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.

Meanwhile...back in Puplinge

Forgive me O Blogosphere (otherwise known as my five readers), it has been more than four months since my last post. And a lot has happened. A lot.

Well, okay one major thing has happened. Remember those saat samundar paar (across the seven seas) stories from your childhood? Those epic journeys that carried dashing heroes and intrepid heroines far from home towards adventure and love and whatever else!

I've had two of those journeys across the seven seas: Number 1 as really a young'un to the shores...errr..the blue grasses of Kentucky from the Ganga kinarey of Allahabad.

Number two, more than 20 years later from the snootiness of Boston to the chocolate box prettiness and genuinely wealthy environs of Switzerland. And we settled in the little village of Puplinge which had once been part of Savoy territory and joined the Confederation Helvetique (CH - the real name of Switzerland dont'cha know) and is now barely a hop and skip away (if you can do that for one km) from neighboring France, the little town of Ambilly.

Life in this border village of ours has been one of serenity, beauty, friendship. We have vineyards and fields and on clear days impressive views of the Alps and of Mont Blanc. I had friends I met for coffee and wine in the evening and cards at night. We met them at one of our two local restaurants across the road from each other, a 2-5 minute walk from anywhere in the village. We could walk back inebriated after delicious and fun dinners from their homes and they could do the same from ours.

You know how this is going to end, don't you? All the old cliches come to mind: all good things must come to an end, etc. etc. The younger me might have railed against letting go of this idyllic life. The older (though not always wiser) me knows that life is ephemeral and happiness is a dew drop. I enjoyed my Swiss contentment but now it is time to move on.

To a place I never cared for when I lived there: Boston. But I plan to go back with a better attitude, to find the things, the people, the aura that makes Boston unique and loveable and to live in that. If and when we move on from there so be it. Until then I will enjoy New England's fall colors, tuck into lobster feasts and love its accents.

Perhaps I am sanguine because I am moving to that most literary of Massachussett towns: Concord. Yes, home to Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Louisa May Alcott among others. Find your three-name authors in Concord. Come November, there will be another three-name (aspiring one) calling Concord home. Moi!

Watch this space for updates...and a recording of my Concord life when I get there. C'est la vie!

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.

Spring Fever, Spring Cleaning, Spring Madness

Was it subconscious, that sudden desire to turn my blog green, change the header and shake it all about? I didn't plan to do it. I just looked at my blog and decided I need to change it...just a bit.

I am not as brave as my friend and writer Bina Shah (her new novel just came out in Italy! Bravo!) who deletes or lets go of old blogs to start new ones more often than I would dare.

Myself, I like that sense of continuity, of history, of seeing the evolution from the first post to whichever one this is. But I don't like stagnation, hence the new green blog.

I realized that the night I did this was also the night we jumped time here in Switzerland (a few weeks behind the U.S.). Is this somehow hard-wired into us, this spring frenzy of newness.

It's not just all bunnies and flowers and the new brightness of the light after all. Is it something more elemental that made me wander around my basement and toss out so much tossable stuff that had just lingered for months? Old suitcases with ground-down, wobbly wheels. Bags whose zippers stick or just plain don't work. A *well-made* (yeah right) Swiss fan that fell apart in three, cheap, white plastic pieces, and an aluminium fan head. An old Ikea stool that had seen better days...oh, like three years ago. A patio swing which had lost one essential piece in the move over from Boston (yes, two years ago, people).Odds and ends. Bits and pieces. Trash.

The day before that I raided my closet and packed up clothes I had not worn in years. Those one-day-I-will-fit-into-this clothes are gone. Most Swiss towns and even villages have a convenient old clothes and shoes drop-off point, and yesterday they received from me: one 110L garbage bag full of clothes, one 60L bag of shoes, one smaller E. Leclerc bag of clothes. They're all still good and wearable and I hope someone can enjoy them.

Was it also a coincidence that today, a Monday, just a couple of hours ago, the first day after all this cleaning out...I started the first chapter of my new novel? I wrote two pages. Wow!

I find this stage exhilirating and terrifying. Starting something new, and that too at the start of Spring, the prospect of new adventures in writing, new explorations, discovering what thoughts and feelings I have within myself, and watching them arrive fully-formed on to paper (okay, on a computer screen, but why quibble, paper is tres romantique, non?).

And frightening because I never know if I am going to complete this novel that I am so pumped up about now. Fear because, like most writers, I often arrive at that meandering quagmire where I realize I have written myself into a swamp of crap, and can't find a way out. Then I just want to hit Delete and get rid of the trash I've written. Fear because what if it isn't any good. What if I am not any good? Do I delude myself with this writing thing. Aaahhh, such self-indulgent writerly angst.
Boo hoo!

Spring is not just renewal and re-birth is it? Like any creation, there is inherent violence in the way a little bud bursts into flower, there is explosiveness in newness, in spring storms, in the way new growth fights its way back after a winter of hibernation. That is what makes it new perhaps.

And so, here it is, farewell to the dark days of winter. And welcome, Spring. Don't come in like a lamb. Roar! For it is in those instants of heightened senses that truth emerges and only then that my writing rings clear.

Blah! Blah! Blah! See what Spring does to me? It's Spring Madness! Muaah haaa haaa!

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place OR Finding Byron in Cologny Part II

She walks in Beauty

by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

"She Walks in Beauty" is my favorite Byron poem. Okay, it's my favorite poem. Almost unconsciously I memorized the first verse. And I dare anyone to find as exact, beautiful and luminous a phrase such as this:

"And all that's best of light and dark
Meet in her aspect and her eyes..."

Ah, for that I can even forgive the fact that the love of his life (as much as he could love I suppose) was his own half-sister August Leigh, with whom he had a daughter, Allegra.

On a bright day late last week I answered Byron's call and found myself driving to Chemin de Ruth in Cologny. Here is the approach to number 9, the Villa Diodati.



Even Byron was not immune to Geneva's beauty, or perhaps he drew upon it for inspiration. Here are some snowcaps seen from the little meadow by the villa, where I am sure he walked and conjured up some of his most beautiful verses.



I love this informative board that tells us about Byron and the villa. Byron was indeed a "28 years old poet."



Did Byron's fingers graze the name of the villa carved by the gate? Perhaps...but my self-portrait skills leave much to be desired since I cut off the name. Oh well!



Here is a shot of the villa complex. How much time did Byron spend looking out from the windows facing the lake, writing and entertaining people like Shelley (another crush of mine), Mary Shelley and feminisit Mary Wollencraft? After all, it was on a dark and rainy summer evening that Byron challenged his guests to come up with a scary a story as possible. And Mary Shelley's Frankenstein was conceived, to be completed a mere one year later.




The owners of the villa have kindly allowed for this marker to be placed on the side of the house.



But alas they were not kind enough to open up the villa for Byron lovers and gawkers to pass through. The gates I am sad to report are tightly closed against the hoi- polloi such as me and you.



But Byron is no one's property and he cannot be closed off and captured. He belongs to the world of literature and imagination. He belongs to those of us who worship words, those of us who long to peel back the layers of emotions, of relationships, of the world entire to unveil the violently beating alive heart that is at the core of it all.



And like millions of others I do "...vainly love thee still."

Thus much and more; and yet thou lov’st me not,
And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will.
Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot
To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.

Rejection Dejection

Why do rejections come in twos? Don't know, but they did...again. Two more rejections of my full manuscript. No concret reason, just "it's not for us," kind of reason. Oh well! After I dust off my bruised ego and dashed hopes and pat them on the head, it's time to send off two more.

Rejection Dejection

So, probably a couple of hours after the last post, I got a rejection of a full from one agency. Before I could crawl away and properly lick my wounds, one of the agents who had requested a partial three days ago, requested a full.

Aaah, the universe is in balance again. She is the ying to the other agent's yang. Meanwhile I feel like I'm standing on a log in the middle of a freezing lake, trying not to fall over. Because...you see I can't swim. Really.

Update: Rejection Dejection

In the couple of hours since I last blogged my querying journey, one agent emailed me for a partial and another for a full. Both are big names for what that's worth...so I am excited and even hopeful. Until, of course, the rejections start rolling in and I crawl away to lick my wounds.

Rejection Dejection

To avoid the fate of the author in this cartoon I've decided that for every rejection of a query, partial or complete manuscript I received I will send out at least one new query. Yes, my complete manuscript was rejected from two major agents but then, hey, this was the first time that these two agents had asked for the complete manuscript. I had gotten prompt HELL NOs from them for Burden.

I guess I feel more like the third runner up in a pageant and not the girl who never even made the first cut. Still hurts, but at least you can console yourself with, 'hey, at least I made it thus far,' and not feel like so much of a loser. Humpphhh

This strategy is keeping me going. *And* I've had three more requests for complete manuscripts, two just from the query, without even reading a partial (which is good and bad: i.e., did I just write a good query for a crap book? Yikes!). Here's the tally now:

Total queries: 27
No responses after 8 weeks: 6
Rejection on query: 5
Request for partials/rejections: 4/1
Request for complete/rejections: 4/1
New queries sent: 8


Onward ho!

What's in a Name?

Since I am on the giant hamster-wheel of querying and rejections right now, I am prepared and ready for the "nays" to roll in. Even though each fresh "no" is like a spike through the heart. But I wasn't prepared for this one. Like every other time I queried the big-hitting, large agency on the west coast. This time their "no" arrived promptly.

Except, it wasn't for my new being-shopped-around novel, An Incomplete Universe. Nope the header and the generic, form email said it was a rejection for The Burden of Foreknowledge. Obviously I had mentioned my previous novel in the email but they had claimed to read the submission with "careful consideration." Maybe it was just a typo, maybe not, but despite my disappointment this one gave me a chuckle, like they exhumed my poor Burden from its grave.

Here, for your amusement, is the letter, with the agency's name stripped out:

Dear Jawahara,

We were pleased to receive your submission and have now had a chance to consider
it closely. We appreciate your patience in allowing us to completely evaluate
your material, giving it the ample attention it deserves.

While your work is interesting and well-written, after careful consideration, we
feel that your project is not right for us. However, as you know, these
decisions are largely subjective, and another agent or editor may have a
completely different opinion.

Thank you for inviting us to consider your work. We wish you well in placing
your manuscript.

Sincerely,
The Big-Name West Coast Literary Agency

Fly, fly, fly

It's strange, this writing business. First of all, the two words together: writing, creative, wonderful, strange, making something out of nothing, embroidering words on to thoughts and feelings. And business, practical, pragmatic, dare I say stodgy even?

When I am writitng, around the time I come to the 50% mark I am convinced I am producing trite, banal, prose, wrapped around a weak, skeletal core of pretentious plot and undifferentiated characters. Still I guard it jealously. It might be horrid but it's mine. My creation. I am the god of this universe, baby! And it might be the ugliest baby ever but it's mine. Mine! Damnit!

Then I hibernate. I put it away, determined to put it in the recycle bin. But maybe I'll read it again. I do, in weeks or months.

Then I thnk, Meh, maybe it's not totally irredeemable. So I polish, refine, step back and go, okay, maybe I'll show it around town. So I slap on a tasseled bonnet, wipe its face clean of extra prepositions, sprinkle in some commas and take it for a ride in a writer's group. My insides clench, my gut twists. Hey, that wasn't so bad. People responded to it.

So I work some more, change something here, edit, add, take away. Like Michelangelo cutting away the excess marble to uncover David who was always there, so do I. Except, I ain't no Michelangelo, and nothing I've ever created could even hope to be in the same universe. But I sorta, kinda get the feeling.

Somewhere along the line, I lose that jealousy. It goes from being my creation to taking fledgling steps towards becoming a product. This is when I venture further afield. Truly I can go for months, even years, writing and never sending in anything to be published. And yes, the reward is in the process itself. The turn of a phrase, the way the words flow, the people come to life, the truths excavated. Ah the bliss! But one day something inexplicable happens and the elusive hunt for the agent begins. Like a coin falling into a slot.

Rejections come in, but sprinkled in between are requests for partials, and then, requests for the complete manuscript. I feel close. I want my baby to soar, beyond my hold, beyond even my critique group. I want to set it free. Is this when ego steps in?

Writing is an exercise in self-deprivation while feeding the soul. There is no ego, there is only judging and mis-judging, the hours that fly by unnoticed, the sense of satisfaction when a sentence flows out smoothly, when words mold around thought like putty.

But somewhere along the line a story becomes a product, something that can be sold. That must be where it connects to my ego, when it begins to leech out the pleasure of it, while promising dreams in return. Dreams like lottery tickets. And I, hunched over, matching numbers, wanting it bad.

Damnit! I *want*--so bad I can taste it--it, my story, to go places. Okay, I don't want some humungous advance but a star agent and a decent contract from a respectable published would be appreciated. I've been published since I was 13. I've put in my time, written crap assignments, produced on deadline, waited. Oh god, how I've waited. I am owed this. Why should others have it and not me? Why? Then I ask myself: Who owes this to me? The world of publishing? The world at large? Who?

No one. That's who.

No one owes me a book deal. And that's the scariest part. There is no blame here. No accounting for personal taste, no recrimination to fate or talent or the judgment of others or the alignment of the stars. I want to isolate the exact point at which my creation became a monster for my ego. I can't. I don't want to.

For egoes are fragile, egoes can be hurt, hurt badly. Is this why this excerpt of a letter from an un-named star agent hurts?

"Thank you very much for sending me your novel, AN INCOMPLETE UNIVERSE and your great patience while waiting for me to get back to you. I thought you did a terrific job of capturing the rhythms of life in that city. You also created an extraordinary cast of characters, spanning a variety of class, religious and ethnic backgrounds, and bringing to life people and situations that haven’t been explored very much in English language fiction. There is so much to admire here. It is therefore, with considerable regret that I must pass on the opportunity to represent you."

It goes on, sensitive, complimentary but ultimately rejecting me. Some would term it a wonderful rejection letter. But it's still a rejection.

So, here's my tally:

Agents queried: 20
Queries disappeared into black hole: 11
Requests for partials: 4
Rejections of partials: 2
Requests for complete manuscript: 3
Rejection of complete manuscript: 1

After the rest of the partial/complete manuscript rejections come in, I will query 20more. Then perhaps some more. I'm not sure. Already that madness is starting to fade. This quest feels empty somehow, unfulfilling. I will continue to edit and refine An Incomplete Universe. It needs it.

And sometime next month, I will start plotting my next book. I am happiest writing. That's the fun part, the soul part, the part that invades my sleep, that brings the flash of phrase, the look of a character as the sun glints over the distant snow as I drive. The part that connects me to the universe in some elemental way.

This product part sucks. It really does. But I am compelled to do it. We are all elements of our own dichotomous natures after all.

A Jewel of a Controvorsy

*sigh* *double sigh*

What is it? What is it that makes it okay to criticize people but god forbid if you happen to criticize a book or a faith? Good lord, much as I love writing, please criticize away, have at it, but leave me the fuck alone. My writing is inanimate. It feels no pain but I do. I can re-write, savagely edit, but there's only one of me. No more drafts. Just one of me. I can be hurt.

Perhaps there is nothing, no one book, no god, that I feel strongly enough about to defend with my life. Nothing that I feel so strongly about that I would kill or threaten to kill someone because of it. Maybe that's why I find the whole fracas about The Jewel of Medina, to be tiresome and as thrilling as a bad case of hives. I mean, seriously, get over it.

For those who have better things to do with their time, here's the condensed version. Sherry Jones wrote a book, called The Jewel of Medina, based on the prophet Mohammad's wife, Aisha. Aisha was betrothed to the prophet at six and married to him at nine (or eleven or thirteen, but young, really, really young regardless), and was known as his favorite wife. Random House signed Jones to a $100,000 two-book deal and all was well with the world. Then...surprise!....as sure as winter follows fall, came the death threats. Duhhh!

Random House, that bastion of free speech and errr...commercialism...dropped the jewel like a nuclear potato. Andrew Franklin, who was editor at Penguin when The Satanic Verses was published decried Random House as cowards. Rushdie, of course, supported Jones and wrote about the perils of censorship. *Yawn*

In September 2008, British publisher Gibson Square took on the challenge of publishing the book. So far they are standing firm on this despite the publisher, Martin Rynja's house being firebombed. Yes, the threats escalated and the guy's house went up in flames.

Not so condensed after all, but there you have it.

Let me say this: I am tired of firebombs and death threats and murders in the name of religion. Debate religion, indulge in some good old-fashioned name calling but leave people's bodies and homes alone. Simply put, if you don't want to read a book, don't read it. Tell others not to read it. Why is it not okay to criticize your religion or fictionalize aspects of it? We live in a multi-textured world and some of us don't want sacronsanctness around us. We choose not read your stuff. You don't have to read ours.

But though I am a die-hard Rushdie fan and liked The Satanic Verses, I find myself waffling at Jones' shall-we-say soft-porn and rather *ahem* loose interpretation of facts. I mean there's fictionalizing and then there's "I floated in his arms to my apartment. He kicked open the door and carried me inside, then placed me on my feet again." This just makes me want to curl up with a cup of tea and the latest offering from Harlequin.The Sheikh's Virgin Bride anyone?

What I don't get is the shock that people...writers, publishers, editors...express every time they write or produce something about Islam and some pious Muslim decides he'd like to kill them for it. Really, in this day and age, if you write anything about the prophet without a million PBUHs littering the page and if you bring up even a slightly risque subject matter (even if it is done well), prepare yourself for the onslaught. And don't be coyly shocked when it arrives. Still, you have the right to offend people, yes, even people who find phrases like "I spread a smile thick as hummous across my lips, deeply offensive. Offend me. Offend iconoclastic Muslims. Just don't be shocked when you do.

And that's the point isn't it?

Jones has the right to write any lurid details she wants and a publisher should be able to publish it without having to make that now so tedious decision: your book or your life? They have the right to write and publish. You have the right not to read it and convince others not to. Simple!

So now, let's address you, Mr. or Ms. your-writing-offends-me-so-I-will-kill-you-in-the-name-of-Allah-firebomber:

By all means, castigate the author, read the book and tear it to shreds in reviews, boycott it, use it as a means to educate people. Don't try to prove you're not a narrow-minded, predictable dick-head by being a narrow-minded, predictable, dick-head. Stop with the threats, the fire-bombs, the fiery rhetoric. We get it. The rest of us--sane Muslims and non-Muslims--should not write about anything that vaguely touches anything remotely controvorsial in Islam. Guess what? People think and they read and they write. And part of that process is touching upon taboo subjects and writing about them. So, that's not gonna change. No matter how many Molotov cocktails you shake up.

Perhaps, since you evidently read (if not the books themselves, but at least the synopses put together by some literate brethren) you should channel your fiery thoughts and impulses towards writing reviews of these evil, evil, shaitan books. Go on! Really! You can. It might even get published.

Shock us by NOT firebombing anyone. Shock us by using normal, non-violent channels of dissent. Shock us by not threatening to kill or actually killing someone to show your displeasure. Shock us with your intellect, the power of your pen, the thunder of your prose.

At least then the rest of us can break away from this predictabile cycles of writing and threats every few years. And perhaps, the Ms. Jones of the world won't be laughing all the way to the bank. Get 'em where it really hurts. In the bank. Ignore these books so people like me won't buy it regardless of the author's less than stellar writing. Use your brain not your bomb.

Believe, truly believe, that Allah is all-powerful and is well able to look after His/Her image and doesn't need a pipsqueak human to defend Him/Her. I mean really, who do you think you are? Isn't that rather blasphemous...that you, a puny human can defend God?

I feel a fatwah coming on. Gotta run!

Predestination

The question is this: are we what we're supposed to be? I mean, here I am, trying to write a lighthearted romp by the side of a river and it turned into one of my earliest stories published on the web, A Sound Quest, a dark tale of child molestation. It remains one of my favorite short stories (by me) ever. (the site seems to be down today. will update if anyone is interested in reading this)

I know I can do writing exercises and whatever and break myself of this habit. I can consciously guide myself towards writing other stuff. And the thing is I think in person I am not this dour, too-serious woman (reference my last post). In fact some would say I even have occasional bursts of genuine humor. No, really!

When I was a kid I was obsessed for a while with Readers Digest Condensed books. You know, several issues of RD in one bound volume. Whatever! While I've forgotten most of the Dramas in Real Life, Humors in Uniform, and other lovely banal pieces, I do remember this one short fiction piece. I don't remember the title, but the main thrust of the story sticks with me, decades later.

So, there's this young man and woman who eye each other across a crowded compartment of the London tube. The guy eyes the girl, the girl flutters back at him, that kind of thing. The compartment is so very crowded that they can't even get to stand next to each other, just look at each other. Thrilling! Then one day the guy whips out a sketch pad and a pencil, and with a look of concentration starts very obviously sketching the girl. He does this for days, no doubt piquing the girl's curiosity.

Finally, after weeks, he passes her a note and they meet for a date. She wants to see her sketch. He hems and haws, laughs nervously. She gets even more insistent. He shows her the drawing. It's Henry VIII! Is this how I appear to you, she asks, deflated? (Okay, I was a 9-year old Indian kid at the time so I had no idea who the heck Henry VIII was. Now I envision him clutching a giant turkey leg as he stares out of the paper, but I digress).

No, you're lovely, beautiful, he assures her. The thing is that no matter what he drew or how much he tried not to, everything he ever sketched turned out looking like Henry VIII. And that is how I feel. If I let thing go naturally (except when I blog) everything I write turns out to be dark, depressing stuff.

That's okay I guess...but sometimes I'd like to, you know, draw George III or even Lord Mountbatten.

On a totally tacked on now for something completely differen tnote......do you have to be Indian to find this video of a white guy parodying a Bollywood song hysterically funny. I love his expressions, the lip synchs, the hip gyrations...and that old song staple, when he momentarily loses sight of his lady-love and is distressed. Enjoy!

Chocolate Chart

When I first joined grad school (I was like 10, yes I was, such a precocious genius), I attended a few seminars with someone who later became a friend, and then not (but that's another story, for another blog). And she told me in somewhat shocked tones, "gosh, well, I am a bit surprised. I thought you were rather frivolous when I fist met you."

Hmmmm....now I did like girly clothes and bright lipstick and cool, chunky jewelry. But frivolous? Really? I processed that in my 20-something brain and filed it away, not sure how to respond except with a rather idiotic grin and a quick subject change.

Then, earlier this year I spent three weeks at the Chateau de Lavigny, we had a public reading mid-way through the session. There were five of us and we had a great time that evening, discovering each other's work in a more public setting and supporting each other. It was awesome. One of the writers while making a toast at dinner that evening said a lot of complimentary things and then added, looking at me, "And you...I never realized you were do deep."

There have been at least 12 years between these two comments but they stick in my mind as book-ends. And no, I was not insulted or unhappy, just bemused. I mean I can't really police how people perceive me or perceive my writing for that matter. And perhaps, because I write of such darkness, it's not so bad if I am perceived as being sort of surfacey (is that word?).

It gets more complicated when I come against that other perception of me, as being either remote and somewhat snobbish or quiet and shy, even retiring. I know that I am a very situational person, so I probably come across as different to different people.

And how do I feel at being perceived as shallow or frivolous? I don't know. I guess I'd rather be that than an in your face deep person who makes people run for cover. I find juvenile humor funny (including the scatalogical), I still like bright lipstick and chunky jewelry though I am older than I was in grad school.

Perhaps it validates my desire to be a woman of mystery. Perhaps I am like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates...you never know what you're gonna get...well, unless you can read and just refer to the chocolate chart on the box. Do I want a chocolate chart for myself?

I guess I really don't mind any of these perceptions. Once someone gets to know me, the chart gets more muddled I am sure, but these initial perceptions do remain. You know what? I may not be a girl any more but I do love girly things, I adore pink and cute puppies. But I also wear a lot of black, can laugh helplesly at fart jokes, and look with more than my share of cynicism at most things and yes, write of the dark nature of things. In fact, I start light-hearted stories and they take a left turn somewhere, and it again becomes a tale of sadness or molestation or rape or death or murder or something uplifting like the messy end of relationships. Cheery no? Perhaps my different parts balance me...like one perfect nut encased within caramel, enrobed in rich chocolate.

Damn! Now I gotta go find some chocky for myself. How frivolously girly is that? Ta ta!

Publish At Your Peril (Part Deux)

You know the build-up. The inevitable rounds of emails, snail mail submissions, the thick packets, keeping the postal service going with the sheer volume of mail you send? TO AGENTS? I know people who've sent our 100's of queries. They keep at it, month after month, sometimes year after year. If persistence were a prerequisite of success there names would be household ones.

So, eventually, when after the 30th query I got THE PHONECALL I wrote about in part 1, you can't blame me. The way this whole process is set up to make you believe that landing an agent should lead to that oh-so blissful feeling of acceptance, the Sally Field like exuberance (you like me, you really like me)is like some kind of prize. The pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. The happy ending.

Nope. The truth is that this landing an agent is the beginning. That's where you really begin on your publication journey. There's writing and there's the publishing. Writing ends at your last successful draft, publishing begins when you find an agent. So take a deep breath, revel in the knowledge that an experienced publishing professional likes your work, breathe in that sweet scent of validation...and then get over yourself. Nothing has really happened. Yet.

The other thing no one tells you...or they tell you and you think to yourself, that's not me, won't happen to me...that you might have bypassed the slush pile but a publishing contract is not a given. More often than not even agented manuscripts never make it into publication. And more often than not, that manuscript is yours.

The way the whole thing is set up once you get that call, especially if you've been trying forever, you want to collapse into a thankful heap at your agent's feet. But the agent is not doing you a favor. In fact, they are your agent, your employee, when you sell they make money. Keep that central fact in mind.

I didn't remember that. I felt diffident asking my agent to send me updates. I didn't want to bother her. What if I irritate her and she drops me? Horrors! What will I do then? I should have trusted my instincts. She needs me as much as I need her. I didn't have to live in her pocket but I could have been more assertive on my own behalf.

Remember this. Your agent has dozens of manuscripts s/he's sending out to publishers at any given time. You only have one. Yours. You have to be your own advocate. Ask to see the list of publishers submissions go to. Ask for a periodic update on yays and nays. Ask to see the actual refusals. Yes, there are agents who have been known to not submit but to tell the writer about all the publishers who have rejected the manuscript when the publisher never even saw your book. It's true.

Now agents do belong to the very reputable AAR but there really is *no* governing body overseeing how they operate. Yes, the web has made it easier for people to disseminate information about scam agents, bad agents, and yes, even good ones. But that's just folks like you and me. There is no regulation. And perhaps there shouldn't be.

I find agenting itself a rather artificial barrier between reader and book creators but that ship has sailed. Putting a quasi-governmental body in place would make it even worse.

But that does mean that we as writers wanting to be published need to change our mind-set. *We* are the reason publishers, agents, and editors stay in business. We make them money. Sometimes I find that agents and publishers forget that. Or at least they try to downplay this to us writers who must come across as deer caught in the headlights.

In an ideal world they would be the ones querying us...please let us publish you...please. But we live in this world and we owe it to ourselves and to our fellow-writers to be conscientious about our role in this continuum that begins with us and ends when someone plonks down money to read what we wrote. Everyone else in between including agents are just links in a chain.


So this is what we should do to remain in control of the process and not let others drive us. We might or might not get published in book form. We might not become AUTHORS. But, we will (I know I will) always be WRITERS. To me that is the most important part. I write. I am a writer. I am an author when someone pays me money to print my words and put them out there. Being an author, to me, is a commercial thing. Being a writer is sublime and spiritual and real. However, I don't believe anyone can teach you to be writer. So this list is really about being an author.

1. Never lose sight of the reason(s) for which you write. Examine them thoroughly and don't delude yourself.

2. If your number one reason is not because you love to write (or some derivation of that sentiment) but that you want to be published then focus on that. Work on being the best damn author there is even if you are not the best writer in the world.

3. Get yourself published. My first short story was published in a national magazine when I was 13. I've tried to have at least 1-2 publications every year. That's not much and I am the lazy queen of procrastination. You can get even more publications. Query the hell out of every publication you can, submit to whichever journal takes submissions, get your name out there.

4. Remember, it's very rare that a book publisher will sign you on if you've never had anything published anywhere. So work on this. They want to know you have chops and range, and that you are persistent, and that you continue writing.Agents and publishers really do look at these things. Your query is not just your book, it's also you. How saleable are you? Are you at all known? Do you bring readers with you? Why else do you think Nicole Ritchie got a novel published? Trust me, she ain't no Jhumpa Lahiri. And Pamela Anderson? Yes, she too wrote a novel and got it published 'Nuff said.

You don't need silicone devotees but if you were published somewhere you have a better chance of getting a book contract.


5.If you are lucky enough to get an agent (a good one) don't harrass them but do set up an agreed-upon interval (every two weeks, once a month, etc.) where they either send you an update email or you talk on the phone. Be polite but let them know unequivocally that you will be a tireless advocate for yourself. If the agent is not right for you, get out of the contract. You will know when/if the time is right....or wrong. Don't be afraid of taking this step. Be true to yourself and to your work.

6. Be ready to make changes that your agent and/or editor asks you to make. Now if the change is so drastic that it changes your work you need to decide whether you are an author or a writer. Which persona would make those changes?

7. Create your own marketing plan. Remember this. Your new book gets about 3 months in the bookstore and 3 months of promotion. After that it departs to make room for newcomers. Unless, of course, the sales are so brisk that the 2-3 copies per store fly off the shelf. In which case the stores put a replenishment cycle in place. So...apart from what the publisher does (for you and for the *new* Dan Brown/Stephen King/Salman Rushdie...where do you think they will focus?) figure out what you will do. This can include a book launch party with some media, interviews and stories in local, regional or national media. Postcards and posters, radio interviews. More importantly, mine your contacts to see how you can get into said media.

8. A website or a blog is invaluable. What you're looking for is a following. Create yourself as an online entity, people who will *always* buy your new book.


So, here are my 8 points to becoming an author and navigating your way through the publishing minefield.

Add your own. Please share your take with me...and with my 1.5 readers ;-)