Atypical Wanderer

Do I consider myself a writer? Yes. Truthfully saying, I do. People who know me personally might think I am being cocky after being able to publish my debut book recently. But, frankly speaking, the title as a book writer (well, if some people even consider to call me that) is not that huge for me, maybe because I am not recognized that well by people in the industry as well as the public reader (maybe not just yet). I only consider myself as a real writer when I write in this blog. There are a few reasons I want to continue blogging after I had left this blog for quite some time. I want to ease all the monologues inside my head. I might not be a kind of person who is loud  on the outside but my head sometimes do have all sorts of things to talk about that my sleep gets distracted at times because I don't talk about it with others. So, the options are to talk about it aloud with anyone or anything, or to write them down. Considering I rarely share my thoughts verbally a...

Finally, I have managed to publicly release my debut book, co-written with my friend together with a small contribution from her sister. It is about a little more than two months now that the book is up on the market.  If you ask me how I feel, I feel more relieved than excited actually. I am relieved that the effort finally gets to the place as we have once dreamed of when we were still at school, to be in the writing and publication industry as well as at the hands of general people. I am also relieved that I am able to fulfill the promise I made to write a book with the same friend.  I can say that the feeling of me being able to publish a book equals to that of when I was graduating from my degree study. More relieved than excited. And nervous too. The thought of getting the scroll up on the stage made me nauseous. The only reasons I forced myself to attend the convocation were because my mom did not approve the idea of me being absence from my own convocat...

How can I not fall in love with the way she looks at him? I watched the movie first, quite long before I read the book. The movie was excellent. The novel was quite a let down at first because I read it with my own 24-year-old's voice when I should've used a five-year-old boy's instead. Silly me. Shouldn't have made the mistake after watching the movie.  Like most stories being made into movies, there are a few differences between the novel and the movie. However, I don't really mind that because the complexities are still there.  Reading this book, you can easily hate Ma, the mother of Jack, that had been kept captive by his kidnapper for as long as seven years. She occasionally had mood swings especially when she was treated at a hospital after she and Jack were finally saved by the police. She would easily become irritated when the doctor wanted to run a check-up on Jack; she would insist that there was nothing wrong with her son because she has taken a g...