I’ve been thinking of writing a personal memoir that has a house I lived in as a child as its centre. Although I lived in 281 Jalan Pawang for only eight years (from age three to eleven), this house had a huge impact on my life and my imagination, and it continues to be a source of inspiration in my writing.
This blog post describes the house in terms of it being haunted. It’s what comes up most frequently when my sisters and I reminisce about living there, but of course it was much more than that. Those years I lived at 281 were definitely the happiest of my childhood. My best friend lived across the street; we had a large beautiful garden filled with flowering shrubs and fruit trees; my mother’s siblings and their families, and my grandmother (before she died, when I was eight) and great-grand mother came to us for large, loud and merry reunions every Christmas and Chinese New Year; there was even one morning when I looked out the window and saw a pony in the garden.
I’m going to push myself to work on this. My tendency is to think about writing for a long time (years even) before even putting down a single word, but I don’t have time to wait. I would like this book to be written before I turn seventy. Is that too ambitious?