In an effort to cease being nocturnal, I only got four or so hours of sleep. I woke up and heard my mother and brother talking so that was the end of sleep anyway. It appears that my mother woke up today and decided she was going to hate me for no good reason again. Groan, how dull.
No matter, I got some good writing news. Someone from Apress Publishing (computer book publisher) actually bothered to use my contact form on my main blog to ask if they could use the review I did on one of their books. That was pretty exciting, I thought! They would like to quote it on the webpage for the book and possibly use it when they publish future editions of that same book (the review referred to is viewable here on my blog but also here on Blogcritics. They must’ve liked the review because even the actual author stopped by and thanked me for my review! Wicked!
It’s not a super-big deal I know, but given how cruddy the last three years have been, I’ll take any moment of happiness I can get. They’re probably only enthusiastic about the review because it was such a positive one (I’d be stupid to think it was because of my budding wordsmith talents, haha).
A few days ago, something weird happened. Also related to writing. I was just writing a planned article furiously and my father came up to me and asked me to look over something of his. That was weird. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never done anything better than my father, and even when it looks like I’m about to, he’ll go out of his way to prove otherwise. I recall that time we were to drive to another suburb in Melbourne that can take a really long time. He refused to listen to me and go the way that I usually went (taking 45 minutes by car), and so the journey took an hour and 15 minutes.
In such cases it’s best not to argue. I can choose to prove I’m correct or do know better and be subject to insult, or I can be a nice little Asian girl and keep my mouth shut and everyone is happy.
So it was with trepidation that I accepted the draft of a conference paper my father was going to give. Of course, trepidation increased somewhat when he asked me to look over it and make sure it made sense. Gulp. My father is generally pretty decent but he does have a nasty streak in relation to knowledge of certain kinds, as I explained above. I decided I’d just read it through and say it was fine. I did edit it a little; his English (and I’ve inherited some of this to an extent) is very formal - especially so when it comes to writing. He made sure that I followed his example (for which I’m glad, even if the kids in primary school did pick on me, the daft turds).
There was one sentence that was very long-winded and unclear and I tried to explain this to him. That led to him explaining to me what it was about. Hm, well, I happen to be literate in two languages so I’m pretty sure I understood what was on the page. I gave it two more tries to no avail. Ah well, I tried, didn’t I?
It struck me as a terribly sad moment, to think that I was now at a stage where I could see that I can’t run to my father and ask him questions and expect he’ll know. He still knows a shitload more than I do because he’s been around an awful lot longer. It was also sad that though he is aware I learnt things at uni (no, really, I swear! It happened!), he knows absolutely nothing about what I know. There was a tinge of guilt and self-pity in these realisations - I wanted to be a kid again, and still believe that Dad knew almost everything there was to know in the world. He loved to explain difficult things to me when I was young, and I’m told (though I’ve never ‘felt’ it) that he was proud of my remembering complex concepts.
Perhaps that is why often the loneliness here has been close to unbearable. These three other people in this house don’t know me, and they’re not really all that interested in doing so either. At least my father is less indifferent. Though, it’s not always easy pretending to be less knowledgeable about something than you actually are. It feels sort of stupid.
Better to feel stupid and awkward than get insulted, I guess. If only there were a Western equivalent to the geisha: I’d train to be one of them. Might have to settle for a career in burlesque dancing after all.
