Day 12 - The role of critiquing in becoming a better writer

I'm part of a group of writers - we've been writing a story every month this year, and we submit it each month, and critique each other's stories.

Critiquing others' stories is a great way of learning the craft of writing. 

In the beginning, it seems difficult - how can you comment about others' writing when you are not so hot yourself?  But once you start, it gets easier, and you realize - it doesn't matter if you are a better writer than the other person or not.  What matters in critiquing is that unlike just reading a story and deciding whether you like it or not, critiquing forces you to recognize what you like and what you don't like in a story, and WHY. 

And the recognition of this WHY is essential because the next time you write a story, you subconsciously bear that in mind, and your story turns out to be better.

So, if you're looking to improve your writing technique, I highly recommend a critique group.

Day 11 - Movie adaptations of fantasy books

The thing about movie adaptations of fantasy books is that they tend to be darker.  A book is only as scary as your imagination is.  But in a movie, someone else's imagination is foisted upon you, and I think it tends to be darker and scarier than you've imagined. 

I noticed this first when I watched the Lord of the Rings movies.  I'd imagined the orcs as nasty creatures while reading the book, but the movie made them downright terrifying as well as nauseating, making me want to close my eyes whenever they appear on screen. 

Similarly, Harry Potter.  It's been a while since I read the books, but I keep watching glimpses of the movie now and then when I run into them on TV.  They are distinctly darker than I'd imagined while reading it.

So, while reading Septimus Heap, I naturally thought of Harry Potter, and I decided against reading it out to Puttachi, thinking that it will be too intense for her.  But there are some situations in Septimus Heap which are pretty scary, but Puttachi takes them in with equanimity.  That's because her imagination probably doesn't allow it to get that scary in her mind. 

That makes me think that I can probably let her read/read out to her the first book of Harry Potter pretty soon, perhaps immediately after we finish Septimus Heap. 

What has your experience been?

Day 10 - The Septimus Heap series by Angie Sage

Sometimes, something that seems insignificant just saunters into your life, and then, before you know it, takes it over completely.

During the summer holidays, we were at my mother's place, and Puttachi was, as usual looking for more reading material to devour.  My mother reminded me about four books that were lying in storage - books that my cousin V had read when he was a kid, and had left them at my mom's place.

I went upstairs, and came back with the books, the first four of the seven books in the Septimus Heap series written by Angie Sage.  I inspected them and said, "Hmm, two or three more years to go. The standard is a little high for Puttachi right now."

Just then, Puttachi came along, and looked at the books.  She saw the title of the first one, "Magyk" and was intrigued.  "Amma,, can you try reading it for me?" she asked.

I shrugged.  We've never been too much into reading.  I've always felt that Puttachi enjoys it better if I narrate stories, rather than read them out to her.  So until now, all that I've read to her are small stories and passages - not entire novels. 

But I thought, okay, let's give it a shot.  Two chapters and we'll know how it is going.

So I started.  Two chapters turned to four - and then ten, and then twenty - before we knew it, we were half way through the book, and Puttachi was totally obsessed with the story, characters, settings.  True, I had to stop and explain a few words, but she got the gist of most of it by my expressions while reading it.  So the story flowed seamlessly.  And I was surprised at how she understood certain situations and concepts - I hadn't thought she was capable of that, emotionally, or intellectually.

We are now into the second book - Flyte, and I'm being a wicked mom and using it for leverage to get things done smoothly around the house.  But, so far, it is working beautifully. 

But in the midst of being outright obsessed and eating, sleeping and breathing Septimus Heap, Puttachi was very bothered about what we'd do after we reach the end of the fourth book.  Are the other three available at the library?  Or can we buy them?  But her problem was solved - my parents presented the other three books to her. 

Now, even before we've finished the second book, she's started guessing what will happen next, and makes up her own tangential version of future events.  Today, she told me her idea of the histories of some of the characters before the start of the events in the books.  Her imagination is in overdrive - sometimes it s more than I can handle, but it is a new, wonderful experience for both of us, and though it is a lot of reading for me to do, I'm not regretting it one bit.  We're having a whole lot of fun.

And already, I'm wondering what we'll move on to after Septimus Heap.  Harry Potter, perhaps?

Day 9 - Five minutes on an evening on the eve of a Hindi test.

So Puttachi has a Hindi test tomorrow, and since Hindi is not familiar to her, I have to sit with her a bit to make her understand it.

But easier said than done.  This is what happened today.

Me: Ok, Puttachi, I'll quiz you on opposites now, and will ask you to write down difficult words.  Keep your pencil ready.

She:  Pencil ready!  See!  Hey Amma, look, this pencil has such a sharp tip.  But look how its shadow looks!  See?  So pretty, right?  I love shadows.  Do you too?  Amma, see, if I turn it like this, see?  Now it looks like a rocket.  And if I keep my hand like this, it looks like -

Me: Yes, I love shadows too! Can we come back to opposites?  What's the opposite of "dheere"?(slow)

She:  I won't tell you.

Me: Why?

She:  I'll show you!  *Gets up, starts running around the room full speed, nearly bumping into walls.  Her hair flops about, her laughter ricochets around the room, and it looks like she won't stop.*

Me:  Ok, ok, you're right, but what is the word for it?

She: I'll write it and show you!

Me: Ok...

She: Last time I wrote it as Ja-la-di, and I want to show you that I've learnt it now, and I know that it is half "la" and not full "la" and so I want to write it and show you.

Me: Ok

She:  *Starts writing*  Ayyo I wrote the line of Ja too slanting.

Me: It's okay, it's okay...

She: No it's not, where's the eraser?

Me: Aaaargh, just draw a line through it and write it again.  Don't waste time looking for the -

She: Found it!  *erases it, writes it again, correctly.*

Me: Good.  Next word -

She: *jumps up on her cycle/scooter - starts going around the room - round and round.* you keep asking, I'll keep telling, I'll come when I have to write something..

Me: *Head spinning*  Puttachi, you decide if you want to study now or not.  We can do it later if you want to play now, I cannot keep -

She: Hey Amma, let's recite the poem. Come, I know it.  Do you know? Try.

Me:  C'mon as long as you've learnt it -

She: You also learn it, Amma.  Our life skills teacher says we should keep learning all our lives.  It improves our brain.  Don't stop learning.  Now recite, I'll stop you if you go wrong.

Me: *Sighhhhhh*

But at the end, she does sit down and study, sometimes by herself, sometimes with a little intervention by me.

Same story at your place too, I'm guessing :)

Note:  I'd gone to bed, turned off the lights, huddled under my blanket before I realized I hadn't put up a post today.  So I got out of bed to write this long post.  *Patting myself on my back*

 

Day 8 - What Really Happened

My friend Madhu has taken the 100 Happy Days challenge on her blog - and she's started writing about what made her happy that day. Yeah, yeah, old stuff, you're thinking.  But she has got a USP, according to me.  Along with what happened, she's also writing about "What Really Happened."

Take a look at this to see what I mean.

One of my pet peeves is what people put up on social media.

All those lovely little moments we put up for the world to see are a few sparkling drops distilled and filtered from the huge cups of dirty water that our lives are all about.

Behind pics of idyllic beach holidays there might be lost luggage, missed connections, mosquito bites, skin-chafing sand, family flare-ups and indigestion.  Behind pics of cherubic babies are sleepless nights, endless diaper changes, post-partum blues.  Behind pictures of couples in love there possibly is mudslinging, name-calling, jealousy, all-night-crying.

Similarly, behind every publication that I brightly announce on my blog, there is endless rewriting, editing, disappointment, frustration, rejection.  And behind every aww-invoking incident of Puttachi that I write about, there are tantrums, and worries, and negotiating, and balancing...

The only thing we see about other people's lives are the bright, happy parts, and we feel miserable, wondering why our lives are not one big party.  So whenever we feel overwhelmed by looking at what seems like other people's good fortune, it'll do us good to remember that there is a "What really happened" story behind it. 

Day 7 - The ultimate irony

Superstitions and irrational beliefs should rightfully be fading by now.  But it seems to be on the rise. 

"Scientists" performing nonsense rituals.  Otherwise logical and intelligent people going totally blind when it comes to "culture" and "heritage" and following outdated customs.  Fake godmen, fake medicines, fake everything - tricksters capitalizing on the gullibility of people, and taking them for a ride, and people willingly going with them!   

Who was it that said, "You should have an open mind, but not so open that your brains fall out."

I just don't understand it, and it always fills me with dread and sorrow, to put it mildly.

But the ultimate irony was this piece of news I read yesterday. 

Dr.Narendra Dhabolkar, who was shot dead last year, was a rationalist.  His murder is still unsolved.  And now, the Pune police are resorting to séances to find out who his killers are. The very unproven mumbo-jumbo that Dhabolkar fought against.

I wish it is a joke.

Day 6 - Indophiles, Everest's house, and neglected heritage

I took a course on Coursera last year, "Archaeology's dirty little secrets," conducted by Brown University.  It opened up new worlds to me.  I started reading up about the history of archaeology in India, which led me to British Indophiles, who did so much to bring India's lost history to light.  

 

The measurement of the Great Indian Arc is one such stupendous story, in which crazy-genius Brits are involved.  I urge you to read The Great Arc by John Keay.  Or start by reading this article "The men who measured earth's curves." I bet you'll come back wondering how it is that we don't know more about all this.  

 

One of the Brits involved in the measurement of the Arc was Sir George Everest, so when we visited Everest's house in Mussoorie, which was the centre of activity during this phenomenal effort, I was terribly disappointed to see what a state it was in.  Yes, we are famous for not recognizing or appreciating or preserving our heritage, and this is one of the more appalling examples.

 

Read my Mint Lounge article "Debris of an Odyssey" of an account of my visit, and my feelings when I saw the house.

Here are some extra pics:

 

The other side of the house overlooks the doon valley. This side overlooks the mountains.

It lies on a grassy hilltop terrace.

The inside of the house.

One of the observatories near the house.

The view of the doon valley from the house.

 

 

If you thought the interior was bad, apparently it was worse.  If you have the stomach, see this video.  Don't know when it was taken though.  But I'm sure you can make out how it must have been in its heyday!

 In 1990, it had been announced that the State Govt was planning to acquire it and turn it into a tourist/excursion spot, but there is no sign of it.  A couple of friends I spoke to told me that INTACH is trying to get control over it to restore it, but I couldn't find any official confirmation on it.

Honestly, I wouldn't want it to become a "tourist" spot, but some care and maintenance, and steps to keep defecating cows out, wouldn't be amiss.

 

 

Day 5 - Article in Mint Lounge

I forgot the post-a-day for the second time in a row.  Wonder what that means!  Anyway, again, I have a publication handy to share with you.

During our trip to Mussoorie-Landour, we visited Everest's 19th century house, which is near Mussoorie.  It is a dilapidated house, its condition all the more distressing because of the monumental things that took place in that house in its heyday.

My account of our visit has been published in today's Mint Lounge - Debris of an odyssey.

Tomorrow, I'll be back to tell you more about our visit, and I'll post pics that haven't been published in the article.

And btw, Mint Lounge is a biggie for me.  I'm pretty pleased to have been published in this :)

Day 4 - Across the Ages anthology

Okay, this was scary.  I nearly forgot I was doing a post-a-day. 

Luckily, this arrived today, saving me from having to think up a coherent post at this time of the night.

 

It contains my story "Hardly a walk in the park."

 

It came out of the blue, months and months after the story was selected for inclusion, and there has been no communication yet about where it will be available, and whether it will be available for sale, etc. 

 

Will update this post once I get to know more.

 

 

Day 3 - A bar stool

One of my nicest Mysore memories is that of my Ajji preparing dosas for breakfast.  She sat on a tall wooden stool in front of the stove in her kitchen, a huge vessel full of dosa batter sat next the stove,  and on two burners were two tavas.  There usually were at least a dozen of us there in the summer holidays, and we'd start eating, two by two, others coming to join in as the first two finished.  She'd churn out crisp golden dosas, and we'd eat it with freshly made chutney made from freshly grated coconut that came from the trees in their garden.

Yeah, my stomach is rumbling too.

Anyway, coming to the point.  The wooden stool.  Making dosas for a hungry dozen takes a long time - and she did the logical thing - she made them all sitting down. 

Recently, while I was taking treatment for a foot pain, I was advised not to stand for too long.  So S went out and got me a bar stool to use in the kitchen.

I grumbled at first.  It doesn't sound easy, working in the kitchen, sitting at the counter.  And it is not.  But there are things one can do sitting down.  Processing vegetables, for example.  Cutting fruits.  Making dosas and akki rotti.  Washing vessels.  And yes - even making chapatis.

I thought that making chapatis sitting down would be totally impossible. But I make quite a few chapatis at least three times a week.  So that's a considerable bit of standing time.  So I gave it a shot, and guess what, that frontier has been crossed too.  Yes, you need to manoeuvre your limbs a little, you need to keep all that you want handy before you sit down, but it is possible to make chapatis sitting down, contrary to what I had believed for years.

I've had the stool for two weeks now, and it is helping. My legs don't feel tired any more after making chapatis.  As for dosas - ah!  Now, without any guilt,  S requests me to make all kinds of dosas, and I don't mind at all.  It is fun, sitting on the stool, making the dosa, swivelling around (Ajji didn't have that luxury!) to talk to S and Puttachi, feeling quite trendy and all. ;)



 

Day 2 - Trees

Recently, I was writing a longish bio for a publication.  While writing about myself, I said, "Shruthi likes books, food and..."  Unbidden, the next word that came to me was "Trees."   I paused for a bit, and then shrugged.  Why not?  So I added "Trees."

Some of you would have already noticed my obsession with trees lately, in the last couple of years.  But for me to equate trees with books and food is, you know, huge. 

But that is how it has been recently. Though I've always liked trees in a vague way (like everybody does, I guess)  it has only been in the last few years that I've actually "looked" at trees closely.  And the more I look, the more enamoured I am by them. 

The deep green, the smell of them, the sound of the wind through their leaves, their shade - trees are, to me, perhaps the most beautiful creatures on earth. 

They charge my emotional batteries.  They leave me with a sense of peace and contentment. 

And I never tire of watching them.

 

Day 1 - Voice recording of a story

So it's been six months, and it is time for me to jump into the fire again with A-post-a-day on my blog.  So get set - here's to 31 posts in July :)

I'd shared the link to a story "At the wedding" recently.  You can now hear it too. 

The editors asked me if I would read out my own story, and my first instinct was to say no.  But S told me to give it a shot.  Even then, I was hesitant.  But S convinced me to at least try it out.  So I did.

I read it out three times first, to see if I'd get the emotions right.  And then, I recorded it - in one single take.  All 13.42 minutes of it.

And yes, I haven't stuttered even once.  So yes, this has been one of the highlights of my recent life.

So here is the link again.

Healthy competition?

My article that appeared in the Feb 2014 issue of Complete Wellbeing is now online. In this article, I attempt to understand if there is any such thing as "healthy competition," and whether competition is necessary for children.

I am interested in your views on this.

The link to the article.

Writing full-time

I quit a job in IT 7 years ago to write.  I didn't know what I would write, or what I could write.  I just knew that I liked writing stories, and I knew I would find something to do.

When Puttachi was little, my entire day revolved around her.  If I think back on it, I smile.  They were some of the loveliest months of my life.  But there were periods of intense frustration and desperation - and whenever I snatched a few minutes of the day in which I could write, I told myself that there would come a day when I would be writing full time.  I still didn't know what I wanted to write, but I visualized it again and again, and I liked the thought of it.

The last couple of weeks have been like that.  All of a sudden, I find myself involved in multiple projects - some started on my own, some assignments, some paid, some voluntary, some fiction, some non-fiction, some creative work, some translation, some research, some imagination.   I write from 9 30 to 2 30, and then again for a bit at night after Puttachi goes to bed. 

It is tiring.  It is overwhelming.  And I'm just about managing to keep all these projects in sections of their own in my mind, and attending to them one by one.  There are times when it seems like the barriers between the projects will break and flood my head.  It is a fine balance, but so far, it's working.

It's tough.  I have housework to do, and cooking.  Puttachi comes back from school at 3, and I have her needs to attend to.  And most people don't understand the concept of writing being work.  For them, it is a hobby that I am following, not a profession I'm trying to build.

But yet, so far, it's working.

I know that a couple of months from now, it might not be the same.  And I might lie on my bed and read this post and say "oh for those days!"    But now, I'm doing just what I hoped to do when I decided to say goodbye to IT for good. And that makes me happy.

There's another thing  about me - that I long suspected, but now know to be true.  I need deadlines.  Deadlines not only as in days, but as in time too.  I need that 3 o clock every day before which I have to finish some work before Puttachi gets home. If the day lies open in front of me, empty, inviting, I end up wasting time and seeking distraction in food and FB.  Self-imposed deadlines work, but aren't that effective.  I need to make a commitment to another person, and I'll fall over myself to stick to it. 

I'm looking forward to see how this journey progresses.
 

Forest Research Institute, Dehradun

The Forest Research Institute in Dehradun is quite a treasure.  The building itself - lime and sandstone, beautiful.  And the trees, the flowers... worth a visit.

Glimpses of other people's lives.

For as long as I remember, I've been afflicted with cryptoscopophilia - The urge to secretly look through windows of homes as one passes by. And all I get is a glimpse - but there's so much one can tell, such a lot one can imagine from that brief window into someone else's world.  

This affliction was particularly acute when I was living away from my family.  I would walk past homes and watch families sitting together, and I'd miss mine terribly.  It hurt, but yet I wanted to catch glimpses.  I have forgotten most of the images, but  some of them have stayed with me - either for the setting, or for the scene playing out then, or just because of how I was feeling at that time.

And then there were scenes in which I wished I was there.  A sudden burst of laughter, perhaps, or a warm family room, a mother cooking and a child next to her, or just a person sitting quietly with a beverage.

A year or so ago, I walked past my own balcony (we live on the ground floor) and looked in.  I could see the balcony, the drawing room, and through that, right into the open  kitchen.  Puttachi sat at the kitchen table, under the golden light of the conical lamp that hangs over the kitchen table, and S was with her.  I realized that this was the exact kind of scene that, if I'd glimpsed elsewhere, would make me wish I was there.  And I smiled, and joined them.

Back to school!

And it is back to school again!  Puttachi starts Class 2 today. 

And here's an article of mine that was published on Saturday - Overcoming June Jitters.

I stuck to my own advice as is in the article, and the transition to school has been smooth - so far. :)

Seven

The Resident Skeptic turns seven today.

 

She: *waking up one morning this summer* Amma, it's so cold today!

 

Me: Yeah it rained all night.

 

She: How do you know?

Me: I woke up a couple of times during the night, and I heard the rain both times.

She: That doesn't prove anything. It could just have been raining when you woke up, and it could have stopped when you went back to sleep. The correct thing to say would be: "It rained for at least some time last night."

Absolutely right, kid. Don't ever stop questioning everything!

Happy Birthday!

Close Encounters of the Bond Kind

What better day to write about my recent experience with meeting Ruskin Bond, than today, his birthday?

I have written before about meeting him in Bangalore.  And in it, there's a line:

I have spent many hours planning how I would go to Mussourie to meet him, sit on the porch of Ivy Cottage, sip tea, and talk to him.

I was wrong on two counts.

Count 1 - Ruskin Bond lives in Landour, not Mussoorie.  Small detail, but makes a huge difference.

Count 2 - Ivy Cottage has no porch.  Trust me.  I know. I stayed in an inn in Ivy Cottage [Try saying that line fast 3 times]

Okay, let's do this in order.

During our recent vacation to Uttarakhand, we stayed for three days in Landour.  Which, by the way is a beautiful place with some great views and green walks and is comfortably away from the mess of Mussoorie. We stayed in an inn that was a part of the same building in which Ruskin Bond also lives.  So, we literally shared a roof, and even a wall with Ruskin Bond.

Firstly, Ivy Cottage isn't set all alone in a grassy meadow, which was how I had imagined it.  A winding, narrow road leads up from Landour Bazaar, and hits Ivy Cottage.  This is where the inn is.  The road then turns to the right and climbs the hill.  So, basically, Ivy Cottage is bound by two roads that climb the hill.  One, the motorable road on the right, and two, the non-motorable, quiet, but steep road on the left. 

The day we checked in, I went round the cottage both on the motorable and the non-motorable one, looking for a likely entry to the house of a renowned, nature-loving writer.  I didn't find any prospective candidates.  I went back to the reception of our inn, and asked the friendly man who sat there.  He pointed towards the motorable road, and said, "Just next door, you'll see red steps leading up to his house."  He also invited me to go ahead and knock at Ruskin Bond's house, that he's used to it.

So, after that evening's walk, I went looking for red steps, but didn't find any.  Then S went with me, and he pointed to a very narrow, steep flight of stairs squeezing their way up through what looked like a break between two buildings.  "This can't be it," I said, even as I climbed it.   But we got to the top.  There was a door, the upper part of which was glass, and led into a kind of verandah.  I hesitated for a bit.  How would I feel if random people turned up at my house with no warning?  Yet, I couldn't help myself.  I rang the bell.  There was a movement at one of the doors leading away from the verandah.  And he appeared at the door.  Yeah, himself, Ruskin Bond.  It was one of the unlikeliest experiences ever.

"Who goes there, friend or foe?" he called out and opened the door.

I introduced myself, and apologized for having landed up without an appointment.  He said it was okay, but that he was in a meeting, and was apologetic about it in a charming way.  He said he'd be available the next day at Oxford Book Store in Mussoorie where he meets fans every Saturday.   He smiled at Puttachi and tried to talk to her, but she was looking at something else, I have no idea what.  I climbed down those stairs, and all I could do was shake my head.  This was unlike anything I ever imagined. 

I stood on the street, and looked up at his window.  That was the window where he keeps his potted plant, and where the birds visit him.  That is the window through which he looks out onto the world.  It overlooks the valley.  I looked at the valley. So that is the sight he sees. 

You know, there is something very spine-tingling about visiting a place like this - the home of someone you've read and admired - someone who's still alive too.

It is like visiting an imaginary place, only it is not imaginary at all.  How shall I put it?  How would it be if you visited, say, Malgudi, or Hogwarts, or Mordor?  Except that the world Ruskin Bond writes about is a real world.  And I'd been there.

The next day, I did meet him at the bookstore, and apologized again and he said he understood.  I told him that since the last time I met him, I'd started writing, and my stories had been received well, and thanked him for being one of my inspirations.  He said he was glad, and wished me well.  He then signed my book for me, and I got some pictures with him.

Later, back in Bangalore, I was reading some essays by him, and in one, he writes about some tourists from Delhi who came to visit him.  He could hear them as they climbed the narrow flight of stairs, and a lady said "He can't possibly live in this tumbledown place."  And I felt my cheeks go hot because though I didn't say that aloud, I thought it in my mind while climbing those stairs.   Only because the image in my head was so clear and well-formed, that it was difficult to reconcile it with reality. 

Even now, if I think of Landour, the first image that comes to my head is the original, imagined one.  Only then does the real image appear, and nudge the first one away.

Now, I only hope I don't appear in one of his future essays as the rude lady from Bangalore!

Edited to add:
At the bookstore, I told Ruskin Bond that Puttachi has read only one of his books - and promptly forgot the title.  Thankfully, Puttachi pitched in with "Tigers for Dinner" and then I caught my breath - it WAS his book right?  He has written before about people thrusting Tom Sawyer and Enid Blyton books at him and asking him to sign. [And he has signed as Mark Twain and Enid Blyton, in case you are wondering.  Har har.]
Phew :D

A story in Open Road Review

There was a short story contest on Open Road Review, and my story was among the shortlisted ones.  It didn't win, though, but it was published in the latest issue.

 Here is the link to the story, At The Wedding.