2024, january 8

inside my novel

mia is sitting in sydney, immersed in the heat of the new year, and her star lights dance on the ceiling, casting water-like reflections, and outside, the jungle garden is thriving with lush greenery, and her cat sprawls in her lap making the keyboard wobble, and through the window, mia sees people braving the morning heat, and the sunlight flashes into her room as cars pass by, reflecting the intense australian sun, and it’s seven in the morning, and she's sipping hot coffee from her tiny mug from saigon, and the freshness of a recent shower lingers on her, and her pajamas are crisp and new, and she’s wearing her black history shirt with the aboriginal flag, and, on her screen, a zoom connection bridges the miles to her friend in berlin, and her friend is enveloped in the winter coziness of her room, and it’s dark and snowy out there, and the berlin winter cold cools her, as if the chill seeps through the screen, offering respite from sydney’s summer. and her thoughts flow rapidly as she types, seeing her reflection in the dark tv screen, noticing how her hands swiftly move across the keyboard, and mia feels remnants of her recent illness lingering in her body, and even through the freshness of the shower, traces of the past days’ lethargy remain, and as she types, she’s sweating out the last of her illness, detoxifying as she writes, and her mind delves into dreamscapes, blending her sydney monday morning with her friend's berlin sunday evening.

2023, december 11

inside my novel.

during this time of transition, mia woke up every morning without an alarm and first thing, she would read for either minutes or hours in her ocean-colored bed, sometimes it was five in the morning, sometimes it was twelve noon. then she would get up, and, still in her negligee, she would make her omelette with cottage cheese, onions, and scorchin’ hot chili oil, and she would cut it into little pie slices to eat throughout her working day during breaks from her relentless admin toil, and she would cut avocado into little cubes to go with the omelette, and when her shoulders became sore from all the digital paperwork, mia would do a little workout until her shoulders burned in satisfaction, and in the early evening, when she had toiled all her admin energy out of her and the australian spring sun had lowered, she would head out for a stroll in kirribilli and wendy whiteley's secret garden, and while strolling she'd dictate writing snippets into her phone, and she'd walk the stairs in wendy whiteley's secret garden up and down until she started sweating and panting. and when mia came home after dusk, she’d cook something spicy and collapse on the sofa with a red wine and she’d watch australian shows about slut shaming, and her cat would sprawl on her lap, her purrs vibrating into the night.

2023, december 3

inside my novel

after a full day of binge-worrying, mia‘s mind unexpectedly shifted into a state of deep relaxation. it was a paradoxical surrender: the more she worried, the more her mind eventually let go. reminiscent of her experience with her tense shoulder muscle — counterintuitively, not relaxation, but further straining would loosen the muscle. doing a shoulder workout, she would push the muscle to its limits until it had no choice but to relent. further tension led to ultimate relaxation. same with her mind: mia had worried so hard, it was like she had worried the worries out of her system. overthinking burns itself out. she exhausted her anxiety, leaving her mind in a serene repose. 

2023, november 28

inside my novel.

‘the process of falling asleep is so weird, her friend said. ‘first we pretend to be asleep and that makes us fall asleep eventually.’ 

that’s when mia realized, ah that’s how normal people go to sleep! fake it till you make it. this made her remember that she used the same approach when she was a child and nap time was forced on her in kindergarten. first she would close her eyes, then she would pretend to be sleep-breathing while her mind was wide awake. she hated it. eventually she would fall asleep, yes, but the sleep felt like a light-weighted blanket that was too light to soothe her but instead grazed her skin annoyingly. 

she couldn’t believe people still do the fake-sleeping method even when they are grown-ups! to mia, the core of being grown-up meant that no one could force you to sleep (and that she could pile as many salami slices on her sandwich as she liked). 

her going to sleep was totally different. she would let sleep come to her while she was busy doing other things like reading, watching, scrolling, writing, playing tetris, eating chips. oh, how delicious it felt when the sleep was overwhelming her. when she could feel it kicking in, when she could hear the distant bump of her book crashing to the ground, because the sleep just took over her hands, weakened her muscles, loosened her grip. when she could feel the sleep clouding her mind, while she was trying to hold onto the words she had just read. the sleep would suck all logic out of the words, spit the logic out and leave it to the real world. without the burden of logic, the words would enter her dreams and her jaw loosened and her toe twitched and a shy, rainbow-furred fox was handing her sun ripe avocados.

the other day, mia learned that in korean, instead of saying ‘i’m tired’, you can say ‘sleep is coming’, and that’s exactly how it feels. 잠 와.

2023, november 3

inside my novel.

recently, mia realized that she finds people most beautiful when they’re hungover or heartbroken. it’s because they let go of all composure. their faces look like they are slightly melting. not horror movie melting, but firm melting like tealight wax after you’ve blown out the light and after a few minutes, it’s not liquid anymore but not hard yet. that kind of softness the tealight wax has. that’s the softness people have in their face when they’re letting go of all composure because they’re hungover or heartbroken. that’s how mia’s face will look. those tiny muscles by her eyes, they will be completely relaxed. almost like they’ve given up.

2023, october 10

inside my novel.

[mia] mia. whenever the mess flooded her apartment, mia would turn to painting. not because the chaos itself was inspiring – far from it. but because painting was her way of justifying this excessive clutter. seeing it as the mess of a forty-year-old made her feel incapable of life. but viewing it as the chaos of an artist she felt her genius underpinned.