A friend has just asked to interview me regarding this blog o' mine, so I figured I'd better resurrect it from its watery grave. Well, well, half a month has passed without me writing here! How did that happen?

A combination of things. Deciding you will only write on certain topics is definitely rather limiting, especially if you have other blogs on which you can dump all manner of random stuff. Life has been getting in the way -- work, uni assignments, church camp, illness. And I haven't bothered to make myself write.

Yes, we would love to think that writing must come naturally, but sometimes it is a discipline just like anything else, and I need to make myself write. If I'm unlucky, it'll come out sounding forced and fake, but if I'm lucky (or very good!), it'll come out sounding as if I meant to write all along.

I do have at least four drafts sitting in the queue, so it's not like I have nothing to write about. We'll see what happens, okay? As JS Peyton says, "Even if it’s for an audience of one, I’ll try to be faithful." (Hint: This is where all you readers come out of the woodwork and tell me I have more than an audience of one. Quick, before my ego gets crushed into the dust, never to recover!)

I don't remember my parents encouraging me to read. In fact, I distinctly remember them trying to discourage me from reading.

Because I read too much. And would get so engrossed in my books that I'd forget there were things such as house chores and school homework. (Not that I needed much excuse to forget those!)

So my mom was always confiscating my books. My parents would bring my brother and I to the public library to borrow books, then upon reaching home, the books would promptly disappear. "You do your work first, then you can have them," was the common refrain throughout my growing-up years.

Interestingly, I don't recall my parents trying to influence or guide our reading choices, apart from the time when my mom denounced Mills & Boon romance novels as "trash". Other than that, they never told us, "You shouldn't read that" or "You should read this".

It's interesting because my parents themselves read very different kinds of things. At dinnertime, my dad would always finish first and leave the dining table to sit on the sofa, reading the newspaper. After dinner, when my brother and I sat in the study room doing our school homework, he'd join us, reading his medical journals or business magazines. As for my mom, when not busy ironing clothes, cooking, or doing other "mom stuff", she'd usually either be reading the Bible or Christian books she'd borrowed from the church library. They obviously had their own preferred reading material, but neither ever said that one was "better" than the other.

Now that I think about it, my family is fairly bookish, isn't it? I seriously never noticed because... I mean... that's just how things are in my family. I knew we were kinda weird because the television was rarely on in our house (my dad called tv the "idiot box"), but it never struck me that my parents read almost all the time.

I wonder whether reading can possibly be in the genes?

I believe in the power of words. That's part of the reason why I'm a writer; if I didn't think my words would make any difference, why write in the first place?

Words can either heal or destroy. When I was a teenager, I had this practice of giving out bookmarks to friends. I'd write a little message on the back of the bookmark, trying to come up with something that would give their day a little boost, bring a smile to their faces. I always wanted to use my words to build up, not tear down.

Unfortunately this is a habit I lost somewhere along the way. I've wanted to resurrect it but I keep on allowing myself to get distracted by other things (INTERNET!) and time runs away from me and before I know it, months have passed before the idea pops back into my head.

But I think it's perhaps very much needed. In our world, we hear criticisms more often than we hear praise -- from family, employers, supervisors, and maybe even friends. I treasure all my friendships but when I think about it, I realise that I don't tell my friends how much they mean to me. I just assume they know.

If even a husband cannot take for granted that his wife knows she is loved -- for wives often crave tender reassurance from their man's lips -- how much more should I not take for granted that my friends know they are loved?

Trust me, everyone needs the basic affirmation that they are special. That the world would be a duller place if not for them. That they have made a difference just by being themselves, just by being there. Just by being a friend. Because we all have moments where we doubt our self-worth, do we not? Moments when we wonder whether our absence would really matter. Moments when we wonder just why are we here and why are we still slogging and plodding along. For what?

And then someone smiles at you and gives you a hug and says something to you. Maybe the words weren't all that profound. Maybe they were even commonplace words. But they were sincere, and you remember them forever -- long after the other person has forgotten that he ever even said such a thing to you.

Timely words. Healing words. Life-giving words.

A careless word may kindle strife,
A cruel word may wreck a life;
A bitter word may hate instill,
A brutal word may strife and kill.

A gracious word may smooth the day,
A joyous word may light the way;
A timely word may lessen stress,
A loving word may heal and bless.
-- Unknown

At the moment there is no book I want as much as The Art of Punctuation by Noah Lukeman, and to my chagrin it is nowhere to be found in this cosmopolitan city, never mind the entire country. I only saw it once, but I happened to be going through one of my regular "No, you cannot afford another book right now" periods. Then Mr twwt2001 promised to gift it to me for my birthday, but more than a month has gone by and alas, he cannot find the book anywhere.

This is enough to make anyone bawl.

I know my friend the Icy Queen Goddess is horrified at the thought of anyone wanting to read a book on punctuation, of all things, but really, it all depends on how the book is written. Besides, I'm dorky enough to be fascinated by the names of the various symbols. Did you know, for example, that curly brackets -- { and } -- are called braces? And angle brackets -- ‹ and › -- are called chevrons? What do you mean, nobody else is curious about this kind of stuff?

Mind you, it's dangerous to dwell too much on punctuation and like matters. You might end up over-identifying with one of the punctuation marks. Because you see, I am the human personification of the dash. In me, it comes to life.
 

You are the dash.



There's no denying that you have a certain flair. You don't mind being around others, especially your little brother, the hyphen, but you rarely emerge except when needed. You respond well to those who know how to treat you, but have only contempt for those who don't -- you tend to embarass them every chance you get. Your only enemy is the colon -- he will sometimes try to move in on your turf.
Which Punctuation Mark Are You?