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Kathryn Tse-Durham: Quench

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Squid Game. Hellbound. The Witcher. Handmaid’s Tale. My Name. D.P. Midnight Mass. Pig. Juvenile Justice. Move to Heaven. Dune. Nightmare Alley. The Queen’s Gambit. Maid. Itaewon Class. Spider-Man: No Way Home. The Mandalorian. Kingdom. My Mister. Signal.

You might recognize some or all of the above titles. If so, you know what I’m talking about when I say that these stories made life during this interminable pandemic a whole lot more bearable. I think storytellers are the soul of this world. Without them, what would become of us?

This is my first blog post of the year, and I want to dedicate this piece to all wonderful storytellers around the world who help make life easier to endure when the going gets tough. Truth be told, it is only recently that I finally regained headspace for creative output. I am pleased to say that I am finally making more headway on the fourth Ellanor book, and I have also been reading regularly again, which has become somewhat of a luxury now that my daughter, who just turned a year old, keeps me on my toes so much more than when I only had my son to pay attention to.

Having two children (and a furbaby) is a huge blessing. They give me immeasurable joy and make me so proud. I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world. But because I devote much of my time to them, my writing output is inevitably and proportionately reduced. Add work and sleep deprivation to the mix (not all babies sleep through the night in the first year!), and twenty-four hours simply isn’t enough. I know, though, that everything has its season. I often find myself silently pleading: Don’t let me forget their littleness. The way her baby skin smells. The way I can make her smile radiantly just by being near. The way he still begs for me to stay ‘just one more minute’ and plants my face with kisses when I put him to bed.

I have been teaching my boy different vocabulary words, and he came across ‘quench’ in one of his chapter books. It is such an interesting-sounding word. The dictionary defines it as both a verb and a noun, the verb being: 1) Satisfy one’s thirst (by drinking); 2) Extinguishing a fire. As a noun: An act of quenching a very hot substance. When you try to explain things to a young child, you can’t get too abstract as they haven’t yet developed the understanding beyond the concrete. But words like ‘quench’ can be used in the abstract form, right? You can quench one’s thirst or desire for such intangible things as love, friendship, validation, intellectual stimulation, and spiritual growth. One day, my children will be old enough to grasp the meaning of the abstract and intangible, and that’s when life inevitably becomes more complicated for them, when they will experience the first stirrings of attraction and love, or understand what it feels to be bullied or betrayed or discriminated against. 

In February, I experienced a quintessential ‘quench’ moment. I was sitting on the sofa late in the evening, winding down after another busy day, novel in hand, my furbaby nuzzling my feet. Kids and husband had gone to bed, and it was finally just me. Alone, but not lonely. And I felt enveloped by a feather lightness that I hadn’t felt in a long time, and the heavy knot in my chest was finally gone. With a happy sigh, I proceeded to sink back into the plush cushions, and started reading. Pure bliss.

You see, I hadn’t picked up a book in months. I hadn’t realized how worn out and parched my soul had become, how badly I needed to quench that parchness with a story that would lift my spirits and reignite that spark in me that I desperately need for writing. I felt an urge to revive something that had gone dormant because life can sometimes do that to you. It can tire you out, just make you bone-tired in the heart and body, beaten and battered. Mental health is not a joking matter. And this may seem like a no-brainer, but don’t you find that some blatant truths don’t truly register with you until it’s staring you right in the face? If I continued depriving myself of reading books, I would not only cease to grow as a writer, but it would stunt my growth as a person. And I would become miserable.

Shortly after Naomi was born last year, I devoured Stephen King’s Rose Madder, a gripping story about a young woman who manages to turn her life around after escaping an abusive, violent husband; and The Shawshank Redemption and Rita Hayworth, a triumphant tale about a man who was wrongly accused of a crime and for sixteen years diligently digs a tunnel through the wall of his prison cell and finally breaks free, and metes out justice in the most civilized manner. I read these books on Kindle while I was breastfeeding or pumping in the dead of night, lights dimmed in silence punctuated by my baby’s coos or occasional cries. Those stories kept me sparkling through my exhaustion.

But then life happened, and I had to take care of family who had become too unwell to take care of themselves. It consumed much of my time and energy on top of my usual work and mummy duties. And the next thing I knew, I hadn’t touched a novel or written creatively for months.

When I was having my ‘quench’ moment in February, I was holding Jeffrey Archer’s The Prodigal Daughter. I loved the book when I read it over a decade ago, and I chose to reread it because I yearned for something I couldn’t quite articulate. The book follows the life of Florentyna Rosnovski, daughter of a self-made, wealthy Polish immigrant in Chicago. Florentyna is a precocious child who blossoms under the tutelage of a dedicated English governess and eventually becomes the first woman to become the President of the United States. Reading about such a strong female protagonist was a wake-up call; it made me ponder about how I wanted to make myself useful for the rest of my life, beyond being a mother. Then in three days I devoured Jean Webster’s classic novel Daddy-Long-Legs, in which the delightful female protagonist rises above the tragedies of her childhood and finds love and her true calling as a writer. The story made me smile and laugh, and made me want to write again, too.

Such is the power of stories.

Now, I shall get back to writing my next book.

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
25th March 2022

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

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Kathryn Tse-Durham: Last Christmas

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I was never a huge fan of George Michael. Back in the day when I first listened to Last Christmas by Wham!, I deemed it more than a tad cringe-worthy, the lyrics odd and too depressing for my taste. ‘Last Christmas, I gave you my heart. But the very next day, you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears…I’ll give it to someone special.’ I mean, it’s about Christmas, for God’s sake! Shouldn’t we be singing with cheer as we usher in the new year and pave way for sparkling new possibilities? Why would one be so dreary and lament about lost love and heartache.

But now that I’m older (and hopefully a little wiser), I think I’ve attained a new appreciation for this iconic song. In reality, for many, Christmas can be fraught with loneliness and yearning. It can be a painful reminder that one should be surrounded by family, friends, warmth and comfort. And for those of us who are fortunate enough to enjoy a relatively comfortable life, once in a while we are thrown curve balls that make festive seasons a bittersweet affair, with joy and sorrow intertwined in a strangely harmonious dance.

As I prepare for this Christmas, drowning our Christmas tree under a massive pile of gifts for family and friends, I reflect on things that have come to pass, and marvel how much can change over the course of a year. Last Christmas, I was giddily celebrating the launch of my third book, Ellanor and the Land of the Midnight Sun. Last Christmas, I was heavily pregnant (so big that people thought I was carrying twins) and anticipating the arrival of our bundle of joy. It was a season of joyous transitions and new beginnings sparkling with the rainbow colors that my little boy loves to draw these days.

This Christmas is quite different. It is shadowed with quiet heartbreak as I help someone I love prepare his move to a residential facility that offers the professional nursing care he needs. This Christmas, amidst sleep deprivation and medical appointments and mountains of paperwork, I watch with quiet wonder at my bundle of joy who is now a squealing, babbling 10-month-old girl as she gleefully plays with her older brother, the other love of my life. This Christmas, I lament that I haven’t had the headspace to work on my fourth book for The Ellanor Chronicles, and resolve to write out those chapters that have been taking shape in my mind.

This time next year, I imagine I’d be looking back on last Christmas and thinking: Golly, I survived another insane, messy, and ultimately beautiful year. No, wait, I didn’t just survive it: I was blessed to live another year, and grew amidst the chaos. Be merry, my dear reader, be grateful for all the beautiful things, and it’s OK to cry; for not all tears are an evil, as the wise J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote. May this Christmas bring you peace and warmth, joy and love. And next year, perhaps we would look back on last Christmas with a wink and a smile.

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
24th December 2021

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

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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: The Giant that was Clive Staples Lewis

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My little boy and I have a ritual. We started this around April amidst the surreal and mostly homebound year of Covid-19. Instead of reading him books at bedtime, he wanted me to tell him tall tales that I would make up on the spot. I discovered this is good practice for me as a writer. Every night at dinner, he rattles off a list of characters on his little fingers, characters that I had made up for him off the top of my head. “Mommy, tonight I want a story about James the Giant, Dillon the Dinosaur, Goldilocks, Calvin the Cockroach, and…” He would often pause and try to come up with a new character, perhaps a gargantuan scorpion or snake or other. And I would smile gamely and wrinkle my brow and thank God that He blessed me with some skill for weaving the fantastical. For every bedtime story, my little boy always includes James the Giant, who started off quite villainous, but got rehabilitated into a gentleman by the nosy but good-hearted Goldilocks and her little human friends (one of them named Jonathan, of course).

There is another type of giant that walks among us, one that makes the earth shudder not in the literal sense, but in the figurative sense. There are certain people that we look up to, people that seem bigger than life and inspire us to take that risk, walk that extra mile, put in that extra hour of practice. Clive Staples Lewis, or more commonly known as C.S. Lewis (or “Jack” in his social circle), is a literary giant who is best known for The Chronicles of Narnia and The Screwtape Letters, and dozens of other notable works such as The Four Loves and Mere Christianity. He was known to be one of the most brilliant yet humble intellectuals with a wicked sense of humour. Apparently, he liked to play pranks, and he donated much of his earnings to charities and never told anybody about it. And he was very kind. Even his personal secretary attested to this, and a personal assistant often knows more about their boss than even their own friends or family. This is what made me want to learn more about him. Great writers are usually known for their intellect, but not always known for their kindness and warmth and humanity.

Actually, I am an avid fan of J.R.R. Tolkien, who was a great friend and colleague of C.S. Lewis at Oxford.  One day I will write about Tolkien, who was an extraordinary person in his own right. In my younger years, I never got into The Chronicles of Narnia because it just didn’t captivate me like Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings did, a colossal story that is forever seared into my heart. But I felt compelled to write about Lewis after a recent discussion I had with my husband, during which I learned some very moving things about the man and made me realize something important: before one becomes a good writer, one should strive to be a good human being. This is because writing is an organic process that reflects our world view. If we do not understand people, if we lack compassion, if we do not believe that all humans of all races and skin color and backgrounds should be treated with respect and dignity, it will show in the things we write about. And what good can writers with intent to preach evil do for humanity? Adolf Hitler wrote the Mein Kampf, the autobiographical manifesto which describes the process by which the Nazi Party leader became antisemitic and his plans to destroy Jews and other ‘impure’ peoples and transform Germany into the world’s conquering power. But such works should serve to remind us of the atrocities that we should avoid at all costs, not to inspire us to be more hateful and destructive. C.S. Lewis famously quoted, “Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies.” The man believed passionately in God and love and all that is good and wholesome, all that grows and nurtures the human spirit. In all that he writes, you can see his beliefs and values shine through, and this is how his writing has given hope and inspiration to many over the decades.

As a writer, I was curious about the advice that C.S. Lewis imparted about writing. I have been reading his masterpiece The Screwtape Letters, a one-of-a-kind story about how the devil trains his apprentice to lure a Christian man from his faith. Though I am only a few chapters in, I am already struck by his unique prose, which is at once sardonic, poetic, and searingly clear. There are times when you come across something in a book and you go, “Yes, I totally get that! I’ve thought about it in vague terms, but never was I able to put it into words like that. How did the writer articulate it so well?” Lewis had a great talent for this, as most great writers do.

In his letters and other sources, C. S. Lewis left various bits of advice on the craft of writing, and I’ve shared some of his words of wisdom here, with bits of my thoughts embedded throughout:

  1. Avoid distractions. So, turn off the radio and the TV and devote an allotted time to your craft.
  2. Read all the good books you can. Only by reading good writing can you learn to become an even better writer and broaden your horizons.
  3. Always write (and read) with the ear, not the eye. Hear every sentence you write as if it was being read aloud or spoken. If it does not sound nice, try again.
  4. Write about what really interests you, whether it is real things or imaginary things, and nothing else. (Notice this means that if you are interested only in writing you will never be a writer, because you will have nothing to write about . . .)
  5. Take great pains to be clear. Remember that though you start by knowing what you mean, the reader doesn’t, and a single ill-chosen word may lead him to a total misunderstanding. In a story it is terribly easy just to forget that you have not told the reader something that he needs to know—the whole picture is so clear in your own mind that you forget that it isn’t the same in his.
  6. Be sure you know the meaning (or meanings) of every word you use.
  7. Avoid ambiguity. The way for a person to develop a style is to know exactly what he wants to say, and to be sure he is saying exactly that. The reader, we must remember, does not start by knowing what we mean. If our words are ambiguous, our meaning will escape him. I sometimes think that writing is like driving sheep down a road. If there is any gate open to the left or the right the reader will most certainly go into it.
  8. Always try to use the language so as to make quite clear what you mean and make sure your sentence could not mean anything else. Always prefer the plain direct word to the long, vague one. Don’t implement promises, but keep them. Avoid fancy, unnecessary words. There is nothing worse than reading a piece of pretentious, convoluted writing that makes you want to stop in two minutes.

C.S. Lewis said, “Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become.” And I agree. Literature in the form of good stories don’t just reflect life; it enriches and adds colour to life that can at times feel unbearably dull, repetitive, and mundane. This is why doctors, bankers, lawyers, and others who slave for hours at the workplace stumble home bleary-eyed and melt onto the couch and wind down with a good dose of Harry Potter or Netflix. We crave stories because they give us renewed hope and rejuvenate our fatigued souls. Loving stories is neither a weakness nor a frivolous thing. It is being wonderfully human. And by all accounts, C.S. Lewis was a wonderful human being, a gentle giant, and that is probably why his writing is achingly beautiful. For my Jonathan, one day I shall name one of our bedtime giants “Jack” and whisk my boy off to the world of Narnia.

Kathryn Tse-Durham
Author of The Ellanor Chronicles
13th August 2020

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

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