The Risk of Writing: The Risk Is Not in Dying, but in Not Following Your Passion

© Copyright 2013 Tessa Teo.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

isbn: 978-1-4669-3112-1 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-3113-8 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-3114-5 (e)

Trafford rev. 07/19/2013

TFSG-logo_BWFC.psd www.traffordpublishing.com.sg

Singapore

toll-free: 800 101 2656 (Singapore)

Fax: 800 101 2656 (Singapore)

Contents

Preface

Prologue: Lottie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Sienna

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Jerry

Kayla

Sienna

Melanie

Lottie

Epilogue: Sienna

About the Author

T o my mother, Janice,

M y father, Eddie,

A nd my sister Tricia

F or all their support.

PREFACE

At fourteen, no one expects you to do anything big. The idea is to go to school, go on the internet, and sleep. No one expects you to do anything big. No one expects you to make any life changing discoveries. And no one expects you to write a novel. But I did.

W hat inspired me to write was the idea that all over the world, writers such as myself are not fully appreciated, but at least we are still able to write. I wanted to remind writers how lucky we are to be able to enjoy literature as a daily part of our lives.

T he title is a play on the idea that when you write, there is always going to be a risk that no one will like it, or that no will appreciate it. So the question becomes why. Why do writers insist on writing despite this risk? Well, the simple answer to that is that people still write because it is a passion that they must follow.

T here are many people I need to acknowledge. Firstly, my family, who had always supported me when I wrote, especially my mother, who had helped me discover this passion. Secondly, my friends, who would unknowingly help me find sources of inspirations in the actions they did. Finally, the four friends and seniors who had allowed me to take inspiration for my characters from them; Pei Xuan, Etsuko, Phoebe and Melanie.

PROLOGUE: LOTTIE

When you turn 4, the first thing you are told is that in society, there will be always be people who are shunned in society. On the top of that list, are writers. So, on your first day of kindergarten, you are made to write the same sentences down, over and over again. Write it, until it sticks in your mind.

I will not be a writer. Writing is art. Art is different. Different is bad.

W hen you turn 7, your first year in primary school, the first lesson is on government laws, the social stability amendment:

• No creative writing, in any forms, be it poems, stories, scripts, song lyrics, and others.

• No reading creative works in any form

• No lyrical music, only instrumental

• All music scores played must be government approved

• No new paintings may be done.

• Currently allowed art must all be kept in museums

• All interpretations of art must be government approved.

• Self-choreography is banned

• All dances must be choreographed by government approved choreographers

• Any forms of art that may make a person stand out as an individual from the rest of society is outlawed.

W hen you turn 13, your first year in high school, the first thing they make you do is sign the Social Perfection Act:

• All individuals must think alike. Originality is frowned upon.

• All individuals will follow all laws stated by government.

• All individuals will turn over any person caught breaking the law, despite any relationship between the two.

• All female individuals must know what they want to specialize in by finishing school.

• All male individuals must put their first choice of occupation as a civil servant, working in either the government of serving the military. Only if these two choices are not met are they then expected to look into other options.

F ailure to sign it meant a bullet through the head. So with the two government officials standing by the table as we shakily signed the dotted line. Once we signed it, it was held against us.

I n 2061, it was my sister’s turn to sign it. And when she did, she followed it.

I n 2064, I walked out of the school, my sister waiting for me outside. The way she smiled at me, knowing that just like her, I would follow The Social Perfection act as well as she did.

Y ou have no idea how wrong she was.

LOTTIE

I find it strange. This memory… It feels so distant, as if it were nothing but an illusion, but I remember it well. At least, I remember the voices. Two voices. One soft, gentle, as if it were a lullaby. One strong, powerful, full of vigour and imagination. They filled life with such adventure, and let loose a spark inside me.

B ut as soon as that spark had lit me up, it died out, those voices never to be found again. Well, maybe they were more replaced than lost. The two new voices sounded foreign and shrill, filled with anger and impatience. Everything familiar to me was gone, the two people I depended on most taken out of my life… Forever. Maybe not everything was unfamiliar. There was a third voice that had been there from the start, but it has changed with the times. While the comfort still remained, happiness had long ago been replaced by sadness. I could still hear it call my name, Lottie, Lottie…

Lottie! Wake up! I could feel Sienna gently shaking me awake. Everything seemed blurry, and it was clear I was in no mood to wake up. Groaning, I shut my eyes again. Hey! Sienna refused to be as gentle this time, almost pushing me of my chair. Alright, alright, I’m up! I could hear her laughing as I pried my cheek off the desk. It was only then I could feel the ache of my neck gnawing at me. You didn’t even make it to bed yesterday night. Do they really give that much homework now? Homework. That was the lie that I used on Sienna everyday. It killed me to lie to her, but the truth would only fracture the only bond that mattered in my life, and I was not prepared to risk that.

Yeah… I replied, shoving the loose pieces of paper into my books. I needed to hide them better, but I would worry about that later. There were so many consequences to what I was doing, on the top of the list was angering the government, something no one dared to do. Everything was controlled by them. The people, the economy, everything a puppet under one master. Sometimes, I feel as if I am nothing more than just an character in a play, my fate decided by everyone else but me. But I know that can’t be.

P lays aren’t allowed.

N ot only plays, but any forms of literature. Plays, stories, anything that was not factual and informative, all outlawed. In an empire, they tell you, there’s no room for creativity, only space for knowledge and information. And there was a price to pay, whether you were the one writing, or you knew someone who was.

I fingered the scar at the back of my neck. There were days that it stung more than others, like today. Sienna took a brush from the dresser and ran it through my hair, helping me tie it into its braid. The scar, with a little makeup, was easily concealed, unlike the pain that it unleashed. It was not just physically, but the memories as well.

I let the tears stream freely down. I usually did not, but it was only Sienna and me in the room, so I let this be an exception. Changing into my plaid skirt, I attempted to compose myself, not letting my already red eyes be even more obvious. But today seemed like an impossible day to do so.

E ven without asking, I could feel Sienna’s comforting arms around me. Today was a tough day, for the both of us, and tomorrow would only be more impossible to handle. I studied the scar on her wrist, the one that made her wince every now and then, identical to mine. It was just a painful reminder of today.

T he clock read seven, and I pulled away from her comfort reluctantly. Wiping my eyes one final time, I took a deep breath in. As I walked outside, Uncle Charles was there, arms crossed, waiting for me to get into the car. It felt like prison, he the warden, me the convict. But that’s just how I felt everyday.

T he drive to school was quiet as usual, but in any case, I did not feel like talking. The lump in my throat grew bigger with every metre that was driven. Another day of facing classmates that would never understand my situation. Why should they? They were all older than me, could not be bothered to linger around a fourteen-year-old. I could not even talk to anyone of my age. Most of them did not even know what writing was all about. We were born after the revolution, a year after writing was outlawed. Be it fortunate or a streak of bad luck, I remain the only one who actually writes. And that is not just for my age.

A s Uncle Charles pulled up in front of school, I felt feelings of nervousness and uneasiness flood me. Everyday, I come back to this place, and put on a mask for the rest of society to enjoy. I hated doing it, but it was necessary. I tell myself that every day as I walk towards the class. I remind myself that those who leave the mask behind would never see another day. I do not want to join those people.

A nd as much as I wanted to, I would not join my parents.

JERRY

I shoved the book into my bag the minute I saw them approach me. Their faces wore genuine smiles, as mine should have been. But, sometimes, you just cannot force something to be real. What made me feel this way? Honestly, I did not know. I should have been elated with the life I’m living. Yes, my grades were not perfect, but they were still acceptable. I guess working was sometimes a burden, but it actually was quite fun. As for friends, I had plenty of them. And as long as no one knew why, I would keep all of them.

Hey, you coming? Justine asked, dragging me up from the floor.

Actually, I have to go meet the teachers, so I thought I’d meet you’ll in class. I watched them walk off toward the class, and I glanced towards the clock. I had about twenty minutes until the bell rang. I slowly slipped into the ally behind school, taking out the book once again.

Y es, I may not have been exactly truthful. But a little lie would not hurt anyone. In fact, it was protection. I turned my attention back to my book. Guide to Science and Technology. Most people were not surprised that I was reading it. Everyone knew I loved science. But much like my smile, the title was only a cover.

I remember I was only about seven when I found it lying around the house. I was playing hide and seek with James. He demanded I hide, and since he was four years older, I had to obey. one… Two… I looked around the small house. There was hardly any space to hide. It could not be helped. We survived on Mum and Dad’s salary that not only had to support us, but also pay for our school fees. And with twins on the way? There was no way a new house was even being considered. I looked to all my usual places. Under the bed? Too predictable. Behind the door? Too easy to find. twenty four, twenty five with no other option, I stumbled up the stairs to the attic.

I usually tried to avoid the attic. It was dark, damp, the perfect place to breed spiders. But I felt like hiding from James. Not just for the games, but so that I could have some time for myself. James, he was always forcing me to do what he wanted. I wanted to know what it was like to be alone. I pushed the for up, and was immediately greeted by dust bunnies of all size. Focusing my vision once more, I precariously crawled up. Finding myself getting more confident with my footing, I pushed a box over the entrance and got to my feet. The slanted roof was pretty low, but it still allowed any seven-year-old to stand up straight. Boxes blocked most of the path, so all I had to walk on was a pathetically thin beam. It was either that or climb over the mountains of junk that had once been important to us.

I had always been an awkward little girl, and with barely enough light to see, it was only a matter of time before I had walked into or fallen over something. This time, I fell face flat onto the beam books barely missing my face. Panting, I sat up and took a look at the books. Most of them were just older versions of the encyclopaedias dad had already replaced. But there was one that had a rather intriguing title. The dark side of the sun, by Terry Pratchet I lowly mouthed out the words. The cover had vibrant colours and an illustration I was not used to seeing. Ever since the ban, most book covers only had the title across it, so just by looking at it, I knew it was something special. And special meant I had to hide it.

I heard the rumbling of steps and I knew I had to work fast. I tore of the cover, not only of the book, but another one as well, and carefully switched the covers. The trap door slammed open and I threw the books on the floor as James climbed into the attic. Unlike me, he was swift with his feet, making it across the beam with fast, balanced steps. He starred at me. At eleven, he towered over me with an aura full of power. He pointed to the books. What’s that? I dared not answer him.

What are you hiding?

no… nothing I whispered.

H e bent down and grabbed the book with the vibrant colour. The next thing I knew, a stinging patch burned its mark on my cheek. You don’t read books like this! You know what’s happens when you do? You go to jail. They kill you. Do you want that to happen?

N o answer.

DO YOU WANT TO GO TO JAIL GERALDINE?

I trembled, my mouth slowly mouthing the word no. He was serious. No one calls me Geraldine unless they were really angry. Get out! he ordered. I slowly grabbed the little science book on the floor and scrambled across the beam down the stairs and back to my room. As I sat on the windowsill, I could see James toss the forbidden book in the trash, a pleased look on his face as though he had successfully prevented a future convict from walking out of the house. I could not help but smile. As I opened the little encyclopaedia from the attic, a grin lingered on my lips. Page 1. The dark Side of the moon, by Terry Pratchet…

N ow, the book’s pages, tattered and torn, remain the one thing in my life that is real to me. As I sat in the ally, a single speck of dust in the universe, I was finally who I wanted to be, the nerdy little girl that loved to read and write. Not the fake bimbo walking around school, surrounded by friends who did not even know me. Did not understand me. I heard the blare of the bell and got up from my comfortable seat. It would have been easier to just sit here and read the entire day away. But with the government, it would be impossible to. I would end up doing whatever dirty chores the school had for me as punishment. As for reading? I could go to modern day concentration camp for that. There was a choice. Between being yourself and staying safe.

A s I walked to class, a bright smile on my face, it was obvious which choice I took.

KAYLA

My nightmares had been coming back. The ones that kept haunting me. I woke up this morning, and I could have sworn I was hearing the screams of an innocent little girl being drawn out. The sting of whips tainted her pale skin with scars painted a violent red. Screams would be drawn from her, but they would be silenced almost immediately. No one heard her. No one wanted to hear her.

N o one wanted to hear me.

Kayla? jolted back into harsh reality, I joined the meaningless conversations of those around me. They did not know what lay underneath the layers of make up that had to be applied every day. They did not know about the scared little girl who had been taken away from what she knew and thrown into a new life that she was unwilling to take. All the years of hurt, pain, shame… Had to buried away into oblivion, no other choice in hand. Sitting in my seat, I slowly drifted apart from the rest of the class, intelligible scribbles written I between the lines of my textbook. You are the only girl I know who studies when she doesn’t need to! Brooke peering over my shoulder, I slammed the book shut without a second to hesitate. Just a little extra reading. Nothing much, I say innocently, and she believes it.

A nd suddenly, I feel myself in a torture that had not been inflicted on me in a while. My eyes shut tight, and I can feel the sting of the whips once again, although I know they are nowhere near. But the marks that they have left on me are hurtful enough, and they leash out a pain I could not even begin to describe. It was as if they were meant to unforgivingly draw the blood and tears from me. But the blood had run dry. And the tears that once filled the brims of my eyes had already been taken.

A sigh of relief escapes my lips, and I know the worst is over. They were very… Clever. No, more so manipulative than clever. A single thing done wrong, and the government would leave marks that would remind you of what you did… everyday. You only needed to be caught once. All they needed was a few years to stain the innocence of your life. Years? It only took them seconds to break the strongest. But they could not afford to look cruel, could they?

N o, they could not. So they keep you in for a while, claim to be doing a kind method to help… transform? Yes, to help transform you. But instead, all they do is continuously repeat the scarring lesson… over… and over.

T oday, my oldest scar turns eight, my youngest is three.

T he first time the whip cracked against my back, I screamed, as any eight-year-old would have. Thinking back, it was pathetic, how weak I had portrayed myself to be. My first night at the camp, I cried myself to sleep. There was no other way to do so. I was a scared little girl, with a mind too free to be controlled. But, I still got off easy. With the amount of writing I had done, it was a miracle they had left me off so easy.

W e moved into the new house that morning. I was only eight at the time, so I was mostly oblivious to everything around me, including politics. Especially politics. I ran into the empty room that had been reserved for me. The furniture had yet to be shifted in, so it was only me and the walls. I could see the corners of the old walls start to reveal themselves. The wallpaper peeled off the walls, but not in the way most would have seen it. No, the corners were inviting me, enticing me to just rip it off. The walls had a story to tell, and they would be heard.

I grabbed the little corner at the bottom, ripping off a piece after piece. I could see a very gentle cursive writing hiding behind it, too shy to come out of its hiding place. But I wanted to meet it, see it.

R ead it.

I stood back, most of the writing revealed. I read it line by line, over and over again. I had never read anything like it before. Most of the books dad gave me were focused on technology, and mum did not usually buy books. This, it had a certain rhythm to it, and while no one spoke, it was almost as if I could feel the poem calls out to me, as if it had been waiting for me all this time. Within seconds, the poem was memorised, every word encrusted in my mind.

I was so entranced I could not even hear the door open, and it was not until I felt the sturdy hand of my father pressing against my shoulder. what is this? his voice was stern, serious. I looked at the piece of writing on the wall. I was not sure. I don’t know, Father had always told me to give him our most honest answer. It’s a poem. poem, I mouthed. Even the name of the writing had such a lovely name.

Do you… like the poem? his voice was a tone that I had feared all my life, anger controlled, no one sure of when it would all be released. My answer was simple. Yes.

I could not have been more honest

A nd just like that, he walked out of the room.

T hat night, I could here his conversation. But hearing something was not the same as understanding it. I hid in the little corner, pressing hard against the wall, barely making out Mother’s voice.

Peter, she’s too young.

She’s not young. Simply… ignorant.

And sending her away is going to fix that?

I saw his shadow pound against the table. she needs to learn. And it could be worse. You can try to change my mind, but it won’t work and just like that, the night regained its state of silence.

T he next day, a man came over. Father says he would not hurt me, told me everything was absolutely fine. The stranger takes my hand and leads me to a car, none of my belongings follow. He locks the door, me on one side, my family on the other. As he drives away, I remain quiet. Sometimes, it was better to remain unaware of the future than to know and dread it.

W hen I step out,

I am led to a room.

N o lights, no sound.

T here was a scream.

M y scream.

T hen all went quiet.

SIENNA

I miss them. Both of them. Ten years ago, they were taken away from me, and I was given nothing to remember them by. No photos, no last words. Just a scar.

I could not bring my mind to focus on anything today. It just did not seem right to live today like any other day when death and sorrow were such common visitors. I keep thinking, that maybe it was a dream, an illusion, and that maybe if I hoped enough, they would come back. But I know that would never be true. Because I had been there when they were shot. When my parents were shot.

I t was cruel. To take away the only people who mattered, to force you to watch them, with all their power, take them away with an single shot. But that was the government. There was nothing we could do about it. And maybe I was able to accept that. That when you break the law, there are always going to be consequences. So, I suppose… it was justifiable…