I don’t know how not to waste your time. I’ve given myself half an hour to write this, so we must be quick about it. in the beginning there was nothing but a blank slate and the word was suggestion. I fed into, then got fed up, of the idea that every text needs to culminate in a dopamine-releasing climax. de-centering climactic culmination as a goal only means entering the fear state that my posts will give you the same meandering feeling as a haruki murakami novel—lost in the woods and grasping for a coherent thread. but truly, I don’t know how not to waste your time.

it’s been a long couple of weeks and I’ve been thinking, less about the venal transgression of being perceived, but of shame, of vanity, of commitment and of genuinely crossing over to a flow state. and as always I am always thinking about how to hack my body, what uses there can be for leftover time, how to scheme up more time, and being snubbed vs receiving unsavoury critique as an artist. the singapore writers’ festival is coming up and so too do all of these petty arguments with the self, resurfacing.

I’ll be the first to admit that I am petty but above it all; vain, conceited, facetious; popcorn-eating gleam-eyed watcher of movements idiotic and in bad taste; and ultimately, someone who upholds the quality of disdain as something that rafts between personal philosophy and battering ram. in the spirit of not putting names to the mediocre, obliviously embarrassing and that which harbours an inflated sense of self-importance, I will only say that it’s interesting that it’s considered acceptable behaviour in some circles of local literature to personally respond to literary critique by not only debunking each point made in a review of one’s book, but also to make ad hominem attacks against said reviewer. surely someone will say to this, oh marylyn, you’re biased, it’s because you lived with the author and fell out with them. no, I’m biased because I’ve literally seen this person’s liberal sprinklings of piss around the seat of the toilet bowl rim and have seen them try to punch a parcel into submission as they couldn’t retrieve it from the letter box. meaning, it’s not a good look to jump to the defense of the thoughts of someone who doesn’t know how to turn an object 90 degrees or wipe up after themselves. how’s that for an ad hominem?

relatedly, if you think I’m being unflattering (again! start a collection) they have me blocked on social media, which I did not realise until someone else was showing me the world on their phone. I love it when people block me on social media. though it would be more polite to ask first—a girl loves to be asked!—that is their pathetic prerogative. but I only have fifteen minutes remaining, so let me talk about hobbies that don’t involve blocking others, or rock climbing. I always wonder about calling something a ‘hobby’. it sounds diminutive. it sounds like too much commitment. it sounds like if I want to get my feet wet I have to buy some gear. maybe my hobby is standing around at social events that I barely have a right to be at and asking people sadly what they ‘do’ and whether they enjoy it (that last one really makes the adults in the room squint a little bit). fiancé says he hates when people ask what his hobby is, because he has none, and that makes him feel a little bit inadequate. but I always find it a little bit humiliating (not in a hot way) when someone says I should keep on writing and that is such a cool hobby to have. to me a hobby is something that you use to keep your mind from combusting with boredom, or a thing that you can put on your dating app profile. it’s a verb phrase that makes you more interesting. I didn’t realise I was hobbophobic until this conversation, but am I wrong? I might not die on this hill but I might be hobbled a little bit on it. no shade to everyone with a hobby (or even multiple hobbies, though I don’t know where you find the time).

him: can I say my hobby is having sex?
him: I do love shopping. thrifting is a hobby.
him: I just don’t do anything.

the alternate problem is that I don’t do anything consistently enough to consider it a hobby, even though I do so much. sexual intercourse is like saying your hobby is eating or breathing. my hobby is fulfilling my basic needs and making sure I am not an intolerable, closeted, passive-aggressive monstrosity to deal with to everyone I meet. my hobby is talking shit every day to whatever will listen. my hobby is fantasising about illegally pirating plants from the roadside (sneak attack cuttings). my hobby is slowly and sacredly cultivating a deeply embodied, finely tuned sense of when I’m snuggling right up to the boundary marker of rudeness in social settings. my hobby is thinking of ways to make sure my colon is cleansed. my hobby is collecting memes (truly many have said this in group circles I have been forced to withstand). my hobby is exploding you in my mind. my hobby is organising the 12,000 pictures in my phone of my love.

for someone who is supposed to be full of words getting onto the hobby horse is hard work. I hesitate most of all to call writing a hobby because it seems at once too banal and urgent. it seems like it is a line to community (which hobbies often are!) but it’s also grown bigger than that, like I’ve identified too fully with it to relegate it to hobby status. when someone says ‘what do you do’ and I say I’m a writer. the follow-up question then becomes, oh, so what do you do for fun? and I have to say, I have fun every day, taking potshots, giving compliments and being deliberately annoying.

it’s the only real polyamorous slant I possess: that tendency towards collecting dalliances—not in any way saying I am bad at said dalliances—to add to the fullness of a whole experience. some people are like paintings and some people are like soil-filled planters and some people are like longboards. and they are all fun, and they all come with learning curves, and some of them will make you sprain your hip and get dirt under your fingernails. I want to marry none of them.

as always, be so fucking gorgeous.

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let’s talk about women’s words with mama.
Singapore Writers’ Festival (7-16 Nov 2025):

1. Poetry is Not A Luxury
   “how gender concerns and politics can play a role in shaping and reimagining poetry”
   8 Nov 2025, 2.30-4.00pm
   Asian Civilisations Museum, Discovery Room
   Pooja Nansi, Kim Yideum, Marylyn Tan, moderated by Christine Chia
2. The Salon with Marylyn Tan and F.H. Batacan
   “Get up close and personal over a literary lunch with us! We will discuss Southeast Asian genre fiction, the body, the uncomfortable, class divides, and politics. Fun!”
   13 Nov 2025, 12.00-2.00pm
   Brasserie Astoria
   Marylyn Tan & F.H. Batacan