Photo credit: Thomas Leuthard
I remember the days before I had a blog. Days where my friends were free to humiliate themselves in my presence without asking if I was going to write about them. Things have changed; today they treat me like a reporter waiting for his big scoop. They think I’m secretly documenting their every tic for a grand exposé, soon to be read by millions. Well joke’s on them, because first of all, nobody reads my blog.
I may have romanticised the writer’s life way too much. I’ve always pictured the typical writer as a broken but attractive soul, shelled up in his (or her) study, surrounded by books and way too many mahogany chairs. He’d stare out his window, lift his finger in exclamation, and break out his trusty typewriter (a Remington, of course).
Behind our smiles lay the seeds of doubt.
He took a failing airline company and turned it for profit. Then he was thrust upon an international disaster, to which he showed the world what leadership meant. He’s also my new boss, and today, I’m about to give him a haircut.
My tools clatter in my trembling hands. Wait, did I say tools? I meant a shabby kit made out of office scissors, a wooden comb, a women’s disposable shaver, and a bottle of mineral water. Tony Fernandes looks at me, a stretch of bubble wrap hanging off his neck at an angle.
This is going to get messy, I say to myself.
This has begun to be my definition of a wild weekend
An out-of date blog reeks wretchedness. It’s that feeling you get when you peer into them dingy ‘cybercafes’ with computers that are actually gambling machines—and while we’re on that subject, I wonder why they don’t just straight up break out the blackjack tables, because that shit ain’t fooling anyone.
Photo credit: Keith Page
The other day, I attended a writer’s briefing for an online news site. “People’s attention spans are getting shorter,” the editor said. “You need to constantly provide them with links and pictures so as not to lose them.”
Your Friendly Malaysian Writer 