At Home, Writing

One day, this concrete-laden alleyway of ours set out—twisting her way right and left again and again—to find something. But wherever she went, she would get stuck—a house on the right, a house on the left, a house right across.

Thick monsoon clouds cast shadows over the two rows of houses, as if someone has scratched out the light rays from the alleyway’s notebook with a pencil. Rain slides through the concrete, swooshing the snaky stream away with a snake charmer’s drum beats. The road becomes slippery, the umbrellas of pedestrians hit each other, and the water from an open drain suddenly splashes up to an umbrella, stunning its carrier.

Translated by: Bhaswati Ghosh

Tagore

That’s what this much talked-about literary agent has done. Turns out she was displeased about her inclusion in the Writer’s Beware 20 Worst Agencies List, which was also posted on Absolute Write (AW), one of the best online writer’s resources. And in order to settle scores, she called up AW’s web hosting company, asking them to shut down the site. The hosting company owner panicked and chose to pay heed to the agent. As a result, this wonderful community of writers (I can attest to that; I have been a member for a short time, and I already love it there) is now left without a home, at least for the time being.

I suppose Ms Bauer forgot to take basic arithmetic into account. “There is power in numbers” and bloggers across the blogsphere are proving just that to her. If not for this step, she wouldn’t probably have received such high amounts of bad publicity in such record time, amounts enough to bring her greater disrepute than what she has possibly earned in all her years in the business.

It’s a sad day when serious, sincere, yet unsuspecting writers fall prey to scamming predators in the publishing industry. The power of blogging is changing the equations, though. And if agents don’t get their act together in this business, they will be outsmarted. No; no one will actually shove bad agents out of business, physically. That will happen all by itself, because writers will stop approaching them altogether.

BarbaraBauer

Absolute Write

Honest confession: I am an ill-read person, if you count the number of books I have read. But as you can probably tell from the title, I have read at least ten books so far. Well, yes, I have read more than that. These are the ones I would be desperate to save if a fire broke out. I came across this interesting exercise on Lotus Reads’ blog.

The books I selected are important to me for different reasons, some purely for the reading pleasure they gave me, others for the emotional value they hold, and yet others for their timeless companionship.

1.

Shonai Shono Rupokotha (Listen to the Fairytale I Tell You) by Amiya Sen:

My grandmother wrote this book. She was a powerful writer, way beyond her times and one with a magician’s ability to play with words. This book of hers has the backdrop of India’s freedom struggle and tells the story of how a bunch of young people of the time did their bit for the country’s independence. A book worth more than all money could buy, for me.

2. Cry, The Beloved Country by Alan Paton

3. Sanchaita by Rabindranath Tagore (Tagore’s collected poems)

4. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

5. Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle

6. The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

7. Lipika by Rabindranath Tagore (Brief Writings)

8. A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry

9. Carry Me Home by Sandra Kring

10. Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt

Now, that list is in no particular order, for, I feel it’s unfair to compare any two books of fiction. They all gave me tremendous satisfaction as a reader, and like I said, some of them have become lifelong friends.

Which ten books will you save?

Book List

Nah, not any more. Not after it has grabbed a place at my author’s website. Now that it is official, let me present the cover of Making Out in America to you.

This morning I received the cover art for Making Out in America in my inbox. The artist is known to me and thus the cover was sent to me as well as to my publisher’s art editor. I love it. I am not an artist (not the paint-and-brush type anyway) by a long shot and can only decide if I like a piece of art by instinct. As I opened the cover art attachment this morning, I grinned and uttered “yay!” to myself. That sums up my evaluation process. You get the idea.

Spontaneous reactions like that are often a good measure of how eye-catching or interesting something is. I hate to admit it, but my initial efforts at writing this book didn’t generate a similar response in my editor. I have mentioned before how I came to this project without any experience in book writing. The idea appealed to me, and I set about doing it anyway. The catch lay in how I was to write this book. The approach I took in the beginning didn’t just reflect my inexperience but perhaps also my lazy disposition to some extent. Some writers do need a whip-lashing editor or a similar equivalent. I am not exaggerating; I am proof of that.

It all started when my editor, who held a senior editorial position with a TN newspaper and is a personal friend, asked to see a sample chapter. I had already decided the book would have chapters based on different themes. So I picked up a random theme for my sample chapter and selected a bunch of relevant words (slang and colloquialisms) I wanted to weave into the narrative. I drafted a short (less than a thousand words) write-up using those words. Keep in mind, my target happened to be an intimidating 70,000 words (approximately). And here I was–with a sample chapter shy of touching even a thousand words. With twelve chapters in total, how could I ever reach the proposed word count? So what did I do? I smartly listed all the words and phrases I had collected for the sample chapter at the end of that priceless thousand-word write-up.

I sent the chapter to my editor and proposed to him that that’s how I wanted to tackle the book–start every chapter with a short narrative and follow it with a list of more words/phrases pertaining to the same theme. I soon heard back from the edtior. The matter-of-fact man that he is, he just said he had a few “observations” about the chapter. He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he said he would tell me more when we “met” in chat.

The said chat happened. My editor, who had up to that time been quite appreciative of my writing efforts, stopped short of punching me online this time. Without mincing words, he told me the approach I was taking with the book was “as boring as watching paint dry.” No one would like to read a list of words, he warned me, adding there were tons of slang reference books and websites fulfilling that purpose. “What will make your book unique is your experience and how these ‘strange’ words put you into a stupor several times.”

One session of editorial smacking did the trick. The book took a whole new direction–a direct, confessional account of how certain elements of everyday American everyday speech befuddled an Indian. And what do you know, the chapter word counts swelled too, appreciably at that. Humour entered the narrative and the manuscript started getting encouraging responses from crit partners. Even my editor nodded in the affirmative and gave me some virtual pats on the back.

Thank god for hawk-eyed, no-nonsense editors as taskmasters. They can be such a boon for greenhorns like me.

Note: This is the second of a series of posts in which I share the process of writing my debut book, Making Out in America.

Making Out in America

Book Editing

I first heard the term ESL when I joined a mostly-American online writing community three years ago. One day while chatting one of my (American) friends from the board remarked, “Your English is very good for an ESL.” I had to ask her to translate the mysterious abbreviation for me, and only when she told me it was English Second Language, did I understand the full import of her compliment. Subsequently, I received praise for my grasp of English from a lot of board members. As much as I appreciated their kind words, I didn’t let it all get to my head. For, I still stood hapless and flustered when it came to deciphering everyday American-speak.

After spending about a year with this accommodating community, I joined another writing group–this time a British one. Here, I was reminded of my ESL identity once again. This time though, the compliments were more backhanded than those of the American writing board. As a member of a critique group in the new community, I was required to submit a new short story every month and review the ones submitted by other members. On more than one occasion, my stories would get such notes as “I found the sentence structure a bit awkward. I know it’s difficult to tackle that, and given your ESL background, it was a good effort.” I swallowed the remarks since my primary focus was to improve my writing. But now that I can share it with you, let me vent a bit on that perception. No, those views didn’t hurt me. They angered me.

Such a perception made me angry not because I think too highly of my English proficiency. Far from that. As far as I am concerned, learning–especially that related to writing–is a lifelong endeavour. The idea of me being an ESL, and therefore, only the second best ruffled my nerves because of the sympathetic undertone to it. Yes, English is not my first language. So what? Should that make editors take a lenient approach while reading my work? NO! When I am writing in a given language, I should be rated alongside all others who write in that language, regardless of whether they speak that in their daily lives or not.

For the record, I studied British English in school. The legacy of our colonial rulers is still in place as far as India’s education system is concerned. English happens to be the language of instruction in a lot of schools (including mine) here. So I am not a latecomer to the learn-English club. I started scribbling A, B, C as a toddler, just like any American or British would. Therefore, if I am to be credited for a reasonably okay grasp of the language, I should also be the one to take the onus for any slips and slides I make.

At the same time, readers need to be conscious of what to expect from writers of different geographical backgrounds. As an Indian, whose first language isn’t English, I am not likely to use it like an American, British, or Australian (or those whose native tongue is English) would. Just like the language itself, the slang that cultures using English as their first language have made up, are foreign to me. If my Indian characters start speaking like that, my story will end up being a ridiculously phony disaster. You won’t even buy into the characters, would you? Another point that comes to mind is when I write about rural Indians, I am mostly translating their words into English. For, they would never speak in English; most don’t know the language apart from some basic words. All these factor into my writing of this immensely universal language.

Are those points excuses for making weak prose acceptable to the Western audience? Never. More than one non-native, or should I say ESL, writer has proved how much English belongs to the whole world and not just to pockets where people speak it.

Want proof?

1. Amitav Ghosh
2. Joseph Conrad
3. Salman Rushdie
4. Ayn Rand
5. Rohinton Mistry
6. Arundhati Roy
7. Vikram Seth

I am sure there are more. And the world of words is only richer because of them.

English Second Language

English

Writing

That’s how you came into my life–in the playful guise of a grandfather sharing this eternal childhood ballad with the five-year-old me. This was the first of your poems I uttered–in a recitation competition for children. Ma taught me the poem and also your name, but back then, your name meant no more than a big, tough-to-pronounce word. You knew better; you drew the innocent heart in with the pitter-patter of rain and a million gem stones. Don’t I also remember the poem in which you talk about a little boy imagining playing hide-and-seek with his mother by becoming a champa flower? The boy’s wish, to quietly watch Mother go through her day–doing her worship ritual, reading the scripture in the afternoon, lighting the evening lamp on her way to the cattleshed–even as he remains hidden from her view, is something with which every child heart would commune. How did you know that, wise grandfather?

Even as the sea beckons at the river to join it, your ocean kept splashing gently across the humble stream of my life. Every Wednesday evening during my growing-up years, Ma would tune in to a radio station to listen to a fifteen-minute broadcast of your songs, sung by various artistes. I understood little of the words then, but your melody had made me a captive for life. In time, the words resonated too:

Your songs of freedom gave me the key to unlock the realm of unbounded freedom; of liberation that’s found in the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, in the hearts of all people, and in work that defies all danger and sadness.

Your immortal call of “Walk alone if no one heeds thy call,” has been the beacon that has guided many a lives through darkness, even after nearly fifteen decades since you called the earth your abode.

Slowly, your picture started becoming clear to me. As we paid homage to you on your birth anniversary in junior school, I was entranced by your music. When I sang in the chorus for Chandalika, it felt like swinging rapturously amid a musical joy ride–from the boistrous song of the curd-seller to the meditative melody of the Buddhist monk. Later, as I grew up, I wouldn’t tire of wondering how you brought about such magnificent diversity in your nearly three thousand songs. I haven’t stopped being amazed.

More songs, more memories, more of my little stream meeting the ocean that you were. I remember many a summer afternoon, sitting on the floor with Grandma, who would prod me to sing your songs to her. She had her favourites, no less. The one where you cried for peace with your disenchanted opening lines, “The world, fervid with violence, sees new skirmishes daily.” And the song of the seeker that goes like,

And then came the poetry, the novels, the short stories. All bearing your heartfelt understanding of humanity, nature, and the timeless mystique that governs the day-to-day functioning of the universe.

Sanchaita, your anthology of selected poems, became my guiding star through many a difficult times. As I saw my feelings manifesting in your eloquent poetic expression, I wondered how you found access to my innermost being. How did you, dear true North?

In Gora, you taught me what nationalism and political consciousness really meant, without ever being didactic about it. I am stunned to see how relevant it reads even today, so many decades since you penned it. But isn’t timeless your middle name?

And how could I ever forget little Mini’s innocent-yet-demanding interactions with the unforgettable Kabuliwala? How effortlessly you made two such disparate characters bond. And the poignancy as Mini grows out of her carefree childhood even as the Kabuliwala yearns for the innocence of her toddler days, years later?

In my adulthood, you continued to enmesh me into your infinite realm. The songs became more prominent, and every time I sang them, my heart felt emancipated. What’s it with your words, mystic sage?

The songs continue. In the middle of a chore, on seeing a fresh morning, or without any reason at all. How did you entwine them with the beat of my life, dearest friend?

Today, on your 145th birthday, am I paying you homage? Nah, I hardly can. I can’t even claim you as mine. For as you would have said, how can the stream claim the ocean? It can only aspire to merge with the ocean. And like my mother says, even oceans have limits, but Rabindranath is limitless.

You belong to the green of the grass, the song of the morning bird, the pain of the kabuliwala. You are the entire humanity’s.

As I remember my life’s journey holding your hands, I only aspire for my country and the world, what you would have.

It’s been about three years since I became an active Internet user. From the moment I began exploring the cyberspace, I was enchanted. Little did I know what I was getting myself into. Seriously.

Just in case you haven’t figured out some of the acronyms I mentioned but never expanded in this post, I got this terrific resource for you. Beware: It includes some less-than-decent expressions; but it’s a great compilation overall.

When I first came across the prospect of writing this book, a flurry of mind states and emotions seemed to grip me. The first, and probably the most natural of reactions, was excitement. Nervousness sneaked in pretty quickly after that, and then suddenly, the book looked far too daunting for my skills. You see, all I had written until that point were news reports and articles at my workplaces. I had also just stepped into the world of fiction writing, and my longest story comprised less than four thousand words.

And out of the blue, I was to write a book? I? It almost seemed like a joke, and I doubted seriously if I would ever be able to pull it off. However, the presence of my supportive publisher and gem of an editor made me feel a little reassured as I began taking the baby steps toward penning a whole book.

Until my editor told me the proposed length of the book. 70,000 words or thereabouts. Is he out of his mind? I thought. Here I was, a writer for whom the word count limit stood at 4,000 words, and suddenly, I was expected to write almost twenty times more? Surely, my editor was joking, I told him. He replied in his trademark taskmaster style that he wasn’t and that he had faith I would accomplish the task. Then he gave me the most valuable tip to help me shrug off my nervousness, “You don’t need to worry about 70,000 words. You just need to write one word at a time.” Honestly, that’s one of the best pieces of advice I’ve gotten as a writer. It’s always just one more word, and sooner than you know, you have arrived at your goal. I did.

As I posted the excerpts for you, dear wonderful readers, I felt the same tug of nervousness I had felt when I began writing this book. What portions do I choose? Now that these will be exposed to the world, are they good enough? Do they really capture the essence of the book as a whole? All these thoughts crossed my mind before I sought my editor’s help to select the excerpts to be posted. Can’t you tell I am a first-time author?

You probably can. As for me, it’s nothing short of liberation to be able to share with you the drama that plays out in a writer’s mind. I am so glad to have a forum like this one to do that. Be sure to hear more inside stories–funny, dumb, smart, and sad about the making of this book.

One word at a time 😉

Note: This is the first of a series of posts in which I share the process of writing my debut book, Making Out in America.