Got me thinking...

Ack... Another, uhm, month I've been gone here. Where does the time fly, eh? Now I know I say this a lot, but this time I mean it. Why else would you see me posting on a Wednesday? Oh well, aside from the fact that I just put the darndest and most harrowing uni semester ever behind me and getting on my own two feet after the other happenings...

This blog is gonna roll again! Twice a week. One for a perception-tunnel type of post (can include links to articles on the Web) and the weekly life-and-writing round-up.

Now since today is not Friday, guess what? Yup, it's the new Perception Tunnel spot on my blog.

A friend of mine recently sent me a link to an article on stereotypes, especially when one is writing multiracial characters. I won't post it here today, coz my focus is on another article I stumbled upon when reading that. It was a post by author Camy Tang, and you can find it here. In it she was talking about how she got the 'revelation' and decided she'd write what she knows best, namely Asian-American fiction.

This struck a chord in me, because she reminded me of me when I started writing. At the time, I had just finished reading the humongous A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth. While the political scene-type of plot and descriptions made my eyes glaze over, I was completely taken in by the life and woes of the characters in there. Latta, the heroine, who loved a Muslim boy, Kabir, in the time of India's Partition that seemed to have set the wheels of Hindu-Muslim hate and animosity in motion. Her nagging and drops-in-a-faint-with-nerves-at every-opportunity mother, Mrs. Rupa Mehra. I was lol and most of the time going, this is so much like the life me and my friends live even today.

At around the same time, I watched Bend It Like Beckham, and other culture-type movies such as Bride and Prejudice and American Desi. Movies, and ultimately stories, that called to every young person of Indian origin the world over.

That's it there - Indian culture. Be it my friend who lives in India, my cousins who live in England, acquaintances in America, random strangers in Mauritius - we all share something in common, and that is the Indian culture. We all know that when there is a wedding, you're expected to wear kurtis and churidars or saris that bare your midriff but goodness gracious, girl, your legs should not show! We all know that as long as you're playing Indian music, be it A.R Rahman or movie soundtracks or bhangra, as long as the lyrics are Indian, go on and go balle balle! No matter if the music is telling the story of girl power and how every girl should go out and just hook up with that great-looking bloke for a night of great no-strings-attached sex, it's Indian, you know. Shania Twain and her profound lyrics a la From This Moment does not stand any chance coz, shame, she's Western!

I've grown up in this kind of world, and yes, it is the one I know best. So what better than an Indian-cultural inspired story for my first novel? Now Indian-based is done out there. What would be my difference? Well, no one had written about my land, Mauritius. Mind you, there are lots of Mauritian reads out there, but the Bend It Like Beckham type? Nopes. I had my angle. The rainbow island, where almost every culture on Earth dwells in peaceful harmony. Uh, let me correct that - seemingly peaceful harmony. No, we don't break out in religious fanatism-type of riots or anything like that (thank goodness!) but there are definite little currents running beneath the surface. Like the fact that you stick with and marry your own 'kind'. That friendship is okay with others but remember your 'own'. That 'why would you do like them others?' I guess you cannot escape all that - it's human nature after all. But in all the differences, there are way lots of similarities.

Like every young girl, whether White, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Black, Chinese, gets asked the question at and after she turns 20 - when are you getting married, dear?
Like every mom, from whatever cultural, ethnic or religious belonging, goes into a fainting spell the day she hears her daughter has a boyfriend (usually tipped off by an anonymous phone call).
Like every young person, be it whatever his or her cultural and religious upbringing, having their gaze crossing that of another across a crowded room and going, could he/she be the one and immediately thinking, I hope she's of the same religion/culture/ethnic origin as I am otherwise there'll be hell to pay.

I've written my first story, The Other Side, with all this in mind, and I guess people have noticed. I've been told the issues and situations and the way they were depicted were profoundly Mauritian, but done in a light and humourous way that was light-years away from the usual drudgery of Mauritian literature. This was by Mauritians. I've had Indians telling me I could just transpose the setting for India and the issues would still apply. Even 'weirder' to me was having African-Americans telling me they 'got' the story and plot and issues too coz it had striking similarities with their world.

And then something happened. I was 'told' culture-based 'does not cut it anymore'. I was advised to steer away from the culture-issues even if I did keep the setting. Stories are universal, apparently. I was to focus on characterization and plot and leave the culture threads behind, or weave them in as little as possible coz 'culture-based is not cutting it anymore.'

From this blow and discouraging note, I moved onto culture-free writing, developing the Nolwynn Ardennes novels. I had, and still have, fun with them, but they're not all I wanna do. I want to write about nagging aunties, overwhelming moms, cultural divides, roots, identity, the culture that shapes us into who we are.

As I am now at a point where I can afford to take stock of my writing and decide what to do with it, I realise I miss the culture-based fun. Every time I watch American Desi I laugh just as hard. There is definitely something about over-confident Indian guys who brag that they can cook Indian food and then you see them tossing a chapatti directly on the flame and emptying a whole 1-pound packet of garam massala in a dish of 1-pound raw dhal (lentils)! Every Indian or anyone who has Indian culture in their makeup will laugh at this scene and shake their heads. Or when the hero, Indian-American who is totally clueless, goes to the Indian shop and asks for N-ayyy-n (when it is pronounced N-aahh-n). Or the shopkeeper who is trying to pass the barcode twice to have the customer pay more and the old auntie notices and starts whacking the shopkeeper with her mojri (flat, bejewelled sandals).

Where is that in my writing? Sadly, it's gone. I took the advice I was given and tried to streamline. I was 'scared' by the prospect that every one of my books would sound the same if I had overbearing and nagging old aunties in them. But you know what? Overbearing nagging old aunties is what maketh a big part of the world I know. I recently lost an aunt, and with her I thought we'd lost a whole generation of nagging, question-asking type. But lo and behold - her daughters and daughters-in-law are stepping in as the new wave of nagging, question-asking and overbearing aunties! Which means these type of old ladies will always be a feature and a fixture of Indian culture.

You may ask why I always mention culture and never religion. That's because, to me, religion is between you and whoever/whatever you choose to believe in. And culture is a way of life. A Muslim in India, while praying exactly the same way, will not live and experience the same kind of setup and setting as a Muslim in the countries of the Maghreb or other American Muslims. But a Muslim in Mauritius, a Hindu in India, a Sikh in England, a Marathi in Singapore, a Tamil in Australia, a Jain in America - all of them have one thing in common, and that's the Indian culture and way of life. Complete with nagging, overbearing and question-type aunties! That's what I write about, and if it never sells, well, it is what I write about, in the context of today's modern Mauritian society, a land that is about 300 years old and only stood on its own two feet 42 years ago.

So there you go - my writing as Aasiyah Qamar. Mind you, I'll still write as Nolwynn, but now I'm out to have some fun too. Starting with, you know what, overbearing, naggin-- I'll stop before I get overbearing!

From now till later, Cheers!

It did hit the fan...

...yeah, you know 'what', I won't spell it out.

3 weeks of flux, moves, changes, and yes too, hurt. By now most of you will know that around March 26 I resigned from my position as senior editor for the main line at Eirelander Publishing. What prompted this? It was a part of the flux. I was getting sucked into a sort of sandpit and just couldn't keep my head above at breathable level. Remember the issues with my oil and water and the whole breakdown thing? While all these were formenting in the background (they would've blown in my face sooner or later), well, let's just say sometimes a catalyst comes along. In my case, the catalyst was how I was living my life.

I was busy. Too busy actually. I wanted to be everything, and another thing that 'kills' with me is my desire to help. Need a hand with anything, just ask Z, because she'll never say no. In that respect, I think I take after my dad. Before retiring, he was a career nurse. People were always coming to him for help with medical stuff, or if relatives were admitted to hospital, he knew everyone it seemed and got all the info for everyone.

What I also recall is - for all my dad helped people, to me it didn't seem like he was helping us. Maybe I was selfish, but we'd see him receive a call at 1 in the morning, on one of those rare nights when he wasn't on duty, and a short while later he'd be getting into the car of some relative who needed his 'help' with some hospital matter. He'd usually start duty while still helping that relative, and we wouldn't see him until close to 24 hours later. I grew up knowing my father was almost never at home, and I treasured those moments we did have together. I also knew, and this burnt, that we never heard from these said relatives when none of theirs was in need of my dad's 'help'. But that was the man he was, still is, btw. Ask for his help and he'll never say no. Today as a grown up, I realise that's a wonderful trait of his, but as a kid, I resented it.

And now I was turning into him too. I 'helped' everyone but wasn't there for those who mattered. I 'lived' in my house, but my husband was just the man I was married to, not the one with whom I shared all my woes, dreams, issues, nonsense, like in the past, like not so long ago actually. My son was growing up but sadly, I didn't really know him and the little man he was growing into. And he too knew his mom as 'the woman who was always at her computer and always busy with work'. I never read anythin from my TBR pile; I watched movies with the hubs because otherwise he'd pitch a fit because we never seemed to share time together; on some days lunch consisted of wolfing a protein shake on the way down the stairs to pick kiddo from school, at quarter to 3 in the afternoon; sleep was after working on the PC online in the evening, working on the laptop at night, and working on the PDA phone in bed just before going to sleep around midnight or 1 AM. And in the morning it'd start again at 8.30 AM at the PC to check email before switching to the laptop to work until quarter to 3 when I'd dunk a shake and go pick the kid, to come back again online an hour later.

The fact was, I no longer had any time. I'm very much a perfectionist - when I do something, especially for others, I want it to be perfect to the dot. Without realizing, I will be sucked into the venture and helping out in any way I can. Now if I had no life, that would be great. But that wasn't the case. I was me, I was a wife, I was a mom, and I was a writer.

It came down to a choice - who did I want to be? Strangely, this scene from the movie Cocktail jumped at me - you know where Tom Cruise is eating reheated pizza and doing his assignment where the teacher asked them to write their own obituary. What would my obituary look like if I died today? What would it look like if I continued along the same path I was on? What did I actually want my obituary to say about me?

Certainly not that everyone loved me because I helped at the drop of a hat but the people who mattered said I was there in body but never in spirit and heart. Did I want my husband to ask, why did I stay with her? Did I want my son to tell his kids, my mom never had time for me coz she was always working?

And the writing - let's talk about it. Nothing there. Dry as dust. Forced. Stilted. The problem was - I had no time. Writing was akin to a chore, that I had to fit in with as much gusto as a trip around the house with the hoover in tow (hoover trip that I have to fit in this week, btw, ack!).

I had to face it - I was a writer! Wife and mom and daughter too, yes, but most of all, I was a writer. Not anything else. The choice - writer or everything else work-wise.

Every writer will know and reckon that writing is not a hobby. It's work, it's a job. It takes time, investment, dedication, heart. It takes all your brain and all your soul too.

So the choice came down to - I am a writer. Period. Which meant that while I loved to edit and help authors, that task wasn't me and what I was cut out to do. In a choice between editting and writing, I chose writing, and in the same go, I chose to be a not non-existent wife and mother.

Sadly, not everyone understood my stand. I faced some scathing remarks, some attacks on my person. It was never my intention to let anyone down, but that's how it was construed by some. Thank goodness the people I relied on and cared about rallied around me and I realised how blessed I was to know such amazing ladies. They all 'got it', and hugged and listened and cheered me up.

It hurt me that in a few instances, I saw the real face of some people whom I considered friends. But like every hurdle teaches you, it's in tough times that you realize the real truth, that you see reality for what it is.

But I am moving forward. I quit a job, a prestigious position, and though some would feel like they should regret their lives for such a 'rash' decision, I don't regret it. I'm sad it had to come to this, but I am who I am and the reality is such that I couldn't keep going the way I was. In the process, there are some indelible marks upon my heart now, but this is how we learn, innit?

My goal now? Be the writer I was meant to be all along. I took a detour along the way maybe, but I'm back in stride now. In my personal life, I am getting to know my son better. I am hearing his laughter everyday, a sad fact to mention was that while I was 'working', this 6-going-on-7-going-on-30 little man wasn't laughing anymore. I am getting better acquainted with my husband too, letting the two of us realize why we had chosen to be together for the rest of our lives in the first place (amid some china breaking, of course, but that's us, hot-tempered Indian-origin folks!).

So I am writing, and hopefully, I will have an update for you shortly. I'm thinking of revamping the blog a little too, with some posts of cross-links to life, love, relationship articles I come across on the Net. Sort of like making my Perception Tunnel sub-heading in the weekly post a weekly or bi-weekly happening on here.

All revved up - yes, my mojo is back! I am back too, and let's hope that I won't lose myself anymore!

Thanks to all who stand by me and who in any way, small or big, have touched my life with their presence, words, hugs, and friendship in the past few weeks.

Don't forget:

Live. Laugh. Love!