Delusions of grandeur

The first time we were going back to India after moving to the States, in the summer of ’97, my father declared that I was allowed one pair of jeans, one pair of sneakers and a shirt to travel in. My attire after landing in India was to be salwar kameezes, lenghas and long skirts. As a fifteen year old and a part of the 1.5 immigrant generation growing up in NYC, I cracked a few smart ass comments at my father’s dictate, but didn’t fight it too much. See, this wasn’t worth beating my already sore hands on the drums of teenagedom caught in the middle of the immigrant experience. I could mouth off to mom and dad, insist on my independence, rail against the stereotypes they attempted to impose on me and generally be an Indian version of the bratty American teen (where, really, my parents got off quite easy) all in the safety of my life in Queens. Being on Indian soil, however, wasn’t reality; it was vacation, where what happened in India, stayed in India. For a month or so while we visited family, I could play pretend and be the Sati Savitri type if that’s what my family wanted.

While in India, I never made an attempt to explain my life in NYC to my family members. Maybe it was sheer selfishness on my part of wanting to avoid the lectures on how I’m still Indian even though I live in America that came with opening up with my conservative family about my life in NYC. Staying general usually worked best: yes, school was good; yes, I still remember how to speak Kannada; yes, I do have Indian friends. I smiled a lot, I ate a lot, I wore what they wanted me to wear and I wrote in my journal a lot. I was polite, respectful and most of all, just plain quiet. We never discussed anything deep and certainly nothing related to sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll.

My writing, however, has never been quiet. I will break my personality into pieces for the various different compartments of my life, but my writing is one place where I live, whole and complete with total honesty. It never concerned me in the past that when I get published (yes, I said it - when, dammit, when), as a creative non-fiction writer, I would be laying my life out for public consumption. With my immediate family, I began to hang the family’s dirty laundry out to dry starting at 16, so it would be nothing new to them. Everything else, I justified. My parents are so closeted about their lives that it’s not like their friends and acquaintances would recognize me as the child of someone they know. My extended family in India – well, I’ll just make sure the book never gets translated into Kannada and besides, how are one brown woman’s words ever going to travel across the ocean anyway? It’s tough enough getting published and being known locally.

What I hadn’t counted on was technology shortening the distance between my lived reality and the person I pretended to be to keep the peace with my extended family. Before, there were phone calls between NYC and India where surface words lay like sweet, sickly icing on top of a cake. Now, there are emails and Facebook updates between my life and my cousins’ in India. With the internet came Google and Facebook and off they ran, snatching my delusions that my writing and my life could be kept separate from my extended family in India.

While working with Noor to edit a short piece of mine for volume 7 of Papercuts, towards the end of the process, I realized I hadn’t changed one of the characters’ name. That realization broad-sided me as I realized I was telling quite an intimate tale that involved people other than myself. With Papercuts accessible online and subject to Google’s tentacles, there’s a possibility that my cousins in India would now have access to that part of me that I hid from them. (Sidenote: I’ve seen the re-designed website for Papercuts and it rocks. It’s shaped up to be quite a strong representation of the talent at Desi Writers Lounge. You all should be uber-excited!)

There was a brief moment where I considered breathing into a paper bag, but then the writer in me, the one who has always had the backbone, snarked, “Well, then you either better hope they never find it; hope that if they find it, they’ll understand; or if they read it and don’t understand, then you better get ready to deal with the fall out - because this story is getting told.” After another dirty look thrown at the hyperventilating pansy, the writer strode off to start penning the continuation of her story.

How we write when we write about IDENTITY (The Bluest Eye - Toni Morrison)

posted by Noor

I have always thought of writing as a narcissistic activity. Many of my characters invariably start looking, sounding, and even acting like me. They are always conflicted - struggling with identity, roots, cultural values, treading two value systems at the same time, their senses continuously at war. It is often difficult to separate yourself from your writing, take a step back and view it from a stranger's eye - but you don't always have to. Sometimes, to preserve the integrity of the story you want to tell, you absolutely have to draw from what you know best, what you have lived through, what you have observed, witnessed, and learned. Most importantly, in order to recount a story and remain true to its essence, you must do so in an unapologetic fashion and write it not for the reader, but because the story deserves to be told. I learned this from one of my favorite authors - Toni Morrison and the genius that is her first novel, The Bluest Eye.

Published in 1970, The Bluest Eye spans a year in the life of Pecola Breedlove, a young black girl in Lorain, Ohio. I am not going to recount the story for you all, because that will take me away from the themes that I want to cover today. If you have not read this book, PLEASE do yourselves a favor and get a copy. It is a very fast read, and though the story is tragic, the imagery is delightful. I was struck by the vividness and beauty in the images that Morrison has so effortlessly created. What I really want to focus on is the narrative organization and themes of the novel and how she has managed to create this book of immense power without actually victimizing or criminalizing any of the characters. You are simply told about the suffering and the way Pecola experiences and internalizes it.

1. "Writing without the white gaze"
Toni Morrison has written this book without being cognizant of a white audience. She has not explained herself or her characters. She has simply written this story without apologies or warnings. She has incorporated important elements of the black culture of Lorain, Ohio around the time of the second world war. She has talked about music extensively - both jazz and blues - to the point where you start to hear it as you're reading the book. Most importantly, she mentions in the afterword that it was very significant for her to use "speakerly" language.

2. Seasons in The Bluest Eye
The novel begins thus: "Quiet as it's kept, there were no marigolds in the fall of 1941." This is compounded by the organization of the book in seasons: autumn, winter, spring, and summer. Right in the first line, Morrison introduces this idea of something being wrong - and we all know it's not just about the marigolds. There has to be more to it, but she employs a beautiful distraction to develop her theme. By introducing this idea of nature and marigolds that did not sprout, Morrison has skilfully started to build upon the themes of seasons, the natural order, and the thought that "something has gone wrong." Right away, we learn that Pecola Breedlove is having her father's baby - the problem of marigolds skirts this horrific reality, which is mentioned in passing, perhaps to make it more bearable. This theme of seasons continues throughout the book.

3. Developing "foils" for the main character and explanation without excuse
(Foil: A character that by contrast serves to highlight the distinctive nature of another character).
Throughout the narrative of The Bluest Eye, we see many contrasts between the Breedloves and the MacTeers. Pecola's story is so horrifying and tragic that if it had been presented without the strength of Claudia and Frieda, perhaps we, as readers, would not have been able to accept and process it. So Morrison developed the characters of Claudia and Frieda as foils for Pecola's character. Claudia and Frieda shoulder the weight of Pecola's suffering because their positive experiences and their strength allows the reader to digest the horror in Pecola's story. Pecola by herself is too frail to carry the book on her own. Through their positive experiences alongside Pecola's harsh life, we are able to read the book with a sense of loss and despair, but without getting completely despondent. This is helpful because it allows the reader to see why the characters choose what they choose and how their choices are ultimately a reflect of their experiences.
Cholly, Pecola's father is a product of his circumstances. This is explanation without excuse. We understand how and why someone like Cholly might come to be. Morrison, at no point, makes excuses for his behavior, but when you learn about Cholly's experiences - how vulnerable he is made by all that he faced as an adolescent, you begin to understand his motives and why he committed the terrible act of sexually assaulting his daughter. All this is done by Morrison's organization of the narrative. It is important to pick up a few things here.
The narrative is organized so that we immediately assume that Cholly is a heinous person. Right from the beginning, we know that Pecola was having her father's baby - many of us immediately develop a bias against Cholly for this reason. However, as the narrative unfolds and we gradually begin to discover what brought Cholly to this stage in his life, we begin to understand his intentions and motivations. This is an extremely difficult task for a writer. To make your reader understand your character, think like your character, and realize that what your character does is a culmination and reflection of his/her life experiences is paramount! And very, very difficult. As I mentioned before, however, Morrison has done this effortlessly and seamlessly. The narrative flows from one character's story to the other's in a fluid manner.


There is a long list that I still have in my notes - topics that I wanted to highlight in this entry, but I think I should stop now and let you all mull this over. But if you take away anything from this entry, let it be the importance of organizing your narrative. The Bluest Eye is one of my favorite books, and I discover something new in it every time I read it. Please have a clear theme in your mind when you begin to tackle a story. Even if you know exactly what you are writing about, it is very easy to be distracted - adhere to the themes that you want to establish and develop in your work. Use creative ways to explore the nature of your characters. Develop foils - they do more for your characters and your story than you can possibly imagine! Write without apologies and explain without excuses and keep building on those themes.

Here's to writing like Morrison one day!

Random Trivia: The title of this entry was inspired by a Raymond Carver short story. GUESS WHICH ONE?

Tales From Beyond.

Having recently seen fellow Desi Writer - Osman Khalid Butt (informally known as Obi)'s play - The Good Doctor, produced under his own theatrical production company - The Living Picture Productions; yesterday, I think I can safely say I am immensely proud of his accomplishments. It's heartening to have seen a person's transition from poet to writer to actor to full on playwright and director. Although there were a few things about the play that may not have sat too well with me, for instance the blaring sound which seems a permanent fixture in any play performed locally and especially at Islamabad Club; and the added fact that towards the end, each succeeding death seemed a little contrived and something of a plot device; some things like the sets (with the added touch of the family portraits) were beautiful. Down to the way the actors were dressed - very period-like - this play was the play of a perfectionist. Added to the fact that the boy in question, is just 21 years old. Kudos to you, Obi.

The DesiWritersLounge.net reconstructive surgery is set to start on November 1st, and is something I am greatly looking forward to most especially since it's been a long time in coming.

An added thing I'm looking at now, is how to raise awareness about our site and the work we do. A desi writer (mikko on the boards, Madiha to the world) pointed out that we can begin the work by hosting poetry readings under our banner, at a local coffee spot and intellectual hang-out (Civil Junction). It is an interesting idea, and something which we can definitely run with. Her idea was to start with the classics, but I can foresee something more interesting branching up and more along the lines of what I'd planned so many years ago. Having proper readings with real people bringing in their own work and reading it aloud. I don't have everything planned - for instance, will we recruit these people to be part of the lounge and slowly begin to post - will it be a members-only event with invitations being extended to other people and eventually starting a cult of some sort? As can be seen, things have still to be woven together. But as an idea, it has tremendous potential.

Concluding, the desi writers as a collective seem to be moving forward and after all these years, it's a marvelous step in the right direction. Here's to more milestones, here's to moving forward, here's to being heard and being inspired.

Cheers!

Again?

A strange thing has occurred - anything with *.blogger.com works - but the second you hit something.blogspot.com, all hell breaks loose. Nothing opens. I kid you not, and I'm wondering whether Pakistan's government has imposed the blogging ban all over again? Anyone knowing anything about this, feel free to email me and let me know. This is ridiculous, otherwise.

With great difficulty, I've landed here, into the posting of things.

(ETA: Nothing was wrong: blogspot was misbehaving and apparently, that's usual. Tragic. Google's definitely the new Microsoft).

Ramadhan's started tonight, with our first fast tomorrow although it's started for Muslims based in America, so if you're a Muslim and you're reading this blog, wherever you are in the world, Ramadhan Mubarik ("congratulations on the start of the holy month", although it seems so small when it's translated).

And now, I should come up with something really productive since I really have no idea when I'll be able to login again (if this blogspot love/hate relationship stands to continue indefinitely).

The Addams Family recently wrapped up production, although I'm not sure what the response was. Since very few of my circle actually bothered to turn up, I'm thinking it might not have been all that great. But that's only a prediction, not fact, so don't quote me on this.

A steady stream of traffic has been coming our way, courtesy of this blog, so maybe this is turning out to be a good idea after all. However, one suggestion: you could drop a comment at either the blog or the site, regarding your thoughts and opinions on it. Who knows? We might implement one of your thoughtful suggestions. I think I should put up news about our site on the site too, from time to time. At least let people know what's happening, for those who don't frequent this blog as much.

Among the theatrical production houses, a common stream of thought seems to be propagating like fire: the development of Islamabad's first theater for theatrical productions. It's true: we do need one, it sure would compensate for the limited seating Islamabad Club (bless it) currently offers. The problem with plays here, is that the commercial/advertising partners seem intent on making as much money (read: sell as many tickets as humanely possible) for a given show, so the result is, if you don't queue up early, you might have bought the same priced seat, but have to sit on a stair or worse, stand. My line has always been: stretch the shows out for longer if necessary, and sell only the amount of tickets as there are seats. What's the point, if you're getting no value for money in terms of comfort? It isn't fair at all. You pay, you should get what you pay for. It is that simple, and corporations in other countries recognize this. Sophistication (like corruption), begins at the very top.

Besides, I feel we've had enough adaptations and we should be ready for a little creative maturity and start developing original works of art. How long are we going to stay within the shadow of Hollywood, and not step into our own limelight? But really, how much can we take living off the creativity of others, is the far bigger question. I mean, enough is enough already, no? Real, original productions with real, original messages and real, original humor. "Real, original" being the watchwords in the sentence, apparently.

A desi writer member and friend, feels that creating an original play takes a lot of courage, which is natural. Or is the indirect point she's making that we don't possess any truly courageous talents in the country? Could be, but I disagree. I believe we've got the talent in the right sectors, but no one knows it yet, and why may I ask? Why aren't more people stepping forward? And I don't mean the people who think they can write, but the ones that know they can and do a good job of it? Why aren't the truly talented playwrights really getting out there, and showing something to the world? Sure, another desi writer and friend and now producer, director and playwright, Osman Khalid Butt, with his house The Living Picture Productions, is out there but he's just one person in a multitude of so many. I run a writer's website, I interact with these talented individuals on a daily basis. My question is simple: why aren't more of them out there? Why not show some confidence and pride in your work? Strive to be different; don't feed on existing material. Create your own.

Besides the writing of things, we need serious, strong, committed actors not students right out of school or college or worse, working in other fields. They always end up with musical toned, pretentious, one-dimensional portrayals of otherwise, very interesting characters. Theater should be pursued as a dedicated field in our country.

How else are we going to spread the word?

The only way is up, people. Let's not slow ourselves down, here.

Numb

That's the title of a story I'm hankering after. Note the word usage - "hankering" because I haven't got anywhere yet - throws my last post into a tizzy, doesn't it? I've got a nine hour work day, which comprises mostly of sitting before my laptop, doing market research and trends, and then writing about it. So at the end of the day, you'd much prefer not spending any more time with the widescreens of this world. Hypocritical, I know.

The problem isn't with the idea - I've got it all nailed down - I've got the two leads and their lives all planned out...okay, mostly, not completely but still. And now of course, my time table's changing after tomorrow - Friday, I'll be reporting for work at 6.30 am. Yes, you read right. But we're off at 2.30 pm so something needs to be said. No sleep after sehr, then eh? Worse things have happened. I'll live.

But back to this elusive idea - the story appeals to me - it picks up on the emotional underbelly, which for anyone who has ever read my past stories, knows I love. It isn't just the darkness that's drawing (while simultaneously repelling) me closer each day, it's the wealth of emotions I'll be dealing with. And of course, the families and their protagonists are from backgrounds I understand and to a degree, can empathize with.

And after pushing away my trademark conversation dialog: dry, witty, sarcastic - I'm finding myself being drawn back. Though, let's face it: I'm good at it. I like looking at life through unfocused lenses - it's like looking at the world through the bottom of a glass - I like the skewed, distorted images transmitted back. That may be the reason the darkness of things so attracts me, because here's a fact: it's so much more fascinating to write about. How much can you write about happiness and birds chirping? The evil, dark side of our emotions are so much easier. No? Am I the only one seeing the complexities, here?

I suppose, to put it simplistically: the psychological and anthropological aspects of it are what really attract me.

I think we each have the capacity to commit something truly heinous, but the right blend of time, circumstance and the fortification of our relationships is what stops us. I also believe that the root of all evil, lies in society and the lack of understanding it affords to the lesser fortunate, and if we are to truly realize that in every walk of life, we should at least try to understand. The only way I can understand, or at least live through their lives (from my own perspective, of course - the writer's perspective inevitably seeps in - or if it doesn't, that's just another thing I need to learn), is to write about it. Sure, it might not be something I know, but we often need to step out of our comfort zones to straighten the crookedness in our worlds, to get a broader experience and perspective.

Choose to be broadminded.

I've said time and again, that the perspective and changes my work affords me, are unparalleled and have forced me to alter my opinions and mind on things I observed with rigidity, to the surprise of family and friends. And yes, I can be torn sometimes between following what's right and what's expected, but that's only human.

But I believe in justice, in finding the truth no matter how unfavorable or ungainly it might be and my journey often takes me to places (both personal and social) I wouldn't be able to traverse otherwise. So I'll keep doing what I'm doing, in the hopes that I will continue to find answers.

Maybe someday I'll write those socio-religio-politico stories everyone thinks I'm in the midst of, but until then.

Now, all I need to do is move past this first line...