Eric Tian

I was out for a stroll this morning when I passed a mother dropping her son off at the school entrance. She knelt beside him, put on his backpack, smoothed his shirt and said,

“Make a great day.”

It seemed like such an odd statement – we are all used to have a great day – but this shift from passive to active voice struck me as important. By using “make” instead of “have,” this mother reminded her son of his own agency and power to shape the day ahead. To will things into the world rather than let things occur passively.

As I continued walking, I glanced back. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I could have sworn her son stood a little taller than his classmates, shoulders back, as if ready to tackle the world.

The Van Gogh museum includes a short section on the Dutch impressionist artist:

“After his death, Vincent became the archetype of the ‘mad, genius’ artist, whose art was said to be a direct expression of his affliction. That image is false and reduces Vincent to his illness. His mental vulnerability was part of who he was.”

I like this a lot. Though the artist might stir up images of his removed ear, admission to psychiatric hospitals or his gunshot wounds, the man was far more than his mental illness. He was, amongst many things, a devoted brother, friend, and champion for the working class. In his work, he demonstrated his intense love of nature, peasants, landscapes, still life and more. His later mental anguish was a chapter of his intense life, but far from the whole story.

Archetypes, while memorable and poetic, are usually imprecise.

Clearly a troll but wildly entertaining.

The other day, I needed to use a restroom and went into the nearest building – an Italian restaurant selling pizzas. I asked one of the waiters if I could use their restroom.

“Hmm,” he replied, considering. “We usually only serve customers, but sure thing, Chinaman.”

I laughed and thanked him, but suddenly a stern voice cut through the air:

“Isn’t that racist?”

I turned to see a middle-aged white woman in a pink hat glaring at the waiter. “You can’t call people that,” she continued. “This is the twenty-first century.”

I stood bewildered. The term hadn’t bothered me at all – so why was this stranger jumping in to claim offence on my behalf? Was this what people called the “white saviour complex”?

By now, other diners were turning and noticing. The waiter shifted uncomfortably. I quickly tried to defuse the situation, explaining that I wasn’t offended and thanking her for her concern. Though she returned to her seat, she shot another disapproving look at the waiter.

While I appreciate people standing up against racism, this felt like a strange case of someone being more offended on my behalf than I was myself.

One thing I’ve noticed while reading non-fiction: the best writers tell really good stories.

In Lost Connections, Johann Hari begins each chapter with a case study filled with physical descriptions, quotes, and character development. When discussing how nature affects mental health, for instance, he introduces real people whose lives illustrate the science, bringing abstract concepts to life. Most journal articles are occupied with citing numbers and studies, making them less accessible to the public.

Nearly every popular non-fiction book does this. Sapiens is a story about humanity, not a chronological account of its evolution. Although Yuval Noah Harari doesn’t write anything new, he retells our species’ journey with vivid images and characters. Practically no other history book has done this as effectively.

Even the Bible, the most read book in the world, is no different. How many times did Jesus opt to use parables in his sermons instead of a simple message? “God will always accept you” and “It is hard to be a Christian” isn’t as memorable as the Parable of the Prodigal Son or the Rich Young Man. These stories have lasted across millennia and are retold in sermons across the world today precisely because they embed teachings within memorable narratives.

The potency of stories to share ideas that stick is what gives me hope about fiction’s future. Every novel, at its essence, is a collection of lessons disguised as entertainment. And the more good stories we can tell, the better vehicles for lasting ideas we create.

In the foreword to his short story collection, Yann Martel writes (emphasis mine):

“I got my inspiration anywhere and everywhere. Books. The newspaper. Movies. Music. Daily life. People I met. Memories and experience. And also from that mysterious creative ether whence ideas just popped into my head, unheralded. I put myself in a space of receptivity to stories. My eyes and ears sought them. I looked out, not in; in bored me. I did research with pleasure. Research was my way of learning, my own private university. Nothing delighted me more than to investigate the world for a sake of a story.”

Writing’s greatest gift to me is this same receptivity. When you know you must write, you begin to observe more carefully – to notice sounds easily missed, to seek magic in the mundane. My favourite posts aren’t those with philosophical musings or personal opinions, but those born from chance encounters: a striking moment on the street, or unearthing a piece of history. They are, after all, far more interesting.

And if you are curious, here are some favourites from over the years:

• On Small Kindnesses
• Our Lives and Stories
• Fallen Bikes and Salvation
• Conversations, Empty and Full
• Seat 40J

James Clear on action:

“Dreams are fun when they are distant. The imagination loves to play with possibilities when there is no risk of failure.

But when you find yourself on the verge of action, you pause. You can feel the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Thoughts swirl. Maybe this isn’t the right time? Failure is possible now.

In that moment—in that short pause that arises when you stand face to face with your dream—is the entirety of life. What you do in that pause is the furnace that forges you. It is the dividing line between being the type of person who thinks about it or the type of person who goes for it.

When I really think about it, I want that moment to be my legacy. Not that I won or lost. Not that I looked good or looked like a fool. But that when I had something I really wanted to do, I went for it.”

Opportunity shops, commonly known as op shops, are stores that sell second-hand goods for charitable causes. I have recently been obsessed with them and here are five reasons why:

1. You do not know what you will find. Unlike most retail stores with searchable online inventories, op shops offer unpredictable shopping experiences. The goods on display depend entirely on what people donate and what store owners choose to sell. It is a dynamic, moving force with new discoveries each visit.

2. The goods have a story. This used to be a turn off for me – why wear a stranger’s old clothes? – until I visited a store in Chicago. As I was flicking through some sports apparel, an observant worker pointed out that the shirt I was examining had just arrived today. It was worn by an athlete in the NLB that had grown too small for them but fit me perfectly. Now when I wear the shirt, I feel the strength of a national level baseball player flowing through my veins.

3. They are cheap. Last week, I purchased paperbacks of The Reluctant Fundamentalist, The Black Swan, and Brave New World for just $7. On Amazon, the three would cost nearly $60. As an Asian, discounts make me happy; especially when they are a lucky 88% off.

4. They support worthy causes. Some op shops use funds for community advocacy, others for cancer research, others to fight poverty and inequality. Any of these causes, plus the many more out there, beats buying from online retailers.

5. They create connections. Last week, the customer in front of me was buying a tie when the cashier recognised it as a donation from their coworker. “Barry! Someone snagged your favourite tie!” she called out. Barry, a middle-aged man in a beanie, hurried over and shared stories about the tie’s travels and the meaning behind its design. The conversation ended with the two men exchanging contact information, with the tie’s new owner promising to send photos. A simple secondhand purchase had sparked a new friendship.

Here’s to more op shop adventures.

A shriek followed by hysterical sobs. Those nearest instinctively raised their heads in concern but the sobs did not cease. A middle-aged female reached her first.

“What on Earth is the matter with you?” The sobs were violent and loud and for a moment it was all the young girl could do. We waited for her to calm down as the bus took a left.

“Liam Payne is dead,” she finally managed.
“Who?”
“Liam Payne!” Murmurs rippled around the bus. Behind me, a man wearing a turban asked who that was. The girl didn’t answer but stared at her phone, reading the news article. It was confirmed: Liam Payne has died in Argentina, aged 31.

Liam Payne is an English singer and songwriter and former member of the boy band One Direction. 1D came together in 2010 during the X-Factor UK and quickly amassed a massive following, especially in adolescents. The frenzy of their fans often led to whole streets being closed during concert tours. While the band separated in 2016, they remain one of the best-selling boy bands of all time with over 70 million records sold worldwide as of 2020.

The 1D craze had affected me as well. In high school, I purchased their first three albums – Up All Night (2011), Take Me Home (2012), and Midnight Memories (2013) – and knew a dozen songs by heart. Pop wasn’t my favourite genre but there was something special in singing familiar tunes together with a group of fans. There were people I met through 1D who I never would have met otherwise. This is one of the powers of art: connecting strangers through a common love. So when the group separated in 2016 to pursue individual projects, I secretly hoped they would return to write songs that would unite people. I think many people did.

Looking at the young girl on the bus, I saw a generation’s hopes fall with her tears. While fans’ reactions to celebrity deaths might seem overdramatic, they represent something deeper: the end of an era, the loss of shared memories, the realisation that time moves relentlessly forward. These artists soundtrack our lives, their songs becoming timestamps for friendships, loves and connection.

Rest in peace.