When I was a child, I had never dreamed of becoming a writer. I was groomed to have an entrepreneurial mindset or to become a doctor someday.
My father, who flew from chaotic China in the early 1930’s, had high hopes that I would become a doctor. Unfortunately, his cancer arrived first.
My father’s death inspired me to write. The events before and after Papa’s death were overwhelmingly painful. Surrounded by people who could not understand me, I turned inward and sought solace in words.
I was born in a family that was frowned upon by society. As a veshya or illegitimate child, the stigma of my birth has always made me feel insignificant and invisible. Back then, my fascination with books was my only escape. As a young boy, I must have searched for fictional characters that somehow resembled my identity and who shared similar struggles.
Since I was a child, I always felt like I needed to be fixed. I was never good enough for everyone. I was never an ideal son and much less a brother. In fact, I was never an ideal friend. That was how I felt.
So I turned to fiction as it was my only hope to get a sense of normalcy and also to maintain my sanity. The written word gave me voice. Fiction also gave me a chance to confront my demons. It helped me understand myself and the world.
I still continue to write. For myself. For my sanity. And for those who feel the same way.