Writing

I've started a corporate story, based on work. It's extremely cathartic to write the crazy decisions that I see made in a satirical form, but I can't think of a story arc. Every meeting I attend has so much fodder, but I just can't seem to get it into writing yet. It does feel very exciting and liberating though, to be able to have something to write about that does not involve whining about some woman thing.

This morning though, I wondered how my life would look like on a written sheet.

My phone alarm went off at 5.55. It's a trick, 5.55. 5 minutes before 6, just so I can say I wake up at '5 plus', I guess. I copied it from my dad. Maybe he just decided to set his alarm at 5.55 after those cheap little notebooks they used to sell with the numbers '555' printed on the covers. In any case, I didn't have time to laze around. I turned the dimmer knob on my bedside lamp and quickly made the bed, picking up the pillows that had fallen on the floor during the night. The bus would come at 6.19. I had precisely 24 minutes. To brush my teeth, slip on gym clothes, choose a dress, zip it up in a garment bag, boil water for a quarter cup of Milo, slide my sports shoes on, and walk out to the bus-stop.  The bus used to be more punctual.  I used to feel quite proud of the transportation system. Used to marvel at its efficiency to friends. Maybe we've finally reached the Swiss standard of living, I used to say. But now it comes it 6.14 on some days, 6.22 on others. Complacency. I wonder who I can write in to. I like to sit at a place on the bus where I can  hang my garment bag. I lumber up the bus, my many bags --- 1 for the laptop, 1 for the gym things, 1 for the other things I need (umbrella, watch, water bottle, spare shawl, dust mask in case the haze makes a sudden return, fan from my mum ('for when the MRT is smelly'),  luggage combination lock for the gym locker, spare book).
7.45. The 30 minutes of cardio is done. I shower and get to the bus stop by 8, grabbing a bun and some juice along the way. This, I eat at my desk, after squeezing my way onto the packed bus.

Terribly boring. Why would anyone want to read that?

Update on writing: I woke up at 2.30 am and worked on the corporate story till 4.30. I can definitely write better from 2-5, methinks. 
  

Reading

I've gotten hold of 'Seven Japanese Tales' by Junichiro Tanizaki. The first story is the story of Shun-Kin. Reading it has made the play clearer. 

In the original short story, multiple narrators exist: 
1. The narrator, who is a man interested in the story of Shun-Kin 
2. Quotes from Sansuke's book on Shun-Kin's life
3. Quotes from a girl who helped Sansuke and Shun-Kin after both went blind 

In the play, 2 more voices (more commentators than narrators, really) were added: the actor who transforms into Sansuke, and the lady who is reading the play for a radio station. 

I've enjoyed the rest of the stories in the book too. It wasn't a surprise to find out that Tanizaki was a fan of Edgar Allen Poe, because his style is very similar. 1st person narrator who seems trustworthy at first, then gives the reader room to doubt. Storylines that veer into the fantastic. Heightened sensory descriptions. It's all very gothic. Terror, horror, beauty, sublime. (It's amazing how the mind can remember 'A' level Lit things)