Tag Archives: Blood Red Sky

Blood Red Sky redux

Got me a tiny excerpt from Blood Red Sky (my eternal novel-in-progress) in The Four Quarters Magazine. It’s only good until their next issue, so check it out here.

 

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Notes from a Wannabe Novelist

inspiration

Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. – Matthew 7:7

There are days I wait for inspiration to strike me, knowing fully well that true writers can grab inspiration out of thin air, and make words up from even the most mundane. And then, I remind myself that what I imagine to be a true writer is really an idealization of what a “true” writer looks like.

In reality, all writers experience the void of self-doubt ever so often, and that self-doubt itself is a part of the process.

So, I stretch my hands out, my palms open, waiting for an offering. A sign of sorts.

And there you are, handing me exactly what I need, your question telling me what I need to know, the only affirmation I need in myself:

Don’t you want to become a novelist?

Don’t I?

I accept, holding your question close to me, reveling in the lightness it brings to my writer’s being, that indescribable feeling of contentment, that unnameable vital energy I have been running after, hoping that it will solve the puzzle of me being who I think I am. And accepting that conviction isn’t enough. The “doing” is also important.

Or else, how am I supposed to become a goddamn novelist? How else am I going to say that, yes, yes, I am! I am a writer.

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Mr and Mrs Andrews Without Their Heads

mr-and-mrs-andrews-without-their-heads-by-yinka-shonibare

Mr and Mrs Andrews Without Their Heads (1998) by Yinka Shonibare

Towards the end of last summer, in a spurt of (spend)thriftiness, I ended up buying a bunch of literary magazines. I wanted to write something that would match the caliber of the likes of Granta, The New Yorker, Paris Review et al.

I also ended up engaging in a belated NaPoWriMo. The effort only lasted upto mid August, but in the process, I ended up coming up with a bunch of poems. The styles and content of these poems were nothing like anything I had ever penned before. To be honest, I thought they were shit (not the shit, just shit).

Two of these poems are now in Pyrta.

While “Mr and Mrs Andrews Without Their Heads” is based upon a photo of an art piece by the same name in an issue of Granta (I had purchased back then), “Blood Red Sky” draws from the title of my novel-in-progress.

Read them here, in the 2012 Winter Issue of Pyrta.

As well, check out some of the awesome poets featured in the same issue such as  Goirick Brahmachari, Aseem Kaul, Alexander Callum Harrison, Ishita Bhaduri, Namita Krishnamurthy, among others.

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A Novel Idea

Ok, fine. It’s true.

I am pregnant.

With an idea for a novel.

So, after much arguing and shooting down of parental objections-

“How can you go alone?”

“You will be bored in two days!”

“Wait till you fall sick…”

“Is this how you waste your hard earned money?”

“What are your plans for the future? When do you plan to get married?”

and so on it went- I bought a ticket to the city of my birth for a four month stint.

With Calcutta, there is no method to its madness. There is no modus operandi waiting to be cracked.

Winter is not cold. The streets are choked with dust, screaming in silence for the monsoons due to arrive six months later. Cars honk without stopping. People stare and spit, obnoxious and devoid of shame. Mosquitoes serenade you after dark (right before they deliver their love bites). And, the volley of questions… oh the questions.

My mejo jethu asked on our first meeting, “I just don’t get it. How did your father allow you to come alone?”

“I was planning to run away, in case he didn’t,” was my pensive answer with a polite smirk. I am becoming quite adept at these polite smirks.

My maid asked, “What time did you go to bed last night?”

“Late,” I answer again, my polite smirk popping up undeterred. Who the eff cares? You are being paid to clean the house and cook occasionally.

My friend from my nursery days, “You guys are so forward. Your parents are really liberal, aren’t they?”

Just the smirk this time. Oh, if only she knew.

And after being hit by a bout of fever, vomiting, cough and cold, and delhi belly (which should be rightfully renamed to India belly)- all in the span of two weeks after my arrival- I rolled up my sleeves and got down to work.

Work meant research. Work meant reading. Work meant revisiting my thesis ordeal last summer.

Flashback to last summer:

I am trudging through a hundred page Master’s thesis on religious identities of Indian women through fictional representations. In other words, I am screwing myself royally, while the saner of the grad students are taking the easy way out through summer courses. There are nights when I cry myself to sleep, reminding myself constantly of my trip to India that lies beyond those hundred pages.

In the present time, I stare at the books I have ordered. They are filled with academic essays on the time period I want to research.

Smile, dear child, my muse mocks. This is what you wanted, remember?

*I am currently in Calcutta, India, until the month of April, researching and working on my first novel tentatively titled, Blood Red Sky.*

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Filed under anecdote, fiction, Travel, Writing about writing