Join my #AuthorsAMA!

i’ll be hosting my #AuthorsAMA next week, from 2 pm (western #indonesiatime) on march 13 until the same time on march 14.

ask me anything about my works:

anya kika instagram

anya non-spesifik instagram

anya self-portraits instagram

or writing in general or living with #bipolardisorder or #motherhood and #creativity or whatever you can think of.

i’ll accept questions in english and bahasa indonesia. actually, you can start asking questions now here or join me live during my #AMA.


anya coffee stirling

loose paper

scraping minds on loose paper
after paper
i don’t know what i’m doing
it just feels like otherwise i will lose everything
but what do we humans have got to
i remember when
i don’t want to remember
yet i don’t want to forget
my husband and daughter
they’re dancing
this is exciting papa
i want to write this down
for like they say this too will pass


in a mall with


a mobile phone that is not mine,

its phonebook full with useless numbers,




an iPod,

running out of power,


Well, let’s just read then.


a book,

one that i’ve finished,


Oh, why don’t you just polish your writing instead?


a laptop,



“Mbak, di sini ada colokan nggak?”

“Maaf, Mbak, nggak ada.”


and, worst of all,

a notepad without a pen or pencil.


So I braved the cold

At a corner table in a quiet café

With a hot cup of latte

Exploiting whatever the iPod could still play,

Air with “Lost Message”,

Rereading Marquez’s story of sailors who ‘would be dead at the bottom of the sea’,

And writing this down with a pen borrowed from the cashier,

Encased behind glass windows and a display full of pastries and desserts,

Telling a bule, “Silahkan duduk dulu di dalam, Pak.”


On top of the display, an artificial Christmas tree modestly stood,

Its lights dimming and brightening slowly,

As though it was too lazy

To pull off yet another




Looking past it,

From this glacial seating,

I saw girls with bangs and ponytails in skinny jeans and geometric-patterned frocks,

one after another after another.


Every one of them seemed to blink along with the lights,

Like splinters of rainbow on a waterfall.


And I,

I called the only number I could remember

You picked up and said it was raining where you were


I know 

Log #2

i wrote profiles of kungfu fighters who were listed in a championship. they were all females dressed in funky chinese-style outfits, the kind worn by fighters in virtual PlayStation games.

but the best thing was how words just glided off the tip of my pen. i only had to move it back and forth over the paper and.. voila, amazing verses appear. i didn’t even have to think!

and then i saw her. a spiritual female figure who looked like one of the fighters. a sheer gleam circled her hovering body.

my very own muse. i almost couldn’t believe it. but, well, it was obvious that she was the one who put wonders onto my head and my right hand. just before i woke up, she gave me beautiful sentences for my writing contest submission piece. they sounded really familiar—like my stale ideas were finally transformed into perfection.

then i woke up. and forgot everything.