The Next Big Thing

Tag! You're it. Or at least, I'm it. Yep, after many a moon and many seasons I am (a) blogging again and after even more moons and more seasons I am (b) doing a tag. There has been much excitement in my personal life chez nous which I will not be blogging about. If you are in my life and a Facebook friend you would have hardly missed this momentous event. So, since this is the Writing Life, this post is to do with writing. I'l raise a toast (or three) to more blogging in 2013.

My wonderful writer friend, Daniela Norris has asked me to participate in 'The Next Big Thing,' 'The Next Big Thing' is an internet project in which authors from different countries with different ways of live and diverse writing backgrounds respond to the same ten questions about their current work in progress. Daniela was tagged by Gwyneth Box and she discusses her own upcoming book of poetry, Around the corner from Hope Street here.

So, here are my responses to ten questions about one of my works in progress ("one?" you ask? Yep, because I got two. So there!) 

What is the title of your book?

I'm currently working on my first book-length non-fiction project tentatively titled The Warrior Queens of India. It is part history, part memoir and travelogue.

What genre does your book fall under?

I really have a beef about genres in writing because I believe there is good writing and bad. I'm glad this question wasn't asked when I was in the middle of writing fiction because my response would have been longer. So, technically for this book the genre would be non-fiction--which is a true genre (unlike the dissected-to-death genres within fiction for instance).

Where did the idea come from for your book?

You could say it was an idea that was right under my nose. I had read about some of the warrior queens in history books but they were so much a part of the historical tradition in India that they hid in plain sight. And then, one day, when I was still in Geneva, I thought about the most famous one (Lakshmi Bai of Jhansi) and discovered a hankering to read about some of the lesser known ones. I came back and did some web research and found out a singular lack of information about these amazing women--amazing historical people. How was it possible? I decided then to combine them together into a book. The world--especially women--needed to know about these historical role models. The added bonus is that their stories are full of high adventure and intrigue which makes them a great read for everyone. 

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

All I can say is no glossy, pretty Hollywood or Bollywood types. I would like to scout and find intense, obscure stage actors for the queens but I think I can find spots for Irrfan Khan and Naseeruddin Shah and Shabana Azmi. There is probably no role for Gerard Butler or Colin Firth but I am sure I can find roles for both of them *wink*

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Even crushed under the weight of empire, a strong woman can be a mighty warrior.

Will your book be self published or represented by an agency?

I am represented by The Rights Factory. 

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Since it is non-fiction I am still working on it. I made two month-long trips to India for research and travel and I've spent a lot of time on writing and research. Writing might end up being the most relaxed and relaxing part of this journey,

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Wow! Hmm. I really don't know. Some books by Antonia Frasier. Perhaps White Mughals by William Dalrymple?

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The dichotomy of being an Indian woman inspired me. It's something that has always inspired me. The strongest and most inspirational women I've met, seen or read about have been Indian. And, of course, some of the most atrocious things that happen to women have been Indian. I always say I was shocked when I came to the US and other young women bemoaned the lack of strong female role models. There was no dearth of them in India. There were historical role models who were warriors, mythological strong women, and of course, I grew up in the age of Indira Gandhi. I wanted to highlight this often overlooked (in the West at least) aspect of Indian womanhood.

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

India--and Indian women especially--are seen as objects of pity, something exacerbated by the highlighting of atrocities against women in India. However, I believe people--even those in India who might have overlooked this--need to be aware that Indian womanhood is not analogous to victimhood. Our major role models are not just warriors and other fierce women. 

Apart from the historical aspects of the book readers might also be interested in reading about the travels of a woman traveling alone all around India. If the reader likes travelogues memoirs and history and feminism or any or all of these this book will appeal to her/him.

Thank you for reading my blog. Here are the links to the blogs of five wonderful writers four of whom will be answering the same ten questions about their work-in-progress or upcoming book. The fifth, Judy Bussey writes about growing up in the hills of Kentucky and is just fascinating. Just click on their names and read on!

Paula Read

Katie Hayoz

Susan Tiberghien

Daniela Norris

Judy Bussey

Slicing and Dicing Writing

First things first…I’m back baby! So, hey everyone. For how long am I back? I have no idea. I felt no urge to blog for months and then suddenly I wanted to blog again.

Second, this might be due to my good friend Katie Hayoz’s new blog applause. She is a fantas…fab....err….totally fantabulous YA writer. See Katie, one adjective cannot contain you or your writing.

So, anyway Katie wrote this awesome blog post and it made me want to re-start blogging too. So here I am, blogging again. Katie wrote a funny and lovely post about being both a YA reader and a wonderful writer. Well, she says she writes YA and that’s the label under which her creative, fun and well-written book is making its rounds.

I would say though that she is a writer. A good writer, not merely a good YA writer, or a YA writer at all. Why, you ask?

It’s because I’m old-fashioned, not just plain old. I remember when there were no genres really except fiction and non-fiction. Sometimes I would hear that a book was a classic or that it was contemporary…a ‘novel.’ Sometimes there were some kids books thrown into the mix.

And then marketers got their paws on the industry and suddenly around the time I started writing seriously, what was once a wonderland of words and phrases became chopped up and divided into genres. So, just in fiction (forget the non category for now) there is literary fiction, commercial fiction, commercial womens’ fiction, romance, children’s fiction, young adult (YA) also known as juvenile fiction, horror, science fiction, mystery, crime, fantasy, and western. In fact there are many other ways to slice and dice fiction. Each genre has sub-genres and the whole thing makes my head hurt.

 Of course, the word genre has been applied to the written word before but the boundaries were more fluid. They were looser generalizations but in the modern marketing machine, genres have become set in stone almost. So much so that sometimes even writers become genre-ized.

When my first novel, The Burden of Foreknowledge, was making the rounds of publishers it was almost sold to one of the big ones. The acquisitions editor loved the book but it got shot down in the board meeting. They had already made their quota of, “female Indian authors,” for that publishing cycle. Yes, this is how publishing decisions are made…sometimes.

I remember when I was a child my parents went to meet the Dalai Lama. For years afterwards my mother would quote something he said. “There are only two religions in the world. The religion of the good people and the religion of the bad people. There is no other religion.”

And for me, there are only two kinds of books in the world, good books and bad books. If a book is good the genre becomes irrelevant. H.G. Wells’ books are classics not because they are science fiction but because they’re great books. Little Women is still loved for the same reason. Huckleberry Finn remains a much-read book but not because it was jammed into an obligatory genre.

To me, genres limit us, as readers and perhaps as writers. Writing is supposed to expand our minds, our creativity, and our imagination. As does reading. But putting ourselves in a little box and saying, ‘here this is your writing/reading arena. Stay within the lines and you’ll do well,” is counter-productive to that in my opinion.

Readers become entrenched within the genres they read. Think about this, a man might pick up Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights but would they be likely to do that if these two were packaged as romance novels with the obligatory lurid bodice-ripper (neck-biters, the Germans call them) covers?

As far as I am concerned genres should not be tools to guide readers or writers. They are merely marketing categories that have grown to encompass and, in my opinion, strangle the way we read books. I read Little Women and all the other Alcott books but I never knew I was reading YA. I read Invisible Man without knowing that it might be classified as horror or science fiction.

Good writing is good writing. It spans boundaries and breaks them. It defies genres and goes beyond defining them. So…bring on some good writing and screw the genre.

To translate or not to translate?

Last week our little critique group had its final meeting of the season. There was champagne, tons of amazing food, and lots of good writing and critiquing. I was debuting the first draft of my new, as-yet-untitled novel. As always I use a lot of Hindi words. In this case I was using more Allahabad/U.P. rural Hindi. Not quite bhojpuri, not the chaste hindi of the cities, it adds a distinctive flavor to those who populate my novel. As always I did not provide translations nor footnotes.

Weirdly, I don't mind reading translations or footnotes, if they are well-done and not too obtrusive. But I do mind including them in my own writing. And no, it's not laziness, but good guess.

Writing, for me is an immersion. I immerse myself in what I write. And I hope eventual readers do that too. A translation or a footnote is an aside. It breake through the fourth wall, the wall that lets a reader be an observer within a work and puts him/her outside looking in. And besides a piece of writing should be strong enough to make the meaning clear, without making it clear. I hope to clarify meanings for my next drafts. But no translations for me, oh no!

Why am I writing this post? Because there was a suggestion that I provide footnotes. A valid suggestion, a good one even. But I responded negatively...arrogantly, perhaps? It's interesting that this post comes just after the one on Colonizing English because they're so related.

Then I came across this very interesting literary paper by O.P. Dwivedi on Rushdie's seminal work, Midnight's Children. It's a great read but some of the most interesting statements are these:

Of Salman Rushdie he says, 'As a linguistic experimentalist, Rushdie attempts to destroy the natural rhythms of the English language’ and to dislocate ‘the English and let other things into it.’

'Its (the novel's) popularity rests on two things: the innovative use of English as a
language, and the fantastic representation of history. While Rushdie resorts to the use of ‘magic realism’ to oppose the Euro-centrism of master discourses, the innovativeness of Rushdie’s English is prompted by a desire to capture the spirit of Indian culture with all its multiplicity and diversity.'

To me there has been no better and more skilled colonizer of English than Rushdie. And this paper elucidates what I've felt for so long. I knew there was something inauthentic, dare I say even pandering to provide the exact meanings of words in fiction.

For one thing there are no exact meanings in any language. Forget concepts, even physical objects can really be translated. All we have are approximations. If I translate a charpai, as a string cot, is that what it really is? Does it convey the meaning, that char means four, and pai refers to the legs. And that charpoy is an English version of an Indian word? And when a western reader thinks of a string cot, does s/he think of the intricate woven patterns made of jute rope. Does s/he know that these are not mass-produced but are still traditionally made and that each weaver's patters are distinctively different? Do they know that every once in a while, a man would make the rounds of the neighborhood to tighten the weave, repair or re-string the charpais? And that as a little girl I loved sitting and watching gnarled, dark hands effortlessly singing through air, stringing the jute threads, creating a beautiful, tight weave out of what was essentially some pieces of wood and bamoo?



Does it make them think of warm summer nights made just a bit cooler because of the air circulating all around the charpai. Do they know that in Allahabad at least, there is also something known as a khatola, which is a smaller, lower-to-the-ground saggier version of the charpai?

Hindi and Urdu are very high context languages. A word means something mainly because of the high context. So qayamat is not just armageddon, the end of the world. It's something else. Depending on its use, it can be a descriptor of a woman's beauty, of the seductiveness of her eyes, because her loveliness is so absolute it can hasten qayamat. This is just one reason Urdu poetry or really any Asian language is impossible to really translate in any real sense.

English, and most western languages (French is not however) are low context. Things are most always what they mean. In English you have today and tomorrow. In Hindi we have kal. It could mean either. It's the context that gives it meaning.

There is a reason that English is popular. It is low context, giving it larger shared meaning. It's clear, it's precise (for the most part), and we can all understand it. It's complex but with low context, making it a perfect language for uniting the world.

But back to my point of providing translations. If by my writing I can inform the reader that a charpai is some kind of bed to sit or lie on that's enough. They don't need to know the contexts. However, it's an easter egg of sort for those who will get the context. Novels are subjective anyway. We all process them based on our emotional development, our life experiences. That's what makes them special. That, despite our differences and those of the writer, we can find something shared that resonates through the words. Good novels convey universal emotional truths that can transcend cultures. The details of some words are immaterial, if the writer can get to the heart of the truth. Which is why we can enjoy Naipaul and Kawabatta and Mahfouz and Sylvia Plath. They lay it bare and show us something about ourselves, our inside selves.



I agree with the Dwivedi paper, which states: "Rushdie rather thinks that the text of the novel should be self-explanatory and absorbing in itself. In truth, Raja Rao’s English remains Sanskritised, whereas Rushdie’s English is an example of the hybrid discourses of a cosmopolitan writer.

This short excerpt is from Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche's short story "Imitation," from the collection "The Thing Around Your Neck."

I've been reading some African works since I've returned from S. Africa.
"Madame!" Amaechi screams. "Chim o! Why did you cut your hair? What happened?

"Does something have to happen before I cut my hair? Clean up the hair."

I know that Chim o is some kind of exclamation of horror. I don't need to know exactly what it is because I know that Nkem has cut her hair because she has learned her husband has moved his new, young mistress into their house in Lagos, while she lives a lonely, isolated life in the U.S. And it is fraught with the knowledget that not too long ago she too had affairs with married men to survive.

This is just what I think and feel. What about you?

Colonizing English

Perhaps amidst the talk of elections in Iran, the horrific Air France plane crash, and yes the awful, awful news that Miley broke up with Justin (who the heck are these people?) *gasp*, you might be forgiven for not commemorating a truly momentuous occasion. Especially for those of us who love words, more specifically English words.

I spent last week talking with someone about the whole concept of language, and mother-tongues. As someone who grew up totally bilingual, i.e., I thought, wrote, spoke, and understood each language without translating one into the other. So when I wrote Hindi I thought in it. When I wrote English I thought in that.
We spoke both languages at home and sometimes both at once with friends, leading to the once-maligned and now affectionately tolerated Hinglish. This was not a foreign concept for us, this state of duality.

It was only when I moved to points West that people asked questions like: when did you learn to speak/read/write/English? You've only been here for six months, how did you pick up English so fast? Do have problems writing in English because you have to translate everything from Hindi? Why don't you write in Hindi? After the second year the queries ceased being interesting and cute and just became annoying. Sorry, but that's what it is.

Arrrrghhhh!

For English speakers and writers from India (and I suppose other non-Caucasian countries), the English we speak, write, and think in is uniquely ours. Yes, English was the language of our colonization but at some point along the way, we colonized English. We made it uniquely ours. English is our language as any other of the dozens of languages in India.

We use English words and syntax and grammar but we use the language in a way that is unique to us. A Rushdie or a Vikram Seth uses the language in a way that great writers from non-Indian backgrounds do not and cannot. And vice versa. Perhaps the same applies to writers from Zimbabwe or Pakistan or Kenya or wherever else.

Over the years, English became an Indian language, as much as it is an Australian language, and an American language or an Egyptian one. Yes, Hindi is my mother tongue but English is the language of my writing. It is the language I express myself best in. I was a crap Hindi writer or an Urdu one, though there is writing in both languages that can make me weep with emotion. Unfortunately, my own writing in Hindi (I can't read or write Urdu) is at best mediocre.

And yet the English I write is studded with images mined from Hindi and Urdu. That's what it is. English, as a language flexes to accomodate us all. The purists and language chauvinists among us might decry the spread of English. Some might say it is like a plague that threatens to destroy other languages to leach them of their uniquenss.

But it is the inclusiveness of English that makes it so special. Each country in which it is spoken (and even in those it is not) has contributed to it. Each language has enriched it and English was not too proud to accomodate, not so constricted as to not stretch. Some words were so incorporated their foreign origins were lost, others used with the knowledge that they are foreign words, say guru or karma.

There are Indian words, some totally incorporated: jodhpurs for riding, veranda, pyjama, bungalow, bandanna, chit, chutney, cummerband, jungle, shampoo, etc. There are French words: boutique, bouquet, agent, a la mode, etc. Almost every language in the world has added to the English lexicon, and in doing so we have made it our own. English is the language of the world. Even if it is mangled, spoken badly, or damaged it is becoming (if it is not already) the language of global communication. Mainly because it did not shrink within itself and reject anything impure.



It is estimated (if I'm off by a bit please don't threaten to kill me) that there are about 300,000 words. Spanish word estimates range from 200,000 to about a half million (Spanish also grows by incorporating mostly English words).

And English has just crowned its damp squib of a one millionth word. So I am thrilled and overcome that English--our English--has one million words. But really, language powers-that-be, Web 2.0? That's what you came up with?

For heaven's sake it's not even a word. It's an already existing word and a number, all tied together around a schmucky concept.

Yes, I am being chauvinistic. Damn it, it sucks getting old. These darned kids and their new fangled English words. But it does make sense at a certain level even to me. For this new growth of English is via the language we all speak even if it is without our knowledge, the language of computers. So Web 2.0 it is. I wish it was something more exciting, but there it is.

Here's a toast to the millionth word. Hope the one million and first is a bit more exciting.

An agenting we go...

Not that anything amazing has happened, but for some reason this time I am feeling more confident about querying agents. Now watch the universe guffaw and proceed to give me a thorough ass-kicking. But until that happens I am going to revel in my fragile, new-found, transitory sense of confidence. Tomorrow the little voices will come back. You know the ones that say...you can't write, stop writing now and do the world a favor, good lord could you be more puerile? you call that writing? I wish your dog had eaten the manuscript.

Some might say that this paranoid neurosis is part of being a writer. I am one of those people. :-)

So, today I decided to start my query process. Not in a formal manner but just going through to see which agents take e-submissions, just doing a little refreshing and re-acquainting with the agenting world. Will start the snail mail process soon, perhaps Wednesday. Need to stock up on toner and paper before I do that though. I *love* email submissions and queries. Can I say that again? I *love* email submissions and queries.

So here are the stats for today:

E-mail queries sent: 4
Replied received (yes, already, can you believe it?): 1
Request for first 30 pages: 1 (Yessss)

And it's not some fly-by-night scammy person wanting me to pay 5 bucks a page to do some crappy analysis. A *good* agency.

Now it's time to send out more, and then sit back and wait for the nays to come floating back in. Until then, it's...well not exactly party time....but at least a kinda good, kinda confident, totally mmmm feeling.

Cheers all!

The novel

...it grows. 72,476 words. On track to add enough detail to make it a respectable 75,000 words.

It sounds like I am hung up on numbers. I'm really not. I just know that this novel is supposed to be between 75-80,000 words to truly tell the story the way it is meant to be told. It is a complex book, with many characters and I think the close I get to 75,000 words the more rounder and complete the story becomes.

Can I say this? I like the way it's shaping up. It's been a long time. I want to fall in love with this book. I think I am. That slight tingling, that shortness of breath (no...not having a heart attack)....they all tell me that love is in the air.

G'night all.

A queryin' we go

I wrote my query letter so I can find a new agent. For anyone who doesn't know my previous agent and I parted ways, amicably, a break I initiated. She was great but she and my writing did not seem to be the best fit. So, I am now free to find another agent.

I want someone who can have me published in the U.S., and Canada and perhaps the U.K., and other English-speaking countries.

Anyway...so I've written my query letter. Which is hell! I *hate* writing these. They come off either sounding trite or pretentious or both...in my hands at least.

So...do I hear a volunteer to read the first draft of my query letter as my novel proceeds into its third draft?

Oh come on. You know you want to.

And the novel grows: It's alive, it's alive

70,520 words, 230 pages, and growing. I've added more detail, filled in gaps and inconsistencies, and doubtless will do more once edits and changes come in from my reader. I want to complete the second draft by Friday, so I can incorporate reader changes, and start the third draft.

Have started working on my query letter to find a new agent. I hate query letters. Hmmm...maybe I'll do what I did the last time and have someone else writer it for me. Are you listening GE?

Naming things

When I was about 3 or 4 years old I had a plastic cup I loved to drink out of. If I couldn't find it I would ask---very loudly, I had a strident voice as a child---where my green cup was.

One of my sisters (bullies!) would give me a bright green cup from the back of the cabinet.

"No, I want my green cup. It's green. Not this."

Ah, she was colorblind you say. Or just plain stupid. Well, that might be, but in fact the cup--my cup--was bright pink (I also had a bright pink room with bright pink shades...what'ya gotta say about that huh? Nothing? I didn't think so) but...I had decided that the word "pink" did not adequaely convey the beauty of the actual color pink. "Pink" the word depleted the splendid pinkness of the actual color I loved so much. Green, now that was a more attractive sounding word and fully conveyed in my demented child-mind the true beauty of the color others called pink.

I guess it was my first understanding that language itself is a rather arbitrary construct. There is nothing pink about pink or green about green. A chair would be a chair if it was called a log. Someone somewhere a long, long time ago came up with words so that we could communicate via shared meaning.

So how do we name things...or people for that matter? How do you look at an infant and decide she is an Emily and not an Emma?

Why have I been thinking of pink and green and names? It is time to start thinking about the actual title of my new novel and I am lost. It started off as The Beauty Parlor but I am not sure that that name actually fits now. Then I came up with "When Rage is Spent," but it sounds pretentious and portentious....and well just wrong.

I want a title that comes across as prosaic at first glance but then is full of meaning and is rather mysterious. A title that only makes sense when you finally read the book. Some authors are just good at naming their books. Even books and stories I don't like have great names (as are the ones I do like): Unaccustomed Earth, Interpreter of Maladies, The Name of the Rose, The Great Gatsby, Meghadoot (The Cloud Messenger, an ancient Indian work), Love in the Time of Cholera, The Last King of Scotland, The Heroes Walk, Mammaries of the Welfare State, etc. etc.

It's good to see others grapple with this naming issue. In fact, there is an interesting article on good book titles, here.


And here are the top novel names according to one writer.

What are some of your favorite book titles? Do titles for your own work come easily to you or do you struggle?

67,000+ words

..and growing. I hope to get it to 70,000 words for the final first draft, and perhaps close to 75,000 or even 80,000 for the final draft.

Also, for anyone keeping track, I now have three more chapters left to edit for this final first draft.

And Bina, yes, I totally agree with numbered drafts being somewhat imprecise. I think I do more of the circular thing, but I still like keeping track. Sort of...in my own way ;-)

So...I've actually been writing

...or editing really. And taking care of family stuff and reading. Yes, hence the lack of new posts recently.

The novel is closing in on 65,000 words now. I added a new chapter which I now realize was sorely needed. And I know there are enough gaps in there and things that need to be smoothed out to bring it close to 70,000 words.

Once this final first draft (Not the second draft. I am weird that way!)is done I will get it critiqued, and then will do the second draft. Perhaps a third, perhaps not. Then I will start querying agents.

I don't call this initial futzing a second draft because it is still part of the first process to me....the creation of the story, the tension, the unraveling, all of the elements. The second draft is when I can actually move things around, add additional detail, change things more drastically, but not add as much as I do to create a final first draft.

Ok, so it sounds like I am splitting hairs or am just plain crazy. Perhaps I am both. Is this why we write.

I hope to get the final first draft done by the end of this week. Onward!

Draft 1 Complete and Together: Blogging the Novel

Here's the good news:

My first draft is complete and I have sort of a working title. Btw, I am looking for feedback on this title. The original working title was The Beauty Parlour, but now I find that the truest way to tell the story is to set a few chapters (short stories) outside the parlour. So, I've divided the book into three parts, each with its own title, and hopefully it all comes together in the end.

The race is on between The Beauty Parlour and the new title, When Rage is Spent. Cast your votes now! :-)

So today I combined all the separate chapters into one giant file, my official first draft. All good, right?

Here's the bad news:

Unlike many writers (whom I desperately envy) I don't write too much and then cut. I write too little and need to add. This means adding detail, filling in atmospheric information (in this case, giving my novel more of a feel of the location), adding more filler, etc., etc.

So alas, while the first draft is now fully complete, it is far too short. At 202 pages and close to 54,000 words, I now need to add at least 20,000 more words and perhaps 20-30 pages for it to be really a novel. I was stoked while combining the files. I was so sure it was at least 70,000 words but alas! my shorthand way of writing strikes again.

While writing none of this technical stuff bothers me. But now that the novel is less a story and in the process of becoming a marketable product (please! please!) these weirdo things haunt me.

Who dictates what makes a novel?

Who determines the optimum length?

Why is 70,000 words better than 54,000?

Why the fuck am I so obsessed about this?

I know that ultimately I will do what is right for this book and I do know it needs more detail, some smoothening of rough edges, some re-working, perhaps adding more meat onto certain characters. And if that needs just 55,000 words so be it.

But still the wanna-be successful novelist in me does get a bit too caught up in numbers and crap.

It's all crap I tell ya.

Two Days in Bellevue

This past weekend I decided to kick myself in the ass and took myself to the writers conference in Bellevue, about 10 minutes away from Geneva. Bellevue is right on the lake and it's a beautiful little town.

I have, however, a love-hate relationship with writer's conferences. Or maybe it's a like-hate relationship. Whatever! At one level the romantic in me thrills to the idea of like-minded people--thinkers, writers, those who love words coming together and discussing and growing together, forging literary bonds. Especially in Switzerland where Byron, Shelley (both the Shelleys), and Keats and others got together and talked and discussed and wrote.

Then there is the hate. A group of people geting together to show off their skill with words, to judge others, and to outdo each other in pretentiousness. This is not just writing but where so and so got an MFA, and where they've been published, and where they went to school. And oh yes, having a cool British accent really helps too.
There were a lot of cool British accents at this one but I also found this one of the more useful conferences I've been to (I've been to two actually, so I have no great base of comparision). Or maybe it's because in breaks I sat where the smokers did, shivering in the February cold, watching the rain-washed blue sky and the stark relief of the Mont Blanc flanked by the bristly silhouettes of the Jura. There are worse places :-). So not a total washout, even according to my own little cynical heart.

Asra Nomani review

My review of Standing Alone in Mecca is up on chowk. Take a look see :-)

Cultural Schisms

It's a grey, windless day, an undercurrent of beautiful sadness seeping through everything. Still. Is it waiting for something?

Nothing else will do. These are the times when nothing else will do but Urdu poetry and Hindustani music.

Is it weird that though I am most comfortable thinking and writing in English I write best when I sit with my headphones looping through Ghalib, Zauq and Bahadur Shah Zafar's ghazals. I can neither read nor write Urdu but when my heart thirsts for something elementally beautiful I instinctively read (in Hindi or Roman script) Urdu poetry. Or I listen to Hindustani music. Is it strange that when I listen to Shubha Mudgal (also from Allahabad and a friend of my sister) it always takes me to evenings in Allahabad? Evenings on the banks of the Sangam (golden Ganga, silver Yamuna), the sun melting into the water, shadows lengthening, the silhouette of the fort behind me, the barely there outlines of Jhunsi across from me.

This is where my cultural two-ness comes into play. Though I was bought up on a diet of the English Romantics (all purple shadows, daffodils and glory of battles) and I actually love the stuff, when I need to feed my soul...Ghalib is the only sustenance I need.

Writers Clubs

I moved to Boston over a year ago from my own heavenly corner of SoCal. What I missed the most about living in California was my writing/critique group. A long-time skeptic (snob?) of groups of any kind, the psychotic loner that I am, I *loved*this group. They are supportive, great readers, talented and gifted writers, poets and critics and the coolest people around.

After moving to Boston I tried to start a group. We had one meeting. One blonder than blonde white woman who was writing chick lit dropped out after the first meeting because she wasn't sure that some of us (who happened to be Indian and ABCD) would not get her cultural references. Okayyy!

The other, an Indian male, didn't want to be in a group with get this....too many Indians. Oh well! I tried. The group scattered to the four winds.

And then....one day while I was bitching about this on the phone someone from my SoCal group suggested I call in and we can still have our meetings, except I would be there on the phone. How cool is that? All of them even moved the meeting (from the second Tuesday of each month to the second Thursday) to work around my new work schedule.

This was the third or the fourth meeting today. Four hours of reading, critiquing, chatting and generally working on our writing. It's my oasis, my time of nothing but focusing on my writing.

I am a happy woman today. I feel energized, ready to write....raring to go.

Goodnight all!

Suffering Moses

The 19th century essayist and poet, Matthew Arnold said, "Excellence is not common and abundant. On the contrary, as the Greek poet long ago said, excellence dwells among rocks hardly accessible, and a man must almost wear his heart out before he can reach her."

Perhaps almost wearing your heart is the cost of excellence, the price of creation.

When I was fifteen I took my first and only trip to Kashmir, not realizing that generations would grow up thinking of that enchanted place not as the paradise we did, but as a battleground.

There was this shop in Srinagar owned by this old artist/artisan who made the most exquisite papier mache, (not the stuff you get in the state emporia), delicate, multi-layered, intricate flawless pieces. He signed all his work on the bottom, in a sprawling calligraphic signature...the same name as his store, 'Suffering Moses.' His name was Moses. I had to know, had to ask him, 'Why Suffering Moses?"

He looked at me, intently, his eyes a strange shade somewhere between green and grey, the pink skin of his cheeks glowing, "Young lady. How else could I make anything beautiful? Only by suffering, right? I suffer for my art. You create nothing good if you don't suffer."

And that to me, is the relationship between excellence and suffering. Thank you Suffering Moses wherever you are.

Eklavya and the Art of Writing

How many writers, authors, whatever, read books on writing? I have such a strong, adverse reaction to these books that teach you how to write. But then there are writers whom I like and respect who do read these books and use them well. Perhaps I am just an elitist pig.

How do you do that, teach writing I mean? You can teach grammar, spelling...all the technical aspects of writing. But how do you teach a writer to write, to create compelling characters, plots, etc? To create life out of blank paper and ink?

Is there a precise formula to make a character come alive? To make a setting and a plot believable. How do you teach someone to create? In my opinion you either have it or you don't.

So, perhaps you can put together everything you find in books and create a competent story. But if you don't have that spark, that electricity within, that vision... all you have are well crafted words but not much else. That's just my opinion but what do I know?

There are books and writers that do *teach* me how to write. The writers whose work I admire, who don't have to consciously teach me to write. But they do.

I am reminded of this great, poignant tale from the Mahabharata. The story of Eklavya, a shudra, who was forbidden by the shastras to learn the art of archery. But he wanted to be an archer, he was born to it, he felt the call of the bow, the song of the arrow as it rushes through the air to its precise destination. Since none would teach him, Eklavya made a statue of the great teacher, Dronacharya, made offerings to it, and started to learn the art of the bow and arrow.

One evening when Dronacharya and his brightest pupil, the Pandava prince, Arjun were out walking, near Eklavya's hut they were disturbed by the loud barks of a dog. Eklavya skilfully sewed up the mouth of the dog by weaving an arrow through its mouth.

Impressed Dronacharya came to the realization that Eklavya, a shudra, was much better than his prized pupil, Arjun, whom Drona proclaimed as the greatest archer in the world. Upon meeting him, when asked who his guru was, Eklavya prostated himself in front of Drona and proclaimed him as his teacher, showing him and Arjun the statue. Blessing him, Drona asked for his guru-dakshina (the gift a student gives a teacher as tribute).

Drona asked Eklavya, for the thumb of his right hand, stunning even Arjun with the cruelty of this demand. But Eklavya, overcome with love and devotion for this teacher, cut off his thumb and handed it to Drona, without hesitation. And the gods in heaven wept and rejoiced at the greatness of Eklavya.

The story of Eklavya has always resonated with me, the classic noble underdog. So, here's to all my teachers who came before me and did it much better than I can ever dream of (in no particular order and a very diverse and incomplete list):

Ghalib, the many writers of the Mahabharata, Zauq, Homer, Manto, Qurratulain Haider, Ismat Chughtai, Rushdie, Saul Bellow, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Mahadevi Varma, James Fenimore Cooper, Nuruddin Farha, Vikram Seth, Borges, Vikram Chandra, Manil Suri, Rohinton Mistry....a never-ending list.

I thank you all but you are not getting my thumb :-).

Rejections

How much is my writing tied to me? Each time The Burden of Foreknowledge (BoF) gets rejected (close to two dozen and counting) in the US, I feel as if the editor in question has taken a look at me, curled her lip and declared me wanting. My agent tells me none of them have given any concrete reasons.

One editor at a major house liked it...loved it...and was ready to make an offer. Then it was decided that they had already signed their Indian woman author for the year. The editor called my agent, disappointed. Was that supposed to make me feel better? It doesn't. It does tell me of the capriciousness of the publishing industry. And yet there is the tiny (or not so tiny) part of me that tells me it's me. It's the crappiness of my writing. But when did writing, an intensely private and personal activity, become an almost completely commercial activity? When did the rejection of my writing become a rejection of my self worth...a rejection of me?

At least I can still take pleasure in my own writing, in the process, in that magical time between worlds. And I can wait. I am getting good at that.