Big news! I've taken the plunge and submitted my book to a professional editor, who as we speak is engaged in the long-overdue task of tearing the text into a hundred pieces, such that something Phoenix-like might emerge from the ashes.
For as long as authors have put pen to paper, the human ego has made a fine dance of the feedback process. I, for one, have always prided myself on my receptivity to constructive criticism, but when it comes to entire scenes and chapters being slashed, I start having difficulty keeping my pulse down.
Tough.
Anyone who writes without readers in mind, but still expects his or her work to be read, is engaging in one of the world's most meaningless exercises, and chances are, the passages that authors find most emotionally resonant in their own work are those with which they have a personal relationship - a relationship in which the reader plays no part. As such, the slashing pen of an editor is a crucial investment, and well though I might mourn that which ends up on the cutting room floor, what remains, and what I write thereafter, will have have total devotion and fidelity to the reader. A trade-up, to be sure.
On a closely-related note, I have, of my own volition, thrown out the first chapter of the book and written something new. It poses a much more plausible context for the protagonists to meet, one that doesn't require Abida, the female lead, to place herself in any perilous situations, and that allows for some of the novel's central themes to arise through situation, rather than forced dialogue. Chapters 1-6, clickable to the right, now reflect this change.
Faulkner, a major inspiration for my writing of the novel, famously remarked, "In writing, you must kill your darlings."
Or, as a fellow blogger said, adopting an approach that is less murderer, more drill-sergeant, "Perhaps ‘just mess your darlings up a bit until they fall into line and serve the story properly."
I'll keep everyone posted as my darlings either bite the dust or learn to behave!
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
Excerpt from Companions of the Garden, Chapter 24
Near the conclusion of the novel:
He wrestled, at the last, for a moment of quiet.
Remembering the Windsor Ruins. The pillars in the woods, standing tall, rain-soaked. The droplets pattering on the leaves and the needles and the limbs. The wet grass soaking with unapologetic deliberation through the knees of his blue jeans.
He knew she’d never ask him what he prayed for. It was his prayer, his prostration, his private communion with whatever God had taken shape for him. To intrude on such matters was not in her nature, nor was it his nature to volunteer details without first being asked.
That left him alone with it all, unable to share with anyone the worldless, shapeless character of his supplication.
How he’d prayed for peace without knowing what it meant for him. How in the end he asked only for the quiet of the ruins to penetrate some later state of chaos, and exist for a moment in perfect supremacy, numbing out the noise and the endless anarchy of everything he felt and loved and loathed.
If she’d asked him, he’d have fumbled without success for a means of description, both of the subject of his prayer and the way in which it seemed a lost cause even as it unfolded, and maybe, just maybe, she’d have been able to shed light on the affair – what it was about his mindset that made even the intervention of God seem insufficient to prevent his death.
But Abida wouldn’t ask, so Dig couldn’t fumble, and he remained alone with the certainty of doubt.
The memory of something sacrosanct and futile.
The mud on his knees as proof of his appeal.
He wrestled, at the last, for a moment of quiet.
Remembering the Windsor Ruins. The pillars in the woods, standing tall, rain-soaked. The droplets pattering on the leaves and the needles and the limbs. The wet grass soaking with unapologetic deliberation through the knees of his blue jeans.
He knew she’d never ask him what he prayed for. It was his prayer, his prostration, his private communion with whatever God had taken shape for him. To intrude on such matters was not in her nature, nor was it his nature to volunteer details without first being asked.
That left him alone with it all, unable to share with anyone the worldless, shapeless character of his supplication.
How he’d prayed for peace without knowing what it meant for him. How in the end he asked only for the quiet of the ruins to penetrate some later state of chaos, and exist for a moment in perfect supremacy, numbing out the noise and the endless anarchy of everything he felt and loved and loathed.
If she’d asked him, he’d have fumbled without success for a means of description, both of the subject of his prayer and the way in which it seemed a lost cause even as it unfolded, and maybe, just maybe, she’d have been able to shed light on the affair – what it was about his mindset that made even the intervention of God seem insufficient to prevent his death.
But Abida wouldn’t ask, so Dig couldn’t fumble, and he remained alone with the certainty of doubt.
The memory of something sacrosanct and futile.
The mud on his knees as proof of his appeal.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Diwaniyya's "The Hidden World of Girls"
Diwaniyya, a podcast for the Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies at Tel Aviv University, identifies as its chief goal the provision of "thought-provoking conversations on Middle East culture, history and politics."
Its topic for March centers on the experiences of Middle Eastern women and girls, whom it discusses via The Hidden World of Girls, a series of radio documentaries produced by National Public Radio and its award-winning documentary team The Kitchen Sisters.
Of the six stories they offer, two in particular stood out for me.
The first offers a multi-media look at the stories of nine young women who chose to stop wearing the hijab, or headscarf. The presentation contrasts photos that depict the women before and after the shift, and are accompanied by short audio testimonies of what persuaded them to make the decision they made. Of the testimonies I viewed, the majority of women discussed the manner in which wearing the hijab forced them to act as representatives of the Muslim community, a role they grew tired of fulfilling. In no case was it a function of any attenuation of their faith.
While I greatly appreciated the story, I had a certain reservation over the manner in which its introductory video seemed to glorify the act of the headscarf's removal. I worry that it might reinforce the Western predisposition to view veil removal as liberation, but perhaps I'm reading too much into it, loyal, as I am, to the protagonist of my novel, who chooses to continue wearing the hijab and feels highly empowered in doing so.
The second outstanding story focuses on Amira Al-Sharif, a young photojournalist from Yemen working in New York with the stated intention of "documenting the lives of American women my age and to compare and contrast them with the lives of Yemeni young women." Sheeren Marisol Meraji, the author of the story, rightly observes, "I liked the idea of a Middle Eastern journalist flipping the script. It seems like it's always the other way around: Western journalists documenting Arab women." The article features eight of Al-Sharif's photos, which are, indeed, compelling. Also compelling is her pride in her homeland, of which she hopes to spread awareness.
Its topic for March centers on the experiences of Middle Eastern women and girls, whom it discusses via The Hidden World of Girls, a series of radio documentaries produced by National Public Radio and its award-winning documentary team The Kitchen Sisters.
Of the six stories they offer, two in particular stood out for me.
The first offers a multi-media look at the stories of nine young women who chose to stop wearing the hijab, or headscarf. The presentation contrasts photos that depict the women before and after the shift, and are accompanied by short audio testimonies of what persuaded them to make the decision they made. Of the testimonies I viewed, the majority of women discussed the manner in which wearing the hijab forced them to act as representatives of the Muslim community, a role they grew tired of fulfilling. In no case was it a function of any attenuation of their faith.
While I greatly appreciated the story, I had a certain reservation over the manner in which its introductory video seemed to glorify the act of the headscarf's removal. I worry that it might reinforce the Western predisposition to view veil removal as liberation, but perhaps I'm reading too much into it, loyal, as I am, to the protagonist of my novel, who chooses to continue wearing the hijab and feels highly empowered in doing so.
The second outstanding story focuses on Amira Al-Sharif, a young photojournalist from Yemen working in New York with the stated intention of "documenting the lives of American women my age and to compare and contrast them with the lives of Yemeni young women." Sheeren Marisol Meraji, the author of the story, rightly observes, "I liked the idea of a Middle Eastern journalist flipping the script. It seems like it's always the other way around: Western journalists documenting Arab women." The article features eight of Al-Sharif's photos, which are, indeed, compelling. Also compelling is her pride in her homeland, of which she hopes to spread awareness.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Feminism in Tunisia
A panel discussion held at Unisa University in Pretoria on International Women's Day, aimed at discussing women's involvement in the Arab Spring, offered some intriguing facts on the history of feminism in Tunisia.
Two in particular stood out for me, both date-related.
First, in 1962, women in Tunisia were allowed access to birth control.
Second, and more significant, in 1965, abortion was legalized - eight years before Roe v. Wade.
Though Tunisia's path to gender equality has been as rocky and back-slide prone as any - for which the dictatorship of Ben Ali did no favors - it pays to be mindful of the places where light shone through, especially in regions so often construed as lightless.
It's worth noting, also, that the abolition of monogamy and the establishment of a minimum age for marriage were among Tunisia's first legislative maneuvers upon independence from France in 1956.
Now, as before, the struggle continues.
Two in particular stood out for me, both date-related.
First, in 1962, women in Tunisia were allowed access to birth control.
Second, and more significant, in 1965, abortion was legalized - eight years before Roe v. Wade.
Though Tunisia's path to gender equality has been as rocky and back-slide prone as any - for which the dictatorship of Ben Ali did no favors - it pays to be mindful of the places where light shone through, especially in regions so often construed as lightless.
It's worth noting, also, that the abolition of monogamy and the establishment of a minimum age for marriage were among Tunisia's first legislative maneuvers upon independence from France in 1956.
Now, as before, the struggle continues.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Dr. Hayat Sindi, yet another participant in my "Remarkable Muslim Women" series
Daily Beast and Newsweek magazines have selected for their list of the world's most distinguished 150 women Dr. Hayat Sindi, a Saudi national.
Dr. Sindi is a Cambridge graduate, earning a PhD in biotechnology in 2001. Chief among her many accomplishments is her pioneered technique of using inexpensive slips of paper and drops of blood or saliva to diagnose liver disease, a practice that allows low-income individuals to bypass cost-prohibiting lab tests, or to offer medical service to those who live in areas where clinics might be nonexistent. During a stint as a visiting professor at Harvard, and concurrent with the development of this technique, she co-founded Diagnostics for All, with the aim of facilitating broader access to health care. She will launch on October 21st, in Maine, the Institute for Imagination and Ingenuity, which will help scientists draft business plans and locate investors for their ideas.
Sindi's successes are astonishing not only in their own right, but also in light of the largely oppressive culture in which she was raised.
At the same time, Sindi - who dresses traditionally, complete with headscarf - declares in no uncertain terms, "I’m very proud of where I came from. . . . Sometimes people think they need to completely discard their culture. But you have to hold on to your identity."
She acknowledges the resistance her father initially put up to her engagement in a lifestyle at odds with traditional Saudi notions of feminine behavior, but then closes on a moving note: "When he died, I found newspaper clippings about me under his pillow."
Dr. Sindi is a Cambridge graduate, earning a PhD in biotechnology in 2001. Chief among her many accomplishments is her pioneered technique of using inexpensive slips of paper and drops of blood or saliva to diagnose liver disease, a practice that allows low-income individuals to bypass cost-prohibiting lab tests, or to offer medical service to those who live in areas where clinics might be nonexistent. During a stint as a visiting professor at Harvard, and concurrent with the development of this technique, she co-founded Diagnostics for All, with the aim of facilitating broader access to health care. She will launch on October 21st, in Maine, the Institute for Imagination and Ingenuity, which will help scientists draft business plans and locate investors for their ideas.
Sindi's successes are astonishing not only in their own right, but also in light of the largely oppressive culture in which she was raised.
At the same time, Sindi - who dresses traditionally, complete with headscarf - declares in no uncertain terms, "I’m very proud of where I came from. . . . Sometimes people think they need to completely discard their culture. But you have to hold on to your identity."
She acknowledges the resistance her father initially put up to her engagement in a lifestyle at odds with traditional Saudi notions of feminine behavior, but then closes on a moving note: "When he died, I found newspaper clippings about me under his pillow."
Sunday, March 11, 2012
My love and support to the people of Kandahar Province
As one who opposed this war from the outset, and still remembers vividly the sense of total moral collapse I felt on the day of our invasion, I can't stress enough my outrage over the killing spree today by a U.S. Army Sergeant that left dead 16 residents of Kandahar Province.
To the survivors of the massacre, and the families of its victims, my love and support goes out to you. Though U.S. officials will seek to portray this as an isolated incident, far too many of us are in some way complicit in the occupation and butchery of your nation, of which today's atrocity is just one other face.
One day soon, this war will end.
To the survivors of the massacre, and the families of its victims, my love and support goes out to you. Though U.S. officials will seek to portray this as an isolated incident, far too many of us are in some way complicit in the occupation and butchery of your nation, of which today's atrocity is just one other face.
One day soon, this war will end.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Excerpt from Companions of the Garden, Chapter 22
He engaged the clutch and the stockade walls swung outward and they moved through the rain, out of Jackson, out past Clinton, southwest to the Natchez Trace Parkway and down toward the ocean, Cassie plunging forward through the green and gushing woods, through trees swollen with rain-coaxed fertility, bent in submission . . . southwest down a highway transformed by storm into the likeness of a culvert, green-domed roof and watery base, everything flowing in perfect uniformity downhill to the river, to the Mexican Gulf . . .
A sign said Bayou Pierce Presbyterian Church, 1807.
They turned off the road and wound up the hill to the shack. They parked outside and they stepped through the door, into a totality of veteran wood . . . smells of dirt, impressions of consummate weathering . . . the place just big enough for ten people, maybe twelve . . . all of it abandoned and empty, consigned to history, but not to sterility.
Still spirit in the wood. In the dust. In the rain on the roof.
They sat on a bench in the corner and listened to the drips overhead.
He put his hand on the bench, wondering – inevitably – how many people had sat there before him; what isolated precession of the faithful had braved the storms of centuries past to stand in prayer on this muddy little leaf-strewn knoll.
“I can feel it,” said Abida, and the objects of her feeling – the spirit, and the belief that chased it – were left comfortably unspoken.
A sign said Bayou Pierce Presbyterian Church, 1807.
They turned off the road and wound up the hill to the shack. They parked outside and they stepped through the door, into a totality of veteran wood . . . smells of dirt, impressions of consummate weathering . . . the place just big enough for ten people, maybe twelve . . . all of it abandoned and empty, consigned to history, but not to sterility.
Still spirit in the wood. In the dust. In the rain on the roof.
They sat on a bench in the corner and listened to the drips overhead.
He put his hand on the bench, wondering – inevitably – how many people had sat there before him; what isolated precession of the faithful had braved the storms of centuries past to stand in prayer on this muddy little leaf-strewn knoll.
“I can feel it,” said Abida, and the objects of her feeling – the spirit, and the belief that chased it – were left comfortably unspoken.
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