips online. So what wisdom could I possibly impart to you, dear reader? Most who have taken a creative writing course might remember (or not) the ‘Elements of Fiction’ – Plot, Character, Setting, Point of View, Style, Theme. Use ‘Show Not Tell’, and make sure to use a good range of vocabulary words. Make sure you proofread and use the correct grammar. You know, the usual fare. But at the back of my mind, I knew there was something that just hasn’t been emphasized. An important point that is often glossed over. And out of sheer providence, a few days ago I came across a short video clip featuring Dr Jordan B. Peterson, an acclaimed Canadian clinical psychologist, social commentator, scholar, and author…and possibly one of the most intelligent people I have come across. In his usual conversational but profoundly eloquent way, he was speaking on the topic of writing, and his words so resonated with me that I sat bolt upright and shouted, “That’s it!”

This is what Dr Jordan B. Peterson said in his distinct voice that conveyed his incredulity: ‘“What blows me away at universities is that nobody ever tells students why they should write something. People think it’s because you need the grades. But, no. No. You learn to write because you need to learn to think. Thinking makes you act effectively in the world. Thinking makes you win the battles you undertake. And those could be battles for good things. And if you can think and speak and write, you are absolutely deadly. Nothing can get in your way. So that’s why you learn to write. And I can’t believe people aren’t just told that. It’s the most powerful weapon you can possibly provide someone with.”’

Dr Jordan B. Peterson absolutely nailed it. Learning to write is important because it hones your mind, a blade that needs sharpening. Writing and thinking sharpens those edges and makes you intellectually lethal. When I took a distant creative writing course through Oxford University back in 2009, I’m sure I grew new brain cells from all those writing tasks that made me think, analyze, critique, rewrite, polish. Those few months were one of the happiest times of my life. I not only grew as a writer; I also grew as a person. I learned to see the world through a wider, sharper, more colourful lens. This is that I want to emphasize – good writing requires you to be a good thinker and a good observer of the human condition. You need to be curious about the world and ask questions and figure out right from wrong, truth from false, the sensible from the senseless. If you want to write a good essay, thesis, poem, screenplay, short story or novel, and you want it to stand out and engross readers and make them go, “Wow, I want to keep reading this!” – then you need to think well. If you want people to listen, you have to communicate well. Writing is essentially a form of communication, isn’t it? Good writing requires layer upon layer of planning, critiquing, analyzing, organizing, revising, rewriting, editing. And here’s what I’ve found – writing can be so much hard work, but it can be loads of fun, too.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that good creative writing can change the world. Why do we tell stories? Sure, we want to entertain. But ultimately, it’s because we have something to say. We want to communicate something important. I strongly believe that telling stories is one of the most powerful ways to say something to the world. And so, you have to use those Elements of Fiction:  Plot, Character, Setting, Point of View, Style, Theme – and use them to their full potential.

Let me refer to a particular short story as an example. Many of you may have heard of or read the wonderful children’s books of master storyteller, Roald Dahl. ‘Matilda’, ‘The BFG’, ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ are timeless tales. To this day, Matilda makes me laugh and tear up. I didn’t know that Roald Dahl had written a collection of short stories for adults until I was at university, and boy, did they blow my mind. I didn’t think I could be more impressed by Dahl, but I was in for a surprise. One particular short story has stayed with me: The Landlady. It is a dark and terrifying look at 17-year-old Billy Weaver’s first and last stay at a bed and breakfast. If you haven’t already read it, then you should. It would be thirty minutes well spent.

As a writer, you have to create characters that are multi-dimensional and real, flawed but likeable enough that the reader still roots for them. In ‘The Landlady’, the protagonist is young Billy Weaver who comes across a seemingly harmless landlady. On the surface, she epitomizes the ‘grandma-next-door’ and offers him a room at a big discount at her little bed & breakfast. With the subtlety that comes with a great storyteller, Dahl’s writing style (which involves plenty of dark humor, sarcasm, and suggestive dialogue) masterfully builds up the suspense and dread the reader starts to feel for poor Billy, who is so trusting that you want to shake him by the shoulders and yell at him to open his eyes and see the old woman for what she really is. The setting should press all the readers’ sensory buttons, and this is where the technique ‘Show Not Tell’ comes in – as a writer, we need to show how things unfold in the story through the reader’s sense of smell, touch, sight, hearing, and taste. Roald Dahl masterfully created the setting so that it is easy for the reader to know that the story is set in London just after the Second World War, by the way the buildings look, by the way characters talk and dress, and by the things they eat, and much more. Then the plot is what a good story hinges upon. Planning out the plot is one of the things my students have most difficulty with. It nearly always involves the character facing some sort of dilemma that makes the reader wonder how it’s all going to end. There needs to be a climax, the moment in the story where the protagonist is faced with some problem that the reader wants them to overcome. Some endings resolve happily, and some don’t. Because that’s life, right? Not everything ends well, and good people die everyday, and injustice is around every corner. And as the reader, you start to brace yourself as you notice strange things about the gregarious landlady who doesn’t seem so kindly anymore, and then you get the sense that danger is looming, that there is no doubt poor Billy Weaver is in the clutches of a taxidermy-loving psychopath who so stealthily lured him into her web. And though it isn’t explicitly told, the story ends in a way that makes you realize Billy is doomed to die.

Every good story, whether or not it has a happy ending, conveys a message to the reader. Some like to call it the theme or moral, but however you label it, we can always take something away from a good story. And so as you finish reading The Landlady, perhaps somewhat spooked and shaken, you might think: in life, things are not always what they seem. Looks can deceive. Danger can come in the smallest, sweetest, most innocent-looking packages. And that is the life lesson you can take away with you. Roald Dahl’s dark tale, like many wonderfully written stories, makes you ponder and learn. It may even change your life in some way.

Think about it: writers not only get to create an entire universe with the words they write, but with these very words writers also have the power to change the world. When it’s put that way, writing seems like a pretty darn cool thing to master, huh?

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
24th May 2020

This blog post is also posted on Kathryn’s Facebook Page. Visit here.

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Kathryn Tse-Durham: Mother’s Day and Calvin the Cockroach

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“Mummy, can you puh-lease tell me one more story? A VERY long one?” It is bedtime, golden and magical, just me and my four year-old boy, closed off from the rest of the world behind a wooden door against which our corgi rests snugly. My furbaby likes being with us at bedtime, not wanting to be excluded because, after all, he did come before the hooman-baby.

I rest my cheek against the pillow and take in my son’s sweet face, still rounded and baby-smooth.  “OK, darling. What story would you like tonight?” I stifle a yawn, for I am feeling sleepy after yet another busy day as a working mummy. 

He grins, his cheek dimpling. “I want a story about a cockroach!”

Well, that wakes me up. I absolutely hate cockroaches. Why can’t he choose some other creature, something less feral and revolting. Perhaps a ladybird? A bee? A house lizard?

Nope, he insists on the cockroach. And since I am a story-teller, I take up the challenge. I smile and roll onto my tummy, just like him. “OK, then give mummy a big kiss,” I demand with mock-petulance. And so he happily obliges, and I breathe in that delicious sweetness that still lingers on his baby-like skin, and I begin. “Once upon a time, there was a very unique cockroach named Calvin who wore a red hat…” And my boy beams and giggles with such sheer joy that my heart is full to bursting, and in that instant I wish that I have magical powers so that I can channel that moment into a pearl that I could plop into a jar full of other pearls that I could one day string up like a necklace. And I would wear it around my neck so that I could forever hold those pearls close to my heart and relive them one by one when he decides he is too old for bedtime stories and no longer wants mummy to put him to bed.

Today is Mother’s Day, and as I write this my heart feels a myriad of things. Happiness. Bittersweetness. Sadness. Compassion. Grief. Hope. Joy. Wonder. Nostalgia. Regret. Gratitude.

I celebrate this day as a mother and a daughter. As a mother, I welcome this day with joy, wonder, and gratitude. I love being a mother and I am thankful to have my boy in my life. As a daughter, I celebrate this day with my mother who suffered a massive stroke last year, and she is no longer the same person. But it’s funny how the stripping away of a person can sometimes strip away walls, too. Before her stroke, so many things were left unsaid. But these days, I tell her everyday that I love her, and she replies, “I love you, too.” She may not remember my birthday anymore, she may forget things that happened two minutes ago, and she may ask the same question over and over again; but what matters most is that she knows she is much loved.

As I write this, I also think about how Mother’s Day isn’t easy for so many women. I remember what that was like: when I found it hard to feel celebratory on this day. There are women waiting for their miracle, the mothers who have lost a child, the mothers who have suffered a pregnancy loss, the mothers who have suffered stillbirth, and those who have lost their mothers or grandmothers. There are also those who were adopted and perhaps don’t have a mother-figure in their lives, or those who are searching for one. There is a big wide world out there filled with people whose lives I can only imagine, whose experiences and plights I may find hard to identify with. So before I throw out the blanket well wishes and yell, “Happy Mother’s Day!” I take a moment to think: this may not be a happy day for everyone, and if it is not, I wish for better and happier days ahead.

Memories connect us to our loved ones, and as a mother I want to make wonderful memories with my son. I want him to remember my quirky tall stories about Calvin the cockroach and other strange tales about giants and ogres and whatnot. I want my boy to remember that his mommy so loved spending time with him, shrouded in that magical blanket called love that may change form over the years, but shall never leave. And perhaps one day, when I am too old and frail to get out of bed, my son can hold my wrinkled hand and tell me stories that I can take away with me.

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
10th May 2020

This blog post is also posted on Kathryn’s Facebook Page. Visit here.

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