Colin Goh and Woo Yen Yen

The following piece was published in the Sunday Times on 23 September 2007. 

This was a really rough week, with two of my Alien Talent strips being rejected for, I guess, critiquing the CPF policy changes and certain associated events.  That really showed me how thin-skinned the powers-that-be are at the moment.

So while I was possibly bursting with bile, I knew I couldn’t vent in the usual organs, and I had to struggle to find a topic that I could actually get published and for which I would get paid. 

Self-censorship? Pragmatism? Welcome to Singapore, “City of Possibilities”.  Herewith the result:

Sunday Times 23 September 2007
When the Muse Goes On MC (or, Writers Blocked)
by Colin Goh

At virtually every speech, book signing, seminar or interview I’ve ever given, someone will invariably ask: so where do you get all your ideas from?

And the answer I’m always tempted to give is: the little goblin who whispers inside my head. (Years ago, I actually gave this frivolous response at a school talk, and promptly decided to stop doing so after I noticed some kids dutifully jotting it down.)

Well, the truth is, sometimes I wish I did have a little goblin.  It’s not that I’m short of ideas per se.  I have plenty of ‘em. The problem is that they come from all over the shop, and aren’t necessarily suited for deployment in a particular assignment, such as, oh, this column.

Also, the thing about writing an expressive piece, as opposed to say, reporting or performing analysis, is that you can’t really control it; you can’t always dictate that you’re going to write this-and-this in such-and-such manner within two hours. There are ebbs and flows in the tide of inspiration, and even the most productive of muses must take MC at some point.  (That’s the time you also usually start mixing metaphors.)

And so it was with me this week.  I’d finished a grueling month of scripting and drafting documents, and my brain was more dried up than a ten year old piece of sng boey.

I found myself staring at the computer screen for hours. I trawled the blogs and news sites, hoping for some spark, but invariably wound up back on Facebook zombie-biting people and ignoring various invitations to add more time-wasting applications.  (Last fortnight’s piece on Facebook was a double-edged sword: I wound up with like a hundred new friends, but I now have to dodge all sorts of wu liao virtual gifts whenever I go online. Thanks, people.)

I then tried doing the Zen thing and freeing my mind so I could be receptive to the universe and whatnot.  What wound up happening was me falling asleep at my desk and drooling on my mousepad.

Eventually, I resorted to my failsafe resource in all matters – the Wife.

“How?” I moaned to her as I lay on the floor like a beached whale.  “I donno what to write this week!”

“Come with me to my Shaolin class now, lah,” she said, lacing up her kung fu-fightin’ shoes. “I’m sure the experience will give you lots to write about.”

“Please,” I replied. “I’d prefer to write about something that doesn’t necessarily involve my ritual humiliation.”

“Why do you think you’ll be humiliated at Shaolin?” She furrowed her brow.

I gave her a look. She paused to absorb it.  “Okay, dumb question,” she concurred.

“Anyway, I don’t want to have to chut money to get a topic,” I added. “You think I get paid a lot for this, meh?”

“How about commenting on stuff in the papers?” she ventured. “You were pretty riled up about all sorts of whatnot this week – CPF policy, Britney Spears, Penal Code reform, the Republicans, terrorism… the list must be endless.”

“Cannot,” I said, flopping onto my belly. “My column is in a section called ‘Lifestyle’. It would be out of point to submit something where I’m basically hoping for death to rain down on certain people.”

“Take a walk,” she suggested, flaring her nostrils. “The combination of aerobic activity and audio-visual stimuli should get your synapses firing.”

“Lazy,” I snorted, chin on the floor.

The Wife made a grumbling sound like Mumbly from the old Hanna-Barbera cartoon show and left.

I flopped about a bit more, then picked myself up and went back to the computer.  I started searching for sites offering solutions for writer’s block. Before I knew it, two hours had elapsed, and I was even more depressed and nowhere nearer to finishing my piece.

The Wife came back. “How?” she asked.  I flopped my head onto my chest in a sign of failure.

“Just write about something you know, lah,” she said, ruffling my hair.

“All I know is I’m having writer’s block!” I whined.  She looked at me with one raised eyebrow.  I looked back at her.

“THEN WRITE ABOUT THAT, LAH!” she screamed into my ear.

And so that’s how this week’s piece came to be.  It may not be particularly profound, but it is sincere and personal.  And if you feel it’s not up to its usual quality, may I humbly apologise and point out that it was sort of written under duress.

I mean, the chick knows Shaolin, lair. I’m not taking any chances.

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