In the last several months, two of my friends have finished writing fiction novels. One has actually been published and is available on Amazon and in print, while the other is only available online via a free e-novel publishing site. The first one was written by a college friend, who loosely based the novel on her own experiences as a 22-year-old senior in college, unsure of what to do with her life upon her impending graduation, and she ends up in a relationship with someone over 20 years older. The novel walks us through what that relationship looks like, along with all the baggage that comes with being in a relationship with someone that much older (he is in the midst of a divorce with a woman with whom he had three daughters, and this was not one of those amicable breakups). The novel eventually takes us to Italy for Christmas, as well as the house of the older man’s ex-wife’s parents for New Year’s Eve. The second book is a teenage mystery novel-type that explores serial killings in the San Francisco area. Its main character bears a very strong resemblance to my friend who wrote it.

I finished reading the novel of my college friend. While there were entertaining parts to it and characters that I found comical, it didn’t feel quite real to me. At the end, I was left wondering how I was supposed to feel at the end. Usually, there tends to be some sort of sympathy we feel as readers to the protagonist, but in this case, I ended my reading thinking she was just plain pathetic.

I suppose it’s normal that when starting out writing novels that people tend to write about parts of their own lives because that’s what they know the most about. We try to make sense of our lives by writing about it, sharing our writing with others, and then seeing how they respond to it. I once read a quote by a critic that said that memoirs written by anyone under the age of 22 are ridiculous because what do these people know about life being so young? We think at 22 that the problems and dramas that face us are significant, that perhaps we are “more mature” than others our same age, yet 20 years later, we tend to look back and laugh at ourselves for taking our relatively trivial lives so seriously.

I’ve often thought about writing fiction based on my own life. I used to dream about writing a novel loosely based on my own experiences, particularly around my family. But then I get cynical and wonder who would actually read it. I don’t want to write some sob story about my familial dysfunction where people patronizingly think, “Oh, poor her,” or think I’m trying to blame the world for the obstacles and pains that I’ve experienced. What would the theme be? What would I ultimately be trying to convey by the end of sharing that story?

Then my thoughts immediately reverted to this blog and why I choose to write here and make this public. I guess I do write to try to make sense of what is around me, and I write about things so deeply personal like my brother and my family because I’d like to think that maybe it could help someone else who has to face something similar. Maybe for most of my friends who are emotionally removed, they can read this blog and try to understand me better…if they’d like. I’m sure most of them think they already understand me well enough, which I frankly doubt.  And for those who do not know me and will never know me, they can read this blog and know that there is someone else out there in the universe that goes through similar pains and confusions and experiences, and similarly is trying to find meaning in life the way I am.

The last weeks have been odd for me sleep-wise. Because I usually wake up early for the gym, I get tired by around 9:30-10:30 and am usually in bed by 10:30. I would fall asleep fairly quickly, and by 5:30am, my natural internal clock would automatically wake me up to anticipate my 5:50am alarm. However, there’s always been a day or two every week for the last few weeks when I just can’t fall asleep. I’ll lie there, toss and turn, and not fall asleep until around 2 or 3am. I’m not quite sure why. To try to get myself to sleep naturally the other week, I drank two glasses of wine before bed. Well, that did the trick then.

I didn’t recall any dreams until after Chris’s 6:50am alarm went off this morning. By that time, I’d already given up getting up for the gym and stayed in bed. I dreamt that my mother had just seen my aunt, and she started whining and crying about how she tries to move on, but she can’t forget about Ed, especially when my aunt calls her every day at 2:19pm to remind her that Ed is gone.

What is so significant about 2:19pm? Is that the time he left the house to go to the Golden Gate Bridge?

This whole year, I’ve managed to make one new friend, and he just happens to live in New Jersey, which clearly is not that convenient. Our hangouts have usually been during lunch since we work fairly close to each other, yet given his 1.5 hour commute each way between home and the office, after work doesn’t work, and on weekends, he usually stays in Jersey. I’ve become like the Chris in our friendship — he has shared quite a bit with me, but I haven’t shared much with him that is below the surface.

We were chatting over Google Chat today, and I was telling him about my weekend plans for theater, making dosa, watching the Australian Grand Final (or really, sitting next to Chris while he watches it and I pretend to watch), among other things. He said to me, you have such a happy life. Things seem so good for you. I smiled when I read this. There’s a lot you have no idea about, I responded.

It’s not that I don’t agree with him. I know that overall, I do have a happy life. I live in a city that I love, I work in a buzzing industry with pretty attractive remuneration, I have a life partner who is fully here for me in every possible way, I travel a lot and pursue many different interests and hobbies, and I have friends I love who care about me.

But like the majority of us in the developed world, I have what is known as the deficit attention disorder — I pay attention to what is missing or not good. I think about my unstable mother, my emotionally void father, their dysfunctional marriage and dilapidated and cluttered accident-prone home, and our overall dysfunctional and contentious wider family. I think about Ed and how and why he died. I think about how I don’t have a living brother anymore and how that will plague me the rest of my life, and how no one really can understand that unless they’ve experienced the same thing. I actually said that to my friend the other day over the phone — “I think his death is going to plague me until I die.” The response was total silence. What kind of response am I expecting when I say something like that, anyway?

My mom called tonight to voice her concern at the potential thought that we may decide to have a church wedding. It took some time to calm her down and confirm with her that no, we would not be having a church wedding. She launched into a repeated, angry rant (I’ve heard this rant at least 50 times in the last seven years) regarding my second oldest cousin, who married a woman who was born Catholic, barely practiced it, yet insisted that my cousin convert to Catholicism so that she could have her dream Catholic church wedding. What this ultimately meant for my cousin’s mom and my own mom was that neither of them could watch my cousin get married since they are Jehovah’s Witnesses, and apparently JWs cannot enter another religion’s house of worship. They sat in a car outside the church for the entire three-hour ceremony in the summer of 2007.

At the time, I wasn’t that happy about the situation. No where in the JW version of the Bible does it explicitly state that you cannot enter another religion’s church, yet the “elders” at the congregation advised both my aunt and my mom not to do it. But what annoyed me even more than this was that my cousin’s now wife completely disregarded her future mother-in-law. She didn’t care that her husband’s mother wouldn’t see them get married. It was her wedding, so she wanted it the way she wanted it (my cousin has no balls or opinion, so clearly he did not speak at all during this). At the time I thought, wow, this is just going to pave the way for a very unpleasant future relationship between my aunt and her first daughter-in-law. In the end, I predicted correctly — it’s been terrible ever since.

I can see both sides to the situation, but at the end of the day, I would never do something explicitly against what my future in-laws wanted, especially if it were something as significant as our wedding. It wouldn’t speak well to how I feel about them and “consider” their feelings, and it also doesn’t set a good precedent for future relations. Yet at the same time in this situation, I don’t have a strong feeling about a church wedding; in fact, I am more opposed to it than for it. Neither of us is particularly religious. He was baptized Christian and does nothing Christian anymore, and I believe in God and practice nothing. Having a church wedding in our case would just seem like we were being phony or trying to please his parents or grandmothers. It would certainly not please anyone on my side.

Tonight, I went to see a play with a friend called I Like to Be Here: Jackson Heights Revisited, Or, This is a Mango. It was probably one of the best shows I’ve seen in a while, and my friend and I were laughing almost the entire time because of the ethnic interpretations and the very not politically correct statements made.

Jackson Heights is a neighborhood in Queens that I frequented several times a month when I lived in Queens, as it was just two stops away (or about a 25-minute walk) from my old Elmhurst apartment, and even now that I’ve moved into Manhattan, I go there about every couple of months. I’ve always looked at it as a fun, boisterous area full of immigrants, primarily from South Asia and Latin America, but with a good sprinkling of pretty much every ethnicity known to humans. It was portrayed as such in this play, but then I suppose my “yuppie” status was made obvious.

There’s a scene where an assumed to be middle-class white man bumps into a poorer Latina woman (who is a prostitute trying to earn more money to support her child and 10 other relatives in a one-bedroom apartment in Jackson Heights). The white man says to the Latina that Jackson Heights is a “historic neighborhood” in New York City and starts talking about the neighborhood’s rich cultural history. The Latina immediately feels and looks annoyed, and she makes it clear to him that this neighborhood is hardly a “historic” neighborhood — it’s a place where poor immigrants just try their best to survive, hence her tiny apartment housing 12 family members. That type of living situation is the norm for her and her neighbors there.

I don’t think I’ve ever thought of Jackson Heights as a “historic neighborhood” — I’ve always looked at it as the spot to get great Indian, Filipino, South American, Mexican, or many other ethnic foods for a really cheap price. It’s the place I can go for great ethnic markets where I can find all the spices and vegetables I could only dream of getting at Fairway or Whole Foods, or God forbid Gristedes. I guess I am closer to that white man in my experiences of Jackson Heights than the Latina woman.

Ever since we got engaged, I’ve been randomly reading different wedding blogs here and there, from standard ones like theknot.com and lover.ly to more practical ones like, well, apracticalwedding.com. Today, I read an article about a marriage that ended because the couple decided from the get-go that they did not want children… until three years later, he changed his mind. And then they divorced.

It was a very simple story; there was nothing incredibly deep or pointed about it. It was really just a story of how people evolve and change, and sometimes, they cannot evolve and change with each other and have to allow the other to change without themselves in the picture in that respect. You might be able to compromise on things like your ideal place to live vs. his because of life circumstances or better career prospects, but you can’t really compromise on something like having children or not. A real person’s life is at stake. If you are the one who didn’t want children, you are giving in to a life that you did not want and responsibilities you never cared to have, and it could end in resentment for your partner and your innocent child.

It made me feel sad to read this. All this talk about vows and spending the rest of our lives together and “’til death do us part” made me think about all the “unknowns” out there that could face us as our life continues, the positives and the negatives. It scares me a little to think of the challenges in our future and how much of what makes up our lives is completely out of my own control, of our own control even.