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Dear Gaaya (12)

Dear Gaaya,

It’s me, from four years down the future. Before anything, I can assure you that you are going to blossom into a great young adult. You’re going to and continue to keep seeking your own independence and freedom. You know that typical high school experience that you feared yet anticipated from all the high school cliches you’ve watched? You’re going to live that out. In a year or two, you’ll date your first boyfriend. He’s a great guy, but you guys won’t be friends anymore. You’ll have dated him for a whole year, only to break up over something that seems stupid, but what could be perhaps a great decision as that liberation helped you seek new things that grew you and made you more open-minded. You will endure lots of pain, strange relationships, shallow friendships - lots of horrible things that will only strengthen you and appreciate the good stuff more. You’re going to go perform at Carnegie Hall with your best friends, work three part time jobs at once, get a full ride to Ryerson University, and most importantly: realize what you want to do with your life. Oh yeah, you’re also going to curse a lot now so let me rephrase that. You’re going to realize what you want to f*cking do with your life.

I know right now, you’ve been taught to think bad on the trades and humanities. You think you’re going to go to UBC for Psychology sciences. That’s not what you want to do. You just don’t know it yet. I know you love languages. Heck, you’re teaching yourself Korean! And you are pretty damn good at it for someone who’s teaching THEMSELVES Korean! So don’t be discouraged that you’re getting low 80s in the sciences. Or was it high 80s, I don’t know. It doesn’t and won’t matter. Also, that’s a good mark. Stop overreacting ‘cause it’ll only go downhill from there. Except as the years go by, you’ll stop caring as much as you do now. Haha.

You’re going to be really happy by the time you turn 18. You know why? You’re going to have a sense in self. You know when you go out or just be alone and you feel like…. Stable? I know for sure that I didn't feel that way four years ago. I felt cuffed and linked to the expectations of others and the obedience I was expected to relay. Is that how you feel now? Don’t worry, it’ll get better.

In these four years, you’re going to learn that life is not as deep as it is made to be. You’re going to earn to be more open-minded. You are going to forget how to judge but rather understand You’re going to learn that you can live by doing what you love, and that you do not need to submit to following the typical office lifestyle.

Because that isn’t you.

But you will learn that soon enough.

Anyways, all I really want to say is, don’t worry. 

With lots of love, Gaaya

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Podcast Article (11)

The amount of people who have listened to podcasts in the past four years has doubled. It must be due to some really good podcasts. But, what makes a really good podcast?

I know what doesn’t! Here are two things to look out for.

We have listened to numerous podcasts throughout the year, and I’ve noticed that some were evidently worse than others. For one, a speaker who knows what they’re talking about is a great start. There’s nothing worse than going off on a tangent simply because you forgot what you were initially talking about. Though I do not recall his name, many middle aged celebrity hosts tend to this as they know they’ll still make it big by milking their fame. However, this, in general, will not last long. You’d have to cater to a very specific audience of people who already like you for this to actually work. Other podcasts, like Serial for instance, do not milk fame but rather have a clear and consistent premise that helps them build up on it. This tends to work better, seeing as it is one of the best -- if not the best -- podcast out there now.

Another thing that tends to throw people off is when the speaker speaks too much. Sounds ironic, right? Here’s my case. Many speakers, specially those who do fictitious storytelling, tend to delve into the deepest corners of every detail and sit in it for a while. I guess this could help with people trying to fall asleep, but seeing as podcasts are best known for being convenient, trying to make the listener fall asleep isn’t the best. You want it to be dynamic, but not too dynamic. If there’s ever an information overload, the speaker can always break the information up by adding in stories or personal anecdotes, allegories, or something for the audience to relate to and perhaps remember in the future.

Avoid these two things, and you’ll have a great podcast!

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Short Story: Character Development and Reflection (8) Squid by Gaaya Srimarthandan This short story is something I’m proud of despite having experienced an incredibly heavy writer’s block the past few weeks.  The story indulges into the complexities of race and inequality from the perspectives of those who are too young to comprehend it, like young Eleanor, a White child who has been sheltered her whole life. However, when viewed from a simple perspective, the story embodies the concept of how ignorance is bliss. Spoiler alert, but when Eleanor is mistaken for a Black child and actually goes through the hardships that they endure, she suddenly wishes she had never given into her curiosity. To not know is to not have to deal with. Above is a brainstorm of the characters. It lists qualities- both physical and personality traits that embody each character. It even includes settings that the characters prefer and their relationships with each other. I was lucky enough to have been able to use all the characters in my story and found a place for them all, but my idea was pretty clear in my head when I started. I did have to do tons of research to ensure I was being historically accurate with my information. It sucks that there are some peculiar details, like how “The Man” only called Squid, Elijah, because that was his own name and he felt that Squid mirrored his own experiences and passion. Or even how they were both the products of adultery and furthermore shunned from a society that they never felt they belonged in. It was kind of fun in a sense writing about characters who did not know things about themselves, like how Squid did not know his own name. Though one may argue at it limits the author’s knowledge of the character, I felt that I actually had a deeper understanding of him. 

Squid is a story that addresses slavery in Florida during the mid 19th century, and how many people lived ignorantly, nodding like bobble-heads to the propaganda laid out by the government.  The story was difficult because the premise was so clearly outlined. I already had a place, time period, and conflict all set out for me within the first few pages and it was hard to manipulate it into something that differed. I recalled Uzma Jalaluddin and Anne Choi’s tip on writing a story that you want to read. As the daughter of two Sri Lankan immigrants who carry with them a gold mine of war stories, I was inspired to somehow incorporate their personal accounts with the war into a creative short story that not only encompasses a theme and message, but also educates the general public on a war unspoken of. However, the basis of segregation and slavery was far too different from the Sri Lankan war, which was not a war founded on racial conflict but rather cultural conflict and corruption. Also, seeing as it is truly a story unspoken of, it was difficult to obtain personal accounts on the internet or accurate historical context that was not manipulated by the Sri Lankan government at the time. So, I had to scrap that idea. I felt that telling a story that was not true to the actual event defeated the purpose of telling it at all. I ended up having to resort to my initial idea, following the premise that was already handed out to me. Though, I wanted to focus more on a theme, rather than the racial conflict, inequality, segregation, and slavery that was already widely spoken of in Western countries. In no way do I mean to invalidate the significance of it and the horrible, detrimental effects that continue to haunt society today. Rather, I did not want to make the story all about that, and make it as humane as possible. I wanted the readers to take away something bittersweet, something they’d have to think about it for a while to know whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing or whether they liked it or not. So, I thought of what bothers me the most: ignorance. Can someone ignorant be held accountable for their bad doings? Are we, as members of society, expected to educate ourselves? What if this education is not attainable due to the restrictions of the government? Squid is a story that addresses slavery in Florida during the mid 19th century, and how many people lived ignorantly, nodding like bobble-heads to the propaganda laid out by the government. I hope you enjoy! With kind regards, Gaaya 

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Uzma Jalaluddin and Ann Choi: A Reflection (9 + 10)

** I decided to combine these blog posts because I received the same message from both, and there were some connections I wanted to draw.

I would like you to think of Raj, the colour-blind zebra.  He aspires to be a painter, but hence his restricting eyes, he can not see colour. He can not paint colours to become what they’re designated to be. Ann Choi taught me to create this character.

Though both completely different individuals with their own relative, enlightening experiences, Ann Choi and Uzma Jalaluddin are similar in the sense of what they preach. A specific phrase that Ann and Uzma both, coincidentally, had said throughout their workshops was to “write a story that you want to be told.” The moment that was said, it struck me. Thought that story, for me, isn’t the story of Raj, the colour-blind zebra, it has to do more with a story that is true and unspoken of; a story that is belittled, manipulated, and silenced.

Ever since I was 15 years old, I always wanted to tell a story that I compiled from anecdotes that my parents would tell me whenever I asked; the Sri Lankan Civil war. My parents were both victims of it, though the ideologies of their people were depicted as terrorism by the manipulative Sri Lankan government and Western powers. Throughout the past three years, I would try to do extensive research with what was already available for me, given I did not have the resources to conduct research myself. There was nothing. No stories from the Tamil people. Buried images and videos -- the only ones actually existing further supporting the case of the Tamil people -- were difficult to find. Essentially, they were left to be silenced and their stories were untold. But being the child of two Tamil refugees, I heard the stories. I heard of the war crimes. I heard of how an entire ethnic minority was almost entirely wiped out and how absolutely nobody would do anything about it. And I couldn’t even read a damn story to learn more of it. Forget a story, I couldn’t even find anything from the perspective of the Tamil people online.

So when Uzma and Ann said, ““write a story that you want to be told,” that really hit me. I decided that I will actually put an effort to learn more about the silenced stories of the Tamil people, and then, I will write a fictitious interpretation of what could have been an individual’s experience in that time of life, based on true accounts.

Uzma and Ann, in this sense, were genuinely very inspiring, and I am grateful to have listened in on a workshop by them.

When talking about the fundamentals of their workshops, there were a few pros and cons.

Uzma Jalaluddin

Uzma was great in the sense that she knew her material and stressed great importance on not only the significance of the writing, but the practicality of it as well. She was very realistic and down to earth, and addressed us in a casual and chill manner that made her much more approachable and easier to listen to. I liked that she brought real drafts and rough copies as well as materials and references she uses to facilitate her own writing as it shows the rough work that goes behind writing. I also enjoyed that she talked a lot about her own experiences and culture and how it affected her piece.

The only thing I would recommend Uzma improves on is how she engaged the audience when discussing how to determine a premise. Seeing as she is a teacher, she resorted to the typical powerpoint presentation that they almost read off of. This caused a lot of people to stop listening and essentially lose interest. This information could have been incorporated in the actual presentation itself so that the audience, while fully engaged, could have picked up on these things without even noticing.

Ann Choi

Ann was great in the sense that she effectively included the boring, practical aspect of literature in her workshop. She also gave us free stuffed animals (yay!) and presented herself as an approachable woman with relatable experiences as the average high schooler. This made her seem very real and comprehensive. She also talked a lot about her own internal conflicts and how they affected her future and writing.

Although Ann was very honest, her workshop seemed rather disorganized and spoke of many things that had no correlation or significance with what she was talking about (for example, she spoke of how she wanted to marry a white guy and how she did end up doing so, not something that necessarily supports her case but I guess seeing as she did not take his last name, there was some purpose in mentioning it). Though having their own slight flaws, both women were incredibly inspiring, talented, honest, and deserve lots of success on both their books. I am glad that we hosted them this year because they were truly helpful in encouraging us who are afraid to write.

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Free Write (7)

7 letters, 1 word

the state of existence itself:

to take a whisk of oxygen,

and to let it fuel your blood,

and to let that drive you somewhere.

but one gift, one wish isn’t enough,

we crave more,

we desire the most,

so, we drive to euphoria,

we drive for euphoria.

we seek happiness as a whole,

we write it as a general statement,

without looking to decipher the syllables,

and extract the definition.

but that feeling of content lies between the gaps,

it lies in the corner of every experience,

it exists with every crease of a smile,

and with every ease of the heart.

happiness isn’t just a word,

it’s 9 letters.

it lies in the smallest of things,

but just needs to be felt.

because when the genie comes,

and our wishes are demanded,

why do we ask for the means to happiness,

rather than asking for happiness itself?

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My Life is a Movie (6)

Plot Summary: Gaaya’s Autobiographical film, “0621.”

The sun engulfed the world as the summer solstice shadowed over the planet, also the very day a shadow morphed into the figure of a baby at a dainty hospital in the eastern end of Toronto. Kindled in the arms of her mother, Gaaya was born on the 21rst of June, stuck between a Gemini and a Cancer.

Just as she suffered to compromise herself to a sole identity, her childhood lived out its days in a small town north from Toronto, in which her brown skin and dark hair was an exotic abnormality that invalidated her Canadian status in the eyes of the prominent White community that surrounded her. She made desperate efforts to abide by the ways of the hegemony, assimilating herself to a culture that wasn’t the one passed down by her parents, and confused as to which she should identify herself as. For years, she tried for the latter, trying to conceal every inch of melanin in her skin.

Though, as time progressed, her solid love for her mother, father, and elder sister -- all who taught her the importance of individuality and self-assurance-- encouraged her to break free from this shell. Though, she continued to slave away at conventional and traditional ideologies, remaining conservative and relatively close-minded.

Eventually, she meets a group of friends who teach her the importance of acknowledging certain aspects of life to be real, bittersweet but real, like partying recklessly or sending a risky text to a crush. These friends help her live life for as it is, and abandon the conventional and traditional ways of life that were registered in the depths of her rather hollow brain.

At the end, she realizes that freedom is a concept trapped in the brain, and the only way to be free is to free one’s mind first.

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Critique of a Genre (5)

Screenwriting is a detailed excerpt of every action, dialogue, and progression of a story. It is comprised mostly of dialogue and narration, similar to that of a screenplay. The premise of the scene is laid out in the introduction, followed by the words that the actors are expected to recite with their actions outlined in the brackets. Writers make usage of italics, bolded, and underlines to differentiate between the purpose of the text: whether it be the dialogue, narration, guide, etc. 

From the perspective of a writer, I believe that although coming off as rather simple, concise, and straightforward, this is the most intricate genre of writing. There is so much thinking that has to be done prior to composing a screenplay. The writer must create an entire alternate world, with characters who have extensive backgrounds, a plot that can be drawn out for hours or even episodes at end, and logical interactions between the characters that all in all can attract viewers and readers. 

Furthermore, all this extensive research and work must be translated in a concise, clear, and progressive form. I personally believe that screenwriting is one of the most advanced forms of writing for this very reason. Although I enjoy reading it and witnessing the progress that goes towards it, I personally do not think that I would be capable of writing a successful screenplay. I do not have the patience or determination to complete even a short story, drawing your plot over such a long series of time sounds rather impossible to me. I also enjoy free writes, like poetry and spontaneous short stories, over any other form of writing simply due to its simplicity and impulsive creativity. Screenwriting does not necessarily complement this style of mine. Though I appreciate it as an art, I can not see myself writing one in the future.

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Alternate Ending to "Aren't You Happy For Me?"(4)

(a very short alternate ending!)

Words: 800

Melanie and her husband, William Coombes -- with two o’s -- departed for their honeymoon only hours after tying the knot. Though Mr. Ballinger was furious, for the sake of the child embodied in her, he decided to leave Melanie’s future in her own hands. Although Melanie had compiled the decency to ask for her father’s blessing through a phone call, Mr. Ballinger still did not have the opportunity to meet the elder man who swept his daughter off her feet.

Mrs. Ballinger, on the other hand, hovered around the kitchen, poorly managing to carry a handful of ingredients from the fridge only to spill them over the counter. The sun arrayed perfectly over her hair, making her gleam.

Impatient and anxious, he picked up the phone.

“Melanie! When do you get back from your honeymoon?”

“Around noon tomorrow, why?”

“Don’t you think your Mother and I should get around to meeting this man?”

“What? No! I mean, why?”

“Why? I hope you are aware that most parents are actually invited to the weddings of their children.”

“I can see where you’re coming from, but William is just such a busy man, I doubt he will have the time to meet you.”

“How busy can he be that he can afford to go on a month-long honeymoon?”

“Well! That’s different!”

“And he can’t spare half an hour for the man who made his wife?”

“I-”

“I want to see him sometime this week, Melanie. Your mother is persistent to see him as well.”

Mrs. Ballinger set the pan to the side and filled two plates with her pasta. She put them both on her palms, only to have one fall to the floor. The plate broke and the pasta turned cold on the marble floor. With a deep sigh, she carefully threw the sharp pieces into a plastic bag. Thankfully, there was more pasta sitting in the pan.

“I’ll try to figure something out,” Melanie shuddered before an elongated beep rang into Mr. Ballinger’s phone.

Except Mr. Balinger knew more than anyone that she was not going to figure something out, but rather ignore her father’s desperate request for as long as possible. Despite her promise, he searched through a book for the two names that would help quench his curiosity.

“Dear, I’ve got her address. Do you want to go visit tomorrow evening?”

“Is Melanie okay with that?” Mrs. Ballinger put the last bits of her pasta onto a new plate and served it to her husband, warm.

“Yeah, she asked us to come. You broke a plate?” Mr. Ballinger analyzed the small cut on her finger.

“Yes, but don’t think too much of it. Plates can be fixed, or we can just grab another one. There is no such thing as a broken plate in our household.”

Just like broken plates, Mr. Ballinger wondered if his broken relationship with his beautiful wife could ever be fixed. Or if he could just grab another one and spin the disk to start again. There shouldn’t be anything like a broken plate --  a broken relationship -- in his household. Heck, there wasn’t. The sole thing driving him to break it was his cruel pride and devouring ego. He loved her more than anything. And she was reciprocative of that despite his own selfishness.

The next morning, Mrs. Ballinger dressed in her loveliest sundress. Mr. Ballinger pulled a tie to his neck and the two departed to meet the man. A few knocks on Melanie’s door, and the door creaked open.

“Dad? What are you doing here! How did you even find this address?”

“Bluepages, honey. Now, open up! We brought lots of treats and even a housewarming gift. Felt like you could make use of a microwave.”

“Thanks! I’ll just take it and you can go.”

“Can we not sit down for a moment?”

“Yeah but-”

“Is he home?” A voice echoed from behind, rather familiar, as Melanie kept the door as close to its frame as possible. An elder man hooked his chin on her shoulder. 

“Who is it?” He murmured, eyes still half closed.

“Is this him?” Mr. Ballinger questioned. Melanie was testing his patience.

“Yes but--”

The shadow opened the door completely, letting the sun reveal himself. Mr. Ballinger’s eyes widened at the view. Mrs. Ballinger dropped her bags.

“William? You meant this William?”

“I can explain!”

“Where did you get Coombes from!”

“If I said William Ballinger you would’ve never let me marry him! So I just made something up.”

“Please don’t tell me you came up with that because this William is your barber of an uncle.”

“I did get away with it, didn’t I?”

“How can you marry my cousin?”

Mrs. Ballinger stood in awe.

“I mean, at least I won’t have to adopt a different last name, right?”

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Today, I am a camera. (3)

The night was enveloped in a blanket of ebony. Through the minuscule pores of the dark slate shone a peculiar gleam, like freckles on pale skin. Each freckle being its own little world. Though the night stood still, there was no tranquil ambiance; rather my ears were flooded with the noises of foreign consonants and amicable giggles. People situated themselves at the highest point of the hill, leaning over the dark metal fence of a barrier. The air was rather humid, bugs drenching in the hot steam and sticking to any exposed skin in its way. A man kindled his arms around his woman’s waist, his neck hooked onto the dip of her shoulder. An elderly woman with short, grey hair, like clouds in a stormy sky, poured over the fence to study the millions of lights devouring the night sky. Ascending the plains to reach this place, I’d never felt this way. I always felt as if my world was respective to me. I felt as if my world was small, tight, congested -- and that everyone else’s was too. Humanity, to me, was just a composition of self-obsessed, prepossessed individuals trying to make their world their own. Just like the thousands of lights that flooded the sky, our innate value was unfortunately equal to each other, essentially invalidating that value. But this time, I read the sky like a painting. Each world; each light, was a painting of its own. It was a world of its own. An individual is not just one in a billion but seven billion in one. You don’t just live in your own world, but in the world of so many other people. It’s weird to think that each of those lights are another person working in their office or cooking dinner, but each light is the whole new world-- the whole new perspective of another individual. No small speck is insignificant, because to someone in a different time or space, that light is everything.

And just like that, my small world situated in a small town in Ontario had found its way to a big city in South Korea.

Because an individual may be a light on its own. But humanity is a festival of united ones.

image taken in 2018, government invitational trip to South Korea

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My Writing Room (2)

As I write this, my eyes are closed and my ears are drenched in the rich chords of a melody. I am in a state of serenity and peace, blinded by the hood of my lids. My fingers are aimlessly engraving words of pixels onto my screen. This is my dream writing room.

The room in itself is rather dainty. There is not much clutter, except for the sheets heaved on the top of the mattress. The walls are white, like blank canvases, waiting for ink to fill in their pores. They’re white, so as to not limit my creativity; so I can paint it any colour I desire. There is only a lamp in the corner that beams artificial light when the sky is dark. The light bulb glows like the sun, as if daylight was captured inside its glass shell and expelled when I tapped the switch. Though, I do not rely much on this lamp, except on creative midnights. The windows are open and placed in unconventional areas, even right on top of my bed so I can count stars until I fall asleep. The sunlight creeps in everyday.

The room is covered in plants, posing as if I were outdoors. The room takes pride in its minimalism, but there are wooden accents in the furniture for some colour. There is a piano in the corner of the room, with a wooden ukulele seated on top of it. It collects dust, for I don’t use it.

Rather, I wind up my volume and play music from my computer. My computer hoards my desk. The drawers of the desk are stuffed with papers I don’t know the answers to. The surface is cluttered with pens and pencils, papers and books. There is a window against the desk. I look outside as I work. Outside, there is a busy city. There is hundreds of people cruising against the sidewalks. There is an old man smoking by the red hotel door. His clouds of nicotine dissolve into the fresh air. The stop lights change colours. People are occupied. There is so much life.

I let that inspire me.

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Two Words (1)

Language is an intricate aspect of humanity, designed to articulate communication and ease individual expression. To pick solely two words that possess superiority over its counterparts is rather difficult.

Though, there are two words that hold more value to me than others.

Thank you.

These simple words, when applied to various contexts, can embody different things.

Thank you, for giving me a hand in a time of need. Gratitude.

Thank you, for hurting me. Acceptance.

Thank you, for everything. Comfort.

Despite what significance they embody, they all attribute themselves to a positive emotion. Thankfulness is never resented, and in a sense, is rather desired. To say thank you, is enveloping yourself in the greatest form of closure. A true “happy ending” is in fact dependent on those two words.

Hardship is inevitable.

I recall a blue evening. After cycles of circles on the clock spent in hardship and torment, I’d felt exhausted: emotionally and physically. Living in itself stripped me of the smiles that pondered upon my face and I faced an uninvited confrontation from existentialism. The morning that dawned after that night of pessimistic thoughts continued to be dreadful, all because I had no idea what my purpose was.

I’d set off for the day, when I ran into an old friend from a year or so ago.

He’d come to Canada as an international student and experienced hardship through his inability to speak English around the time of his arrival and adaptation to what to him was foreign Canadian culture. As soon as our eyes met, he approached me and said:

Thank you.

You see, I believe everybody has a purpose: one, to reach a consensus within oneself; to obtain a sense of self in which ourselves are prioritized, and two, to selflessly impact others in a way that solely benefits them and brings what is best for humanity.

In that moment, those words reinstated my purpose.

He’d thanked me for helping him back when he first arrived. Though we rarely communicate in the present, his memories of Canada initiated within our first meeting. He thanked me for the nights I spent editing his resumes that landed him an internship. He thanked me for my aid and compassion. He thanked me for the good I’d brought into his life. And that reminded me why I do what I do. So thank you.

Thank you, for giving me a hand in a time of need. 

Though, to thank one is not simply for what they do for you, but for what direction they spun your life in; despite whether it was the result of torment, gratitude, pain, or happiness.

When I reflect and think of those who have hurt me in the past, there is no desire of vengeance, anger, or resentment in my heart.

Rather, I think of what that hurt opened me up to.

To a stronger sense of self.

To better people.

To find those who love me for who I am.

To those who want the best for me, genuinely.

To know who I am.

To not let others taint the image I have of myself.

You see, I believe that there must be a thunderstorm for a rainbow to peek through the clouds.

Though cruel people and events have dominated a fragment of my life, the aftermath completely engulfs the pain I endured and leaves me with joy instead.

Being hurt means becoming stronger. So thank you, for those who have hurt me.

  Though, to thank one is not simply for the aftermath of the pain they put you through, but to be thankful for the boulders that refuse to move.

You see, I believe there are people and things that will always be there regardless of how you blossom. Whether it be the plant that sits, collecting dust from neglect, at the corner of your desk, or the hue of blue that paints the sky. Whether it be the stars that poke out of the ebony sky like pores on a poorly made canvas, or the burgundy knitted sweater that you pull over on a lazy morning when you just aren’t feeling it. Whether it be the warmth of your pockets, or the curve in your mother’s smile.

You do not acknowledge your gratitude for these things in the moments you experience them, but only when they become foreign.

So thank you, for simply being there. Thank you for never changing.

There are many words that compile the English dictionary, but only two can embody the most raw state of happiness. Thank you.