“Our student-writers rose to the challenge, producing authentic, responsible and powerful pieces.”

As a student-writer taking part in the annual Writer’s Fortnight at school, my job was to create a piece of journalistic writing (I went with a feature article) based on some of the human interest volunteers we had come to school and talk to us about their impactful stories.

I would definitely agree with the “challenge” part of this prompt; journalism as a whole is a challenge for me, because I know realise the road to a perfect piece of journalism is filled with obstacles. Authenticity and responsibility, as mentioned in the prompt, are two huge factors that play a role in the process of writing a factually correct and informative piece. The importance of representing ideas and people in your story in a true, factual manner cannot be overstated.

Being able to correctly represent those in my story was something that I took as a serious part of writing this piece. I decided to write about Ms. Angela Noronha, a former University of Pennsylvania student who decided to move back to the Philippines in order to help in the relief efforts for Typhoon Ketsana’s aftermath. The biggest idea of my writing, was to communicate that fulfilment in life can be achieved without needing to go to some of the best schools in the world, and that there are different definitions of being successful. I decided to represent this through Angela’s story, and with insight from Joan Liu, a university advisor here at school and Megna Srinivasan, a student at our school. Since my piece was a somewhat opinion based feature piece, I realised the importance of presenting my quote subjects as the way they had meant to be represented. Going through all the recordings of past interviews, it was important that I quoted what I needed to use as it had exactly been said. After deciding I had been the most accurate I could be, I took this further and went on to email this article to the three interviewees and ask them if they were happy with the way they had been portrayed in my story, gladly getting an affirmative from all three. After this, I realised the true importance of representing your interviewees factually and correctly in stories; they must not be represented as someone who they are not, leading to conflicts of interest for them as well as other people making judgments about them because of things they may not have necessarily said.

The biggest insight that I gained from this journalistic process was that, the only way to create a “powerful piece” was to be planning from the start. It started with meeting Mr. Enlai Yeoh, a resident journalist for the Straits Times, and listening to his tips. I think that this was what helped me the most in the end; as a prospective journalist, you have always got to be on the lookout for anything worth noting down, and because of what Mr. Yeoh said, I was able to collect a large amount of tips from a professional of the field that in the end I feel really helped shape my essay and make it what it is. Not only was note taking important here, but especially during the process of interviewing. Planning was very important especially when creating the questions for the interviews. Your questions should be the driving force behind the kind of answers you want to get, and they should all in the end be relevant to your overarching idea. I feel that this was the hardest part of the process; how could I make sure that I did not go off on a tangent with my questions, and stay on the same path?

In the end, I think that the only way that someone is able to create an “authentic, responsible, powerful” piece of work is through careful pre and post planning. Before we start writing, we must prepare intensely, and be our most observant selves: especially if we are interviewing someone. The first look at the person you are going to interview should help you determine what kind of story you want to get out of them, yet it should also make you realise that while you have a specific aim, the way that this person is meant to represent that aim should be true and agreed with by them. I would also conclude that being responsible and authentic, is part of what contributes to the power of a piece. With factual and correctly presented information communicated in diverse ways, what could be a simply boring piece of text is transformed into an absolutely hooking and riveting piece of work.

Likes and Dislikes

I find myself someone who enjoys the perks of an urban lifestyle, highly contrasting to the rest of my family. I guess growing up in Singapore has influenced me to side with the town mouse rather than the country mouse.
The smell of petrol at a gas station oddly gets me going. Now my parents are worried their child will become an arsonist. The vroom of an engine as its exotic, usually Italian speed machine of a host whizzes past me. Screeching like a jungle cat as though to brand itself king of the road. The warm touch of fresh printed papers that sometimes make our manual labour enjoyable. The smell of loaves just out the oven at Subway which make the long lines bearable; six inches of golden heaven. The feel of the tennis ball striking a racquet smack in the middle. Surprisingly therapeutic, for such an aggressive sport. Just as you walk to the bus stop, your bus pulls up without you having to wait. You get to watch the pained and jealous looks of others as you enter. Ah, how good that feels.
Equally importantly, my dislikes; the hardest part of doing this is trying to decide. Too much to disagree with in today’s world.
The neanderthals in the park who do not acknowledge the existence of earphones, and blatantly play their music for the whole country to hear through the loudest speaker imaginable. When people see me very clearly manoeuvring a pencil with my left hand, and still ask me “are you a left hander?”. The type of people who think they are important just because they hate something popular; a common occurrence with some of my… let us call them intellectually deprived, peers. It physically pains me, when you’ve been hitting all those notes perfectly and gliding your finger along the strings of a guitar until you manage to hit that one wrong note or accidentally mute a string.
The thing that annoys me the most is that short amount of time after you’ve finished a book – where you can give yourself a pat on the back and feel enriched for a while. That is, before realizing you now have to start a whole new book and put yourself back into what seems like the endless cycle of absorbing a fresh story.
I most dislike how I was able to come up with a lot more dislikes than likes; seems the moody, rebellious tendencies that come with the teenage years have caught up to me.

A Valuable Possession

My most valuable possession is an old rectangular photo frame that sits on my shelf. It is hidden behind all the little trinkets and memorabilia I have collected on my trips around the world. As these trinkets are continuously replaced\, the photo frame still stands tall, never moved.
Its brown, rusting, what once used to be silver boundaries curve in at each of the corners mimicking those of an LED television. When I look carefully through to the photo in the frame, I can notice in the light the little irregular scratches and streaks of dust that litter the transparent glass – the glass in which I could see my own reflection in the glint of the sunlight.
The crack on the lower right corner of the silver edge that spreads out like the naked branches of a tree in the fall… this was caused by my carelessness when the time came to do a little cleaning. The photo housed in the frame currently is one of my family at a party. I am a bit disappointed that the crack in the bottom does distort the image of the slick new shoes I was wearing that night.
As time has passed and life has changed, the frame stands still in its same place. Its memories and stories have come and gone as the pictures have been replaced – just like a new story is told on each page of a book until we turn to the next one. Never moved nor replaced. Just like the memories that I will always cherish; housed in this photo frame.

Turning Pages

The children’s section? Right this way, ma’am, says the store clerk as she leads my mum and I through the winding alleys of books, scratching her nails against her library pass as she leads us along.
Crosswords, science, biographies… she murmurs to herself as she navigates herself through the crowded library.
It’s like a zoo in here – children clawing at their parents, begging to let them borrow another book. I promise I’ll read it, Mom, I’ll do my homework too, they would scream. As the years passed, I would see an exact repeat of this scene in my life… except this time, in the Apple store with iPhones instead of books.
Finally, we get to the kids’ section. I have been waiting for this day for forever now… ever since our teacher told us that we are ready to start reading our own books since we now know all the letters.
I scream all the letters as I see them on the signs to my mother. Look, there’s an A, and that over there’s a Q, it’s the hardest one to draw. That’s a a Z, like zebra.
I take a look at the large collection of colourful faces staring back at me. Nursery rhymes and fairy tales? I feel like an adult for a minute when I see these books and I arrogantly let out my distaste with a pfft. Okay, you have five minutes, pick whichever one you like – I’ll be down over there, says my mother as she scampers towards the romance novels.
I wander down the aisle a little bit, looking for something a bit more new to me. I had read most of these fairytales so much that I knew how they went already.
Suddenly, I stumble upon a book with the most peculiar cover I had ever seen.
What is that on the front page? It almost looked like… a cat in a hat, I realized as I read the title of the book. By a man calling himself Dr. Seuss.
Intrigued by the cover, I take the book of the shelf and make my way towards a table near the back – two other kids are fighting over a book written by Dr. Seuss. Hmm, must be popular – I wonder what’s so special about him, I think to myself as I find a seat.
To this day, I still remember the time that I stumbled upon that book, in that library. As I sit, reading my novels for school and literary works considered the classics – my mind wanders, wonders what it would feel like to go back to those simple days again. But then again, I smile because it happened and don’t cry because it’s over.

The Vegetable Man

I wake up, feeling startled by a scream I have heard on the road outside. It is the crack of dawn and I am in India. It is always so different to the life that I have in Singapore; nothing here is the same.
My cousin still sleeps soundly, obviously used to these loud noises – a wild, snoring beast which none of the senses can rise from its slumber. I rub my eyes, and slowly gather enough energy to crawl over to the window.
As I look outside, what I assumed would be a silhouette of a stray dog standing out of the darkness changed into one of a man’s. He pushes a cart laden with vegetables of all shapes, colours and sizes – the way an artist handles his palette of paints.
Every three steps or so that he would take, I would hear a blood curdling yell from the man.
Subzee, subzee, subzee!
Subzee, the Hindi word for vegetables, I remember from my Hindi classes back in kindergarten.
As I watch the man, I can’t help but notice the largest smile on his face – as he passes by familiar doors and regular customers.
I watch him lug, what seems to be an enormously heavy cart, up the ramped road.
Still a smile on his face.
The wheel of his cart runs up against a rock on the road. Some tomatoes fall and start to slowly roll down the road, slow enough for him to catch them. As he walks back to the cart, tomatoes in hand…
Still a smile on his face.
He has nothing. All these bad things happen so easily to him and he has to fight for his life. Wouldn’t he be much happier with a life like mine, in a large sprawling city like Singapore? Yet he can find ways to smile when sometimes I cannot.
The next morning, my family gathers in the living room. My mother, curled up with a nice book in her hand and a cup of tea.
Smiling to herself as her eyes dance across the page through her sleek glasses.
My cousin runs around in a frenzy; she is worried about who will make it to her party and who won’t and what she will wear. Her phone clutched in one hand and hangers layered with dresses in the other.
Beautiful dresses and friends who are just a click away. But no smile.