I’m Moving From Singapore To Thailand To Become a Full-Time Novelist

The move will help me become a better writer. Here’s how.

The picture above was actually taken in Bali, but I digress.

I’ve always been a bit of a hippy at heart. If I could time travel, I’ll go back to San Francisco in the ’60s. Summer of Love, free love, and all that jazz. But I never knew how much of a hippy writer I was until I started my own business.

I ran a martial arts event business for over two years. It was a dream business, true, but at times it was also a nightmare. An unstable schedule (something terrible for my ADHD) and a misguided eagerness to please everyone quickly took its toll. It all came to a head when I went on a business trip last month. I realised, during that long stint alone, that my true love didn’t lie in entrepreneurship.

It lay in writing. Which is why I finally took the leap to become a full-time writer. And next year, I’ll take an even bigger leap. When the highly-anticipated 2021 dawns and the borders are cautiously reopened, I’ll be moving to Phuket, Thailand, to complete my books.

Singapore Is An Amazing City — But It Lacks Spirituality

I grew up in Singapore, one of the most prosperous cities in the world.

True, my mum is Thai, which meant many trips back to the Motherland — at least when I was younger and the money still flowed and my parents were still together. But I’m a city-state boy at heart. I lived here my whole life, went to a shitty public school here, dated girls here, served in the Air Force here; I have five-stars and a lonely crescent moon printed stark in my blood.

But as of late, I’ve been feeling a sick sort of restlessness. And it isn’t from the coronavirus lockdown, either. It stems, I think, from being a creative in a city that so richly rewards conformists.

I’m tired of expensive beers, of expensive beers being banned after 10:30pm, of protests and chewing gum being illegal, of NS, of gangsters who are just scared kids, of rapists from elite schools getting off scot-free, of rapists getting a lighter sentence than dope-dealers, of implicit racism, of groupthink, of cars costing at least $100,000, of politicians in white, of politicians in blue, of men in power not being in touch with the working class, of aunties who talk too loud, of uncles who stare openly at pretty girls, of sad-eyed bus drivers, of mental health being a massive stigma even though the ads say it isn’t, of suicide being illegal, of restaurants with bad service that charge 17% GST, of caning in jail, of the plight of the foreign workers we call bangalas but whose houses we call bungalows; of the culture of showing face, the culture of showing off, of titles being more important than skills, seeming more improtant than being, of the rich kids with rich dads who can book $10k tables to impress (and hopefully sleep with) models but who can’t spare $1 for the tissue aunties— of elitism, of elitism, of elitism.

Don’t get me wrong. Singapore is an amazing city. It’s clean. It’s safe. It’s beautiful — especially at night when the city lights are aglow and the stars are hidden and the 5 million residents are asleep. But the time has come for me to go, at least for a little while.

Fighter Street, Phuket

If I die right now, my vision of heaven would be a comfy little villa I frequented a handful of times in Phuket.

It’s situated at a street where there are literally a dozen gyms within spitting distance. As a 9 year martial artist, I can’t live anywhere where I can’t train, so that’s perfect.

But the main factor is I’d like to feel the creative energy of the land again. I know, I know. A little new agey even for me. But don’t laugh so fast.

Mark Twain himself realised that the location in which he worked affected his output. He wrote: “In 1897, when we were living in Tedworth Square, London, and I was writing the book called “Following the Equator” my average was eighteen hundred words a day; here in Florence, my average seems to be fourteen hundred words per sitting of four or five hours.”

In Singapore, I can crank out non-fiction Medium articles no problem. But something inside me whispers I should save fiction for Thailand. “That’s where the juice is”, the voice says. I have no idea whatever the hell that means, but as terrified as I am, I’m going to do what I always do. Close my eyes, trust my gut, and take the leap. All that I’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear.

Besides, if I can’t write my books in my literal vision of heaven, then I can’t write them anywhere.

My Plans For Next Year

I plan to complete 3 books in 2021. That’s a manyfold upgrade from a big fat whopping zero. The books are:

• A non-fiction autobiography, detailing a very interesting experience I am not permitted to share yet.
• A book of poetry focusing on the coronavirus pandemic.
• And the one I’m the most personally excited for, a Roman à clef style novel starring an egoistic playboy; Calvin Yang.

And that’s all, folks. It’s the time of the year where I usually get introspective and plan for the madness of the next, and I thought I’d share my thoughts out loud and on e-paper with my dear, dear Medium followers. I hope you’ve enjoyed the read and the rant. If you’re ever in Phuket town, drop me a text. Drop by and say hi.

In the meantime, follow my personal publication for more updates.

Yours, with love — forever, always and despite.

Alvin