Smalls
02-19-2009, 11:28 AM
Hi there!
This is a great site and very useful. I have been writing a book from my travelling experiences in Borneo - non-fiction, entitled 'Across the Water, Below the Wind'. It's ongoing work over years - lack of motivation, laziness and 'being busy' are all I can offer for excuses.
Here is the first part, and I would love any feedback, or advice. Thanks for taking the time!:
Salty air. That now familiar smell entered my lungs in the stifling heat, as the crude wooden floorboards creaked and groaned underneath the weight of my feet. Copious amounts of sweat were dripping down my burnt red face and off the end of my nose, made worse by my ridiculous state of overdress. My feet were clenched tight by ill-fitting unpolished black leather shoes, given to me by my father (thinking about it, it was my mother who gave me the shoes – my father probably never noticed them missing). Upon my head rested a segal – a thick, heavy, colourful woven cloth wrapped round my forehead like a huge turban with no top. I wore a tight, thick and sickly green polyester suit two sizes too small for me, accompanied by two tinggol – beaded straps across my chest - that tell two stories in the form of beautifully woven images.
I stopped for a moment as I reached halfway across the bridge, now swinging slightly in a welcomed breeze that swept across the estuary before me. My eyes fell upon the mangrove swamps, slowly being overcome by the gently swelling river below me, teeming with life and noises that were now a part of my everyday soundtrack. I squinted up at the clear blue sky in defiance of the intense brightness around me. I smiled. Forces that had been at work since I was a child were now coming together, ringing in my ears and permeating my very soul. I had reached a major point in my life. I was on the right path, and everything I could see around me was telling me just that.
“You know what?!”
Pawai turned round to look at me and gave me that grin he always does when he has an idea of his.
“You are standing here on the bridge that you built only five months ago,” he went on, with that knowing twinkle in his eyes, “and all of the things that have happened to you here must seem strange, you know? You should write a book about this – you have an amazing story to tell!”
I looked at him and grinned back. He was right. Here I was, sweltering in the intense heat, in a polyester suit wrapped in amazingly coloured eastern garments, standing across the water, below the wind, and like my tinggol that criss-crossed my chest, I had my story to tell. Thanks, Pawai.
This is a great site and very useful. I have been writing a book from my travelling experiences in Borneo - non-fiction, entitled 'Across the Water, Below the Wind'. It's ongoing work over years - lack of motivation, laziness and 'being busy' are all I can offer for excuses.
Here is the first part, and I would love any feedback, or advice. Thanks for taking the time!:
Salty air. That now familiar smell entered my lungs in the stifling heat, as the crude wooden floorboards creaked and groaned underneath the weight of my feet. Copious amounts of sweat were dripping down my burnt red face and off the end of my nose, made worse by my ridiculous state of overdress. My feet were clenched tight by ill-fitting unpolished black leather shoes, given to me by my father (thinking about it, it was my mother who gave me the shoes – my father probably never noticed them missing). Upon my head rested a segal – a thick, heavy, colourful woven cloth wrapped round my forehead like a huge turban with no top. I wore a tight, thick and sickly green polyester suit two sizes too small for me, accompanied by two tinggol – beaded straps across my chest - that tell two stories in the form of beautifully woven images.
I stopped for a moment as I reached halfway across the bridge, now swinging slightly in a welcomed breeze that swept across the estuary before me. My eyes fell upon the mangrove swamps, slowly being overcome by the gently swelling river below me, teeming with life and noises that were now a part of my everyday soundtrack. I squinted up at the clear blue sky in defiance of the intense brightness around me. I smiled. Forces that had been at work since I was a child were now coming together, ringing in my ears and permeating my very soul. I had reached a major point in my life. I was on the right path, and everything I could see around me was telling me just that.
“You know what?!”
Pawai turned round to look at me and gave me that grin he always does when he has an idea of his.
“You are standing here on the bridge that you built only five months ago,” he went on, with that knowing twinkle in his eyes, “and all of the things that have happened to you here must seem strange, you know? You should write a book about this – you have an amazing story to tell!”
I looked at him and grinned back. He was right. Here I was, sweltering in the intense heat, in a polyester suit wrapped in amazingly coloured eastern garments, standing across the water, below the wind, and like my tinggol that criss-crossed my chest, I had my story to tell. Thanks, Pawai.