Editor’s note: In “Twist of Fate: When Writers Are Better Recognised for Their Images”, Thammika Songkaeo, author of Stamford Hospital (Penguin Random House SEA, 2025; reviewed in Cha), offers a thoughtful reflection on how contemporary publicity privileges appearance, exoticism, and social capital over literary merit. Writing from Singapore, she critiques a publishing culture that rewards authors who conform to superficial ideals—often sidelining those who explore quiet, deeply human truths. With elegance and clarity, she highlights the quiet exclusion faced by many writers, especially women and non-Western voices, in a literary world increasingly captivated by image over substance.
Twist of Fate: When Writers are BetterRecognised for their Images ◯
Engines cannot run on envy, even if stories may well run on pain. Adult authors, disillusioned by the disappointments of publicity, would do well to understand organisational dynamics and psychology. At times, observing which books receive airtime feels disconcertingly akin to watching the publishing industry regress into a form of secondary school: the student with the least intellectual substance but the most Instagram appeal garners the most media attention. The rest—those indistinguishable from retirees in wet markets—are rendered silent. It is as if words, painstakingly crafted by writers, ultimately capitulate to images, and the story becomes nothing more than a caption beneath the author’s photograph.
In a curious twist of fate—one I have witnessed from Singapore—the power of the pen is, ironically, losing out to the power of appearance. The writers most celebrated by the mainstream media here appear to be—not without agreement from many authors—those not of the greatest literary merit, but those who resemble K-pop idols or are, at the very least, flirtatious with celebrity. Observing this unfold, I—nearing forty—am left seething with envy, fear, and anxiety. My writing routine now comprises fewer words and more thoughts about Titanium facelifts, accompanied by a gnawing sense that “time is running out to be publicised.” Especially as a female author, I am acutely aware that I will not be afforded the same indulgences granted to the male silver fox. In a culture obsessed with image, the death sentence for women arrives early—a point which, should anyone dispute, would call into question their most basic understanding of the world.
I wrote Stamford Hospital as an exploration of the quiet, often unseen, harrowing experiences of women—experiences frequently glossed over by a world that assumes all women require are children, a spouse, and a materially comfortable life. Yet in today’s literary climate, where appearance seems the currency of publicity, the insecurities I harbour as a female author have only intensified. I find myself losing morale not because of how I write, but because of how my writing is—or is not—supported in the public sphere.
The literary world reveals its more insidious side after publication. A manuscript may be accepted on the basis of its quality—since a publisher may remain unaware of the author’s appearance during submission—but publicity is another matter entirely. Publicity notices how your hair falls across your face, or how well your pockmarks can be masked by a competent foundation. And if you fail to meet these ideals, you had better be superlative—or “something enough.”
My experience with publicity—and with media consumption more broadly—has taught me that one is chosen only if one is “something enough,” though that elusive “something” is often deeply problematic.
Earlier, I mentioned youth-obsessed culture as a major gatekeeper, but there are many others. Whether one is deemed [nationality]-enough to be embraced nationally, or young-or-old enough to be considered an outlier (either precocious or improbably creative in the twilight of life), the game remains the same.
One of the most egregious expectations, especially for non-Western writers, is this: one must exoticise one’s own culture. Should you fail to write about tuk-tuks, safaris, or other Western-curated tropes, your work may well be overlooked. The publishing industry seeks outliers when profiling authors, and exoticism when assessing books. This leaves the “ordinary” writer—those chronicling unrecognised but deeply human stories—adrift, with nowhere to go.
What of the mother who quietly struggles with her child? Or the man in an Asian country grappling with the side effects of finasteride—not contemplating how “exotic” his homeland appears, but simply enduring his own suffering?
Publicity, as I observe it today, appears to demand at least one of the following conditions:
The author must resemble a celebrity—or at the very least, aspire to do so.
A non-white author must write about a non-Western setting and include suitably “exotic” elements. (No, you are not permitted simply to be human. You must perform your assigned label—e.g., perform “Asian”—rather than express your lived experience.)
A white author may write about universally resonant themes—divorce, parenting, travel—without reference to race, and will be rewarded for articulating progress within those themes. (If we are non-white, that recognition is by no means guaranteed.)
And if you meet none of these conditions? You might still succeed—if you happen to know the right people in publishing and publicity. But many of us do not. Those are not the cities we are born into, can easily travel to, or reside in.
One Titanium lift later, I have not changed as a writer—but I have changed as someone who will now turn up to an interview about Stamford Hospital, a novel about a woman crushed by the dissonance between her internal world and the roles she is compelled to inhabit. Grey hairs now thread through my scalp as I reflect on how deeply representation matters—for the ageing but not yet hyper-aged, for those with transnational nuance, for those writing so well about the unexotic that their work becomes too real to categorise.
If more space in publicity were allocated according to the quality of writing, many different stories would be shaping our cultural conversations today. To those with power: tell us about more books that are well written. Authorial engines cannot run on who you wish us to be, when we are striving to become who we ourselves hope to be.
Editor’s note: As an Asian writer whose work deliberately resists exoticisation, Songkaeo addresses subjects often left unspoken—including male sexual dysfunction in Stamford Hospital. The following excerpt engages readers across cultures, offering a candid exploration of this issue without invoking racial performance or stereotype.
Stamford Hospital: An except ◯
‘Cabergoline,’ he said.
‘What?’ Tarisa said, confused.
‘It’s a surprise for you. I’ve been coming to see the urologist. Here.’
‘What?’ Tarisa repeated.
‘To correct my hormones.’
‘What’s that, Mommy?’
‘Daddy’s medicine for his sick penis, sweetheart,’ Tarisa quickly answered. ‘For how long, Chris?’
‘It’s been a few months.’
‘How many?’
‘Four.’
‘Why’s his penis sick?’
‘It doesn’t move like it should, sweetie.’ Tarisa turned the bottle around and around. ‘So, you went to see the urologist just now?’ She was confused. It seemed too early in the day.
‘No, actually, I just went down to the pharmacy to pick up the prescription. It’s actually a drug the urologist couldn’t dispense from his office directly.’
‘A special drug. You mean extremely potent?’
‘Yeah, apparently?’
‘What does it do?’
‘It helps get and maintain an erection.’
‘How?’
‘Not sure, exactly. Something about dopamine receptors.’
Tarisa was trying to understand. He was usually extremely careful about what he put in his body. She also wondered why she hadn’t seen the effects on his libido if he had already been coming here for four months.
‘Has it been—I mean those doctor’s visits—have they been,’ she didn’t know what word to use, ‘working?’
‘Um, yes and no. The hormones are where they should be, but I still don’t really feel like, you know, Oh I need to have sex, so I told the doctor about it, and he said that this should help. This one,’ he pointed to the cabergoline, I’ve never tried, actually. It’s used to treat other diseases, but a common side effect is hypersexuality.’ Chris laughed.
Tarisa wondered if it wasn’t out of nervousness.
‘I’ve read some really crazy things online,’ he said.
Tarisa walked closer to Mia, holding the cabergoline in her left hand. She cut a small piece of cake with her right and brought it up to Mia’s lips. The rainbow colours were boldly artificial, distracting.
‘Mommy, I said I eat my own,’ Mia reminded her.
‘Oh, sorry, I forgot.’ She put the spoon down. She turned to Chris and looked at him silently for a second. She imagined him chasing her around the house and treating her like a sex doll. She tried to calm herself down.
‘Hypersexuality would be a side effect for people whose libido baseline was at the normal level though, right? So, the idea is that, since you’re beginning at a lower baseline, your libido would be raised to a normal level. Is that right?’
‘Yummy!’ Mia said. Tarisa turned to look at her. Her mouth was full. Her teeth were covered in the colours of a rainbow.
How to cite: Songkaeo, Thammika. “Twist of Fate: When Writers are Better Recognized for their Images.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 19 Aug. 2025, chajournal.blog/2025/08/19/thammika-song.
Thammika Songkaeo is a transnational novelist, non-fiction writer, and film producer of Thai origin. Stamford Hospitalis her debut novel, following her nomination to the Bread Loaf Environmental Writers’ Conference, which she attended on a Katharine Bakeless Nason Scholarship, a Graduate Fellowship in Comparative Literature at the University of Texas at Austin, and a grant from the Smithsonian Freer|Sackler Galleries. She received Highest Honours for her study of French literature at Williams College and earned an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from the Vermont College of Fine Arts, before becoming a Storytelling grantee of the National Geographic Society in 2022. Her work seeks to illuminate a range of globally resonant—often “taboo”—themes.
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