I first picked up this book for its cover, a vintage fashion shoot time black and white photo cover. Also it has all the themes which inspire and interest me: vintage, obsession, fame, class.
There has been a Formula One Grand Prix accident in Monaco, May 1968 witnessed by the world press in the grandstand as the celebs mingle with drivers and their racing cars. grandstand is witness to a terrible incident. Jack Preston, a simple mechanic for Team Sutton, will bear the scars of injuries from which he shielded Deedee, a budding film star. Back in a remote sleepy village in England, it seems like it is still the 1950s. Church-going villagers wish him well. A slow-witted boy stands around and assists Jack back in his garage while he tinkers with cars. Jack recovers from his injuries and is nursed back to health, after which he owes it to his wife and has to put up with her insatiable sexual appetite. Jack becomes totally obsessed with Dee the glamorous Hollywood actress. waiting every day for a sign that she would be back to show her gratitude, to find him, to see him, to say ‘thank you for saving my life’.
Peter Terrin’s writing is rich, beautiful and evocative. Already he is being compared to Camus and I can see why. This is a thin book, only 160 pages, yet it is full of restraint, lacking in verbosity and descriptive excess. Instead it is a clear, simple and imaginative account of a car mechanic’s obsession with a film star. “Monte Carlo” has been translated from the Dutch language by David Doherty. Peter Terrin himself was born in 1968 the year of the Grand Prix.
Because I am a control freak, I decided to have a stab at cover design myself. The first one, the black and red one is inspired by Iban tattoo pattern and Alfred Hitchcock film posters by illustrator/artist Saul Bass. But I think it might be deemed too London, too retro. The second and the third are variations on the same which the idea of the rich mystery of the deep, dark jungle.
Guess which one the publisher chose? It surprised me too.
“Do not enter when light is on!” Structural edit: that means blasting, incision, internal tissue re-organisation and cosmetic surgery. But of course, I am not talking metaphorically at all. I am talking about the body of work. Words. I’ve created strict exam conditions in the attic AKA the cutting room. There’s no furniture. I sit on the floor monk-like so it’s not very comfortable and I cannot fall asleep. The only distractions I am surrounding myself with are:
Junk food, some “guilt-free”, if you believe the wrappers;
Only two musical instruments for when the going gets tougher (limited to only two, otherwise it will turn into a party);
Vintage Sennheiser headphones to listen to the music from the book to remind myself of the great songs which inspired the story. Playlist? Yes? A musical? Maybe?!
My editor, who has worked in top publishing houses such as Orion, Hodder & Stoughton, Headline and Bantam in New York, is a specialist in this genre and has editted bestselling authors such as Linwood Barclay, Tess Gerritsen et al. We are in this together, me, you and him, and we are going to make Heart of Glass the best that it can be. And a tight deadline. I started on this process 10 days ago. I should be done with this edit in another two weeks. 79,000 words in three weeks, right? What do you mean “Vitamin D deficiency”? OK. Until then…
This is the Proverse Spring Reception on 27 April 2017. The film is 53:09 minutes long. The section where they announce the prize winners is from 4:32 to 9:10.
However, you may wish to watch to the end. It is actually very entertaining, especially as new books are being launched, and there are readings by writers and poets from all over the world. It is an evening celebrating writing, writers and books and a special treat for book lovers everywhere.
The Flying Rhino is not a prehistoric dinosaur but it does look like one, with its large, mad staring eyes.
The rhinoceros hornbill is the largest hornbill, aka the flying rhino. It has one of the largest and most impressive casques — a feature they share with hadrosaurids from more than 60 million years ago.
The flying rhino and other hornbills practise one of the most ingenious nesting rituals of any bird. When the female is ready to lay her eggs, she goes into a hollow tree cavity and helps the male seal the entrance with a paste made of fruit, mud, and feces. The pair leaves only a small slit, through which the male feeds the female (and later the chicks) for the next four to five months. The female keeps the inside of the nest cavity clean by pushing uneaten food and fecal matter back out through the same slit. When the chicks are about three months old, the female breaks herself out…and both parents and offspring collaborate to re-seal the chicks inside for another three months. Both parents continue to care for the chicks until they are old enough to break out of the nest on their own and fly free.
The cry is a hollow honk. The Rhinoceros Hornbill’s casque is an amp! The cry of the hornbill is amplified so they can be heard all throughout the rainforest. This feature has led paleontologists to believe that maybe harosaurs used their fancy head crests in the same way. So when you hear a Rhinoceros Hornbill’s echoing honk from somewhere out of sight, you might just be hearing the voice of this great bird’s inner dinosaur. They call only to defend their territories from other breeding pairs. It is warning, so you have been warned what Cry of the Flying Rhino is about!
There has got to be a thrill to be subjected to a six hour wait to get one’s new passport in this day and age. And that thrill is Dapur, a Malaysian diner about three minutes’ walk from the visa and consular office at the Malaysian High Commission in London.
Dapur means kitchen. It’s perfect for those who want an honest no frills lunch street food treat. And I seem to have had this same meal twice in the two times I’ve been here – nasi lemak. Also on the menu is lamb kurma and butter chicken, see the blackboard menu. But I really just like a simple meal. Actually except for the cardboard box it came in, it is very authentic but I do miss the pyramidal banana leaf package that it SHOULD traditionally come in. As I have a loyalty card I will definitely be back!
A trip to Dapur helps to break up the staggeringly mind-numbing six hour wait at the immigration office and you really cannot get cross with them because they are all, the adiks, kaks, enciks, all the officers, clerks whoever they are, very sweet and kind. Service with the Malaysian smile so you might have to forgive them the terrible system issues and errors and delays.
The first story which I wrote and submitted was for the 1984 New Straits Times Short Story Competition. It was called Miel and the Honey Bunch or something pretentious-sounding like that. The exact story and wording are all gone now. Success came to me early as a writer, to my detriment, as I since then I always thought I would be a professional and successful writer without much effort. I developed a complacency towards the creative act of writing.
I was then 14 years old and the youngest entrant. There was no such thing as YA genre at the time. You were either an adult or a child. I didn’t get a mention and didn’t win anything. I competed as an adult but any competition was as tough then as it is now. Out of hundreds and maybe thousands of entries, there can only be one winner and the rest runners up or in the commended list. I was fine. I remember thinking that I just wanted to send it out, no matter what.
In 1986 I entered the same competition again. I was now 16. As per two years before, I wrote the story by hand and dictated it to my mother who typed the story up in triplicate on this typewriter pictured, the Royal 240. My dad bought it in the Johor Bahru NAAFI in 1970*. It was attractively wood-panelled. It had red and black ribbons. I remember that distinctive strong fresh chemical smell of the typewriter ink. It had two discoloured or stained keys, I am not sure why. Graphic designers? Anybody? When I saw this photo (which is the same model but it is not the actual typewriter that was used) I noticed that it also had two discoloured keys! Imagine my excitement at the discovery. I could not type and neither could she. She used two fingers and typed out 1,500 to 2,000 words. I sat next to her and read out a paragraph first, where we would edit manually, orally or aurally, then a second reading word by word for it to be typed. It took some time but in those days you have time! Everybody had time! We used and re-used the carbon paper for the triplicate copies until it was transparent, until you could put it against a window and see the view beyond the window, until an abstract pattern was made by layers and lines of juxtaposed and superimposed text which no longer made sense, which no longer could be read legibly.
She was strangely a perfectionist and I did not know it then, I just thought ‘Damn! Mummy’s fussy!’. We quarreled, I sulked, we came back to the typing, we snapped, we sent it off. Now I feel grateful now that my mother was so supportive and meticulous about it too. When the words looked messy or clumsy on the page, she would rip the paper out and crush it into a ball like those cartoon caricatures of writers. And then we would start again. As she typed I remember her correcting my grammar and turns of phrases. ‘Is’ or ‘was’, ‘would be’ or ‘would have been’, she would ask, sometimes to herself, sometimes to me, and we would discuss. The final decision was sometimes hers, sometimes mine and sometimes joint. Letter by letter, word by word, sentence by sentence, my story was typed out.
This time I won a prize of a weekend writing workshop at the New Straits Times headquarters: 31 Jalan Riong, 51000 Kuala Lumpur. I got to meet the amazingly kind and funny writer Robert Raymer, a poet called Jeya and a film critic called Kee Thuan Chye. You must remember that I was born and raised in Johor Bahru where nothing happens and most definitely, nothing exciting. It is like saying you are from Hull. The address and postcode of The New Straits Times office is etched in my memory forever. I referred to the letter until I memorised it. It went everywhere I went. It was more valuable than money or keys. I just had to have it with me. I held it in my hand, my school bag, my drawer until it tore at the creases where it once folded. I do not have it anymore. Sometimes I wish I still have it but maybe it was the right thing after all that it has perished over time. The letter had served its purpose which was to endorse me as a writer when I was still young.
*The Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes (NAAFI /ˈnæfiː/) is an organisation created by the British government in 1921 to run recreational establishments needed by the British Armed Forces, and to sell goods to servicemen and their families.
Blogger Peggy Loh is a writer herself. She is, like me, born a writer, and born and raised in Johor Bahru. She is a writer with the New Straits Times.
Read Peggy’s detailed and insightful write-up here of Heart of Glass and of me. Check out her blog also at peggyloh.com which is called MY Johor Stories. Her blog has a wonderful vintage feel as she knows the old world well and tells her stories vividly and with so much atmosphere.
If you have been wondering “why Chicago, why Macau?” why not take a look at the original, vintage settings? See inside the excitingly rare1964 book found in a wet market (Chowrasta) in Georgetown, Penang, which inspired the ideas and setting of Heart of Glass. Hope you are “stirred, not shaken.” (HINT)
Welcome to everyone on board HMS Ivy boat, especially those who have just embarked. “Why crime?” Indeed. Without further delay, make yourself a cup of coffee or a martini and watch it now. It’s only 5 minutes long, packed full of ideas and most of all contains ORIGINAL vintage material not available anywhere on the internet!
Today you can take a look inside the original handwritten manuscript of Heart of Glass, my MUSIC CRIME NOIR NOVEL set in Chicago and Macau in the Reagan era of 1980s.
Piano soundtrack is by yours truly of course: Aquellos Ojos Verdes. Watch out for it.
I really love this song.
See how the novel started, see how it was written. Of course it’s handwritten. I did not even have a smart phone until last year. I still believe in
” the pen is mightier than the touchtyping.”
Wanna read more? Please pledge your support for me here and pre-order a copy. Starts at only 10 pounds.