With Joyce Carol Oates - The First Day Workshop

 First Day With Joyce Carol Oates Workshop

Yesterday was that special night I had been counting for days, The first workshop eve with Joyce Carol Oates.
When the librarian, Kathi told me about this workshop and encouraged me to submit thirty pages of my unpublished book "Shadow Birds" I was quite skeptic.  She told me "There is nothing to lose, Dita, it is free, and if you are one of the ten selected ones you get an enormous gift." 

Yes.  I submitted at the very last minute.  And lo and behold - the next week got an email that my piece was selected!  

This was an enormous gift to me and the nine other emerging Bay Area writers like me.  We couldn't thank enough for the generosity. 

When I reached the Lafayette library at our designated meeting room, it was not quite 6 pm. Three other ladies were standing in front of that room with folders in hands, a smile on their faces. As our eyes met one of them, an attractive lady with short dirty blond hair grinned.

“Is this the Joyce Carol…”  I asked. 

“Yes.” She replied. “I am Shanti.” 

“Shanti! So nice to meet you. Your hippy parents gave you this Indian name! I am Dita. I really enjoyed reading your memoir piece.” I stretched my hand.  

She simpered, “ Khukumoni?” 

It felt interesting that we knew each other so well, especially in memoirs you really open up to your readers, yet we didn’t know who the creator is. Not yet.” In a short while, we introduced each other. More and more joined. The door opened. 

A lady with a sweet smile waved her hand “Welcome! Have a wonderful evening with Joyce Carol Oates. “

Ms. Oates was sitting at one end of a long rectangular table in a burgundy color jacket and oxidized silver earring studs. She didn’t need an introduction. We all have seen her pictures many times. The gentleman with a broad smile sat next to her was Joseph Di Prisco- a renowned poet, memoirist and editor.  

 He is the chairman of the Simpson Family Literacy Project, a nonprofit organization that sponsors literacy outreach in the Bay Area and today’s workshop is part of that generosity. 

He is very humorous and brought lots of laughter with each comment. For example, he said, “I wrote a book named ‘Subway to California’. One day a lady in one of my reading group got very annoyed. She stood up, a folder in hand, with brows crossed, asked ‘So it’s got nothing to do with your subway project proposal?’ Hey, no! It’s just a novel.” He chuckled. 

Ms. Oates was calm with a charming way of talking with opening her palms and playing with her fingers. I was feeling funny sitting next to her as if I was not worth it.… but had I seek another chair farther, it may look impolite. So I plopped. But I must say sitting next to such a personality was giving me chills, some kind of shocks, now and then. Strange, but true. 

When she looked at me and said “I am Joyce Carol Oates, and you? “I felt blood rushed to my cheeks. 

“Anindita Basu. You may call me Dita” I blew. 

“Dita…Dita… I thought you’d be much older living through the partition of India.” Holding my piece,  the first three chapters of ‘Shadow Birds’ she smiled.

“Well, actually the seed of the story came from my mother. It is not really a memoir. I’d say, a young adult historical fiction. A story of a young girl during the partition of India.” 

“Hmm. A young adult genre?” her brows knitted.

“Your language is beautiful. Lyrical. The starting is great and the title ‘Shadow Birds!… Stunning. Well, we’ll come back to the genre. Everything goes if you can do it right. We’ll come back to that.”

I could feel my heart pounding. Hopefully, my blood pressure is on the check. I sipped water to take a breath. I remember the other day telling my husband I can never find my pulses. They are so quiet. Checked my throat, checked my wrist..no ..I couldn’t hear a thing. He couldn’t either. We could find his, loud and clear. But today I could hear my heart beat going thump..thump.

“Tell me a little about your writing life. Since when are you writing? Did you publish anything so far?” Ms. Oates asked. 

I meant to say, “Since when? All my life. Since the first time I received my first present from Santa Claus and wrote him a letter on a slate chalkboard…. the day ma was unfair and slapped me instead of my brother…the afternoon I learned that I am pretty from the side glance of a young man at the bus stand on my way to school…the day I found out that my love left without telling me….and and so many more..” But I couldn’t say a thing. Just smiled. She finished for me “Forever?” I nodded. 

“Who is your favorite author?” I took a deep breath.” Where should I start?” If I say Rabindranath to start with, Bibhutibhusan, Tarasankar, Ashapurna Devi .would she get it? But they are my foundation, my mentors. I gulped.

“Hemmingway, Alcott, Mark Twain, even Betty Smith (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn- my favorite), and of course you, Joyce Carol Oates (Where are you going..where have you been, A Widow’s Story.)”

She pressed her lips. “Okay, okay.” 

She looked at the next candidate and Shanti picked up the thread. 

What was the take away from today’s workshop

* “Write every day.” She said. “Even when I was going through the trauma with the death of my husband, I kept a daily journal about what was happening. I was in no form writing cohesively then, but it helped later to sort out when I put together the memoir. “So that’s how that memoir “A Widow's Story “ was written. 

“When you are much hurt or having a splendid time visiting awesome places, keep a daily journal…just what is happening. Later the memory will come. Draw past from the present.” 

 * Tie in a big (larger than life) event, experience or emotion to give your writing another dimension. For example, she asked Shanti if she knew anyone from her family who had survived the Holocaust or suffered directly. Shanti’s memoir was about an experience she had in an Israeli military camp. Her background is Jewish, and she talked about her faith and religion in that piece. 

  

  

Piyari, the Elephant (Excerpt from Shadow Bird )

Piyari, the Elephant (Excerpt from Shadow Birds)

Shadow Bird is a Young Adult historical fiction. Though I strived to be mindful and not change history, the characters and events are imagined. Many stories, heard and read, pictures and photographs, music and books fueled my imagination. Out of them, I must mention the Bengali memoir Jiboner Indradhonu written by Dhritikanto Lahiri Choudhury. 


I wished I could hand my book to him in person but just came to know that he had passed away recently, on March 1, 2019. My deep regards and gratitude for this wonderful writer and a lover of wildlife, especially elephants.

Today I am posting an excerpt of my novel, dedicating it to his thoughts. 
                                                * * *

Zentangle Art by Anindita Basu @ copyright

I’ll never forget Piyari Chanchal. He was an adolescent elephant like me, same age, or maybe a bit older. Like an active, restless little boy, he loved to play in the water and would not come out. He would thump and clomp and play in the muddy pool, spray and splash with his trunk. He was very fond of my second cousin, Kutti dada.

No one could get him out of the water even when it got dark. “Get up elephant, it is time to go home,” the mahut (elephant keeper) shouted, but Piyari Chanchal would not listen, until Kutti dada bribed him with bananas and coconuts and cajoled him, stroking his trunk, “Chanchal shona, my love, I promise you another day to play again.” The elephant swayed his trunk and listened to him but not to grownups at all.

Elephants and people have a lot in common. Their life spans are similar to ours. I heard that in their late sixties and seventies they get the same health problems that humans face. They suffer from heart troubles, arthritis, shortness of breath, just like us.

When they are little, they depend on their moms solely like we do. The elephant mom teaches them how to use the trunk for eating, cleaning, drinking and also how to greet. Like we learn to use our hands. When they are thirteen or so, they enter puberty like we do and soon become adults. Around twenty they are able to have babies.

Piyari Chanchal also had one of those crazy days of puberty. One day he took us, a bunch of people to the riverside on his back. The sun was going down in the Brahmaputra River. The western sky blushed with vermilion and lustful pink. Piyari Chanchal had seen it all.

After he reached the portico, he gently sat, folding his rear legs to let each one of us get down. Then he rushed, shook the mahut off and started to run. The mahut was a bit perplexed in the beginning, then he grinned “Zara masti aye” (got a bit high), he remarked.

Piyari Chanchal started running around, banging the iron gate, messing up the stalls in the market. When some tried to prevent him, he turned them upside down. He attacked the cars and the horses on the main road. People got hurt and many shops lost their merchandise.

He was marked as a mad elephant. The District Magistrate ordered, “Shoot the damn elephant.” Probably the Magistrate was encouraged by George Orwell's books and wanted to be a hero for shooting an elephant. Now, the Magistrate did not have any tools to do the job, so he asked the zaminder.

The sandalwood adorned rifle was taken down from the wall and handed over to the boss. What could he do? You may be a Raja of someplace, but when an order came from the British headquarters, you had to obey.

Piyari Chanchal was a beloved elephant of our extended family. Kutti da’s grandfather, could not accept his murder. Every now and then the sound of that bullet echoed in his brain. For the next few days, he kept himself isolated in a dark room, not eating, not doing anything. It was a strange mourning session he dedicated for the elephant. Kutti da was in college in Calcutta. So luckily he did not have to experience it.

I thought of Piyari Chanchal a lot. Felt that such bouts of exhilaration did come to me too sometimes. There were times when I wished if I could just run run run up the Garo hills, through the green rice fields, swim in the Brahmaputra River, dive and sink like a fish, hug someone tight and kiss...

Piyari Chanchal, by nature, was much active, more energetic. But he was a teenager like me after all. Maybe he did it a bit too much but for that should he be killed? And we had no voice to protest it?
I flung my school bag on the floor. My throat felt dry, my mouth, bitter. I wished I could cry. Only a black void, a sadness as big as that dear elephant kept swirling in my chest and crept up to burst inside my brain.

Ma entered the room. “Look at you, your face looks like a dry mango. What happened?”—She touched my forehead. “No, you don’t have a fever.”

“Do you know that Piyari Chanchal has been killed?” my voice choked.

“Of course I do. What are you going to do with a mad elephant?”

I jerked and brushed her hand away and thumped my feet in anger leaving the room.

“Oh my! What a tantrum. Who are you showing all that temper to, hmm? You need to grow up girl, You must learn grace and humility
and how to be nice. At your age  I was already married. How will you handle it when you are married and live with your in-laws?”

I stormed to my room and slammed the door. This was my first experience with death. Death of a loved one. Maybe he was not a human, but I loved him. We played, he took me riding on his back, I painted on his back, fed him, cajoled him, he caressed me with his trunk, we were friends. We loved each other.

I felt like screaming, hiding my face under a pillow, and wanting to have a good cry. But that did not happen. I remained motionless with all that suffering stuffed up, alone. At one time I got up and started revolving around myself like a rotating firework until I felt dizzy. In the mirror many images of me kept on whirling like those Sufi monks who meditate like that, arms stretched out revolving and dancing at their own center. I looked like those meditating monks.

Then I was tired and plopped onto my bed. The chess board on a table across the room came into my vision, swirling ferociously. When it stopped I narrowed my eyes and to my amazement found that they were not just chess figurines anymore. They were alive. They had life.

From Babu’s library, I could hear the music. Dara-ra-ra, dara-ra-ra... dara-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-rung! Beethoven’s fifth symphony. I felt goosebumps.

On the chessboard, the black soldiers, the horses, the bishops and the queen stepped one by one and in groups with the beat of the music and captured the white king’s castle. The king was totally stuck. All the white soldiers, his horses, bishops, rooks, even the white queen were rolling on the board now. Lifeless. 

The black soldiers were glistening in sweat and blood with their swords and shields adorned in sandalwood paste blessed by the goddess. They were demanding from the white king, “Why this injustice?”

The music in the other room was in crescendo to celebrate. Don’t you worry Piyari Chanchal dear, one day we’ll straighten it out.

Rules of Writing

Rules for writing. 

My writer friends Gretchen and Wayne invited me to this wonderful journey of reading books about the craft of writing and sharing thoughts. I dedicate myself to honing the craft of writing. 

We start with Robert McKee's book ‘Story’ and will add others as needed. 

This 437-page book is about the craft of writing though it pleasantly surprises me when I  read that there is no formula for good writing. 

Then what are these four hundred pages for? I wonder. 

I hear the same message in D.V.Swain’s book - (Techniques of the Selling Writer) 

“No writer in his right mind writes by a set of rules, at least not someone else’s rules.’-  says the author (page 9).

Why not?

‘Because rules start at the wrong end, with restrictions and formulas.’

Then what do I start with? I ask. 

“With your feelings. Your own feelings," answers Mr. Swain., “ If you haven’t got feelings, you can’t write.” 

I love to hear, “The self-taught writer holds a small advantage here, perhaps. Lacking formal training, he is unaware of technique a thing separate and apart. Intellectualization of art is still alien to him.” 

So he focuses on feeling. 

Mc. Kee adds: 

“Over the last 25 years,….the method of teaching creative writing in American universities has shifted from the intrinsic to the extrinsic… Erosion of values has brought with it a corresponding erosion of story.….First, we must dig deeply into life to uncover new insights, new refinements of values and meaning.”  

I remember Maya Angelou’s quotation - “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you”. That is the reason you, my dear writer why you write.

  

I remember my  late writer father’s admonishing- “Write only if you can’t do without.” 

Still,  as a bilingual, bicultural writer  I hesitate when I am confronted with ‘Who is your audience?’ 

Would the mainstream western readers relate to my story? Would my audience understand my voice which is different because my values are, my language is?

Mr. McKee answered my quest with an example:  the story of a younger sibling who is dying to get married. She belongs to a culture where the older siblings must be married first. The protagonist spends her whole life not being able to be with her beloved. 

This story may not touch a reader who doesn’t share this way of living. He may find this problem weird, absurd and the story not worth reading because it is too foreign..

How could this plot be a successful story? Here the author shone his light to the understanding of two important terms: 

Stereotypical and archetypal.   

The writer’s focus should be on the archetypal, digging deep on the feelings of the protagonist so it resonates with that of the reader’s.  

How?

 Focus on basic human emotion. Strike the right cord of the reader’s emotion where he feels the pain of the helpless lover. That is a universal, eternal thing. 

Readers read fiction because
"fiction gives life its form… a story isn’t a flight from reality but a vehicle that carries us on our search for reality." explains Swain. 

Good Story Well Told

McKee brings this point succinctly with two examples:  a lady’s story ‘ how I put my children on the school bus’ and ‘a mother’s funeral. 

The subject of the second story is much touching. But it did not touch the listeners for its boring delivery and stereotypical details. In contrast, the mention of the ‘nose-picker’ child made everyone burst in heartfelt laughter. It touched the audience. 

"Trivial materials brilliantly told vs profound material badly told," 

Story talent and Literary talent

Story talent is primary says, McKee, while literary talent is secondary. Without good storytelling no matter how sharp your grammar sense be, it won't stand.  At the same time sense of grammar is essential too. 

Talent without craft 

The author brought the fuel and the engine in the analogy of talent without craft. Without the engine the fuel is meaningless. It may burn but accomplish nothing.

Therefore, those 437 pages!    

Novel and Bell

Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni explains a good story ( or novel) is like a bell in her article about writing. An interesting analogy. She writes: 

“The successful novel, on the other hand, has a shape much like a bell. We begin at the top of the bell, its tight curve. Every detail has a purpose here: the way a woman tilts her head, the slant of light as one exits the subway, the repetition of a phrase. As soon as we have gained our bearings, we notice things beginning to open up, flaring outward the way a bell does…..

Reading it becomes a three-dimensional experience, beginning in the book and ending in ourselves. Such a novel, while it is a mirror of, and a commentary on, a particular event, people, country or time, is on some level about each one of us, our central truth. Each successful novel gives a special flavor and shape -- and tone -- to this truth but does not limit it to these. In this, it is similar to the bell, which shapes sound without enclosing it."

  

Focus (For a Writer)

I needed a focus.  Thoughts drifted me away, and it felt like I was trying to cook on all four burners while things were spilling from each one even though all I was doing was driving, not cooking. 

I calmed down and realized that the drive through the Kirker Pass road on this chilly day from my home town Walnut Creek to Pittsburg was such a blessing.  Yes, blessing, and did I ever count that? 

Thank You for this scenery, thank You I can still see it.

The hills that were hay-yellow and brown last summer are velvet soft brushed with green, like an oil painting with bold, confident strokes.  The bare branches of the trees done with pen and ink sketches meticulously etched.  Occasional cherry blossoms with whisper soft pink dabbed with sponge paint, looked like a child’s art.  Then the clouds that hugged the snow-capped Mt. Diablo!  Here the Supreme artist brought her watercolor palette. 

What a magnificent decision to mix all the various media. How daring - forgetting all rules, breaking all formulas to express exactly what She wanted.

I was trying to paint that too, with words, but in vain. What I felt today in my solo driving was a sense of transcendence, a feeling of uplift that doesn’t happen often in everyday living.  I wanted to hold on to that feeling.  Stay at that moment and stretch it.  

Mind drifted away. Thoughts accumulated like dust balls and whirled in front of me. 

It started with the thought: ‘Why write another book while so many others are there?’   Then, ‘who’ll read yours?  What is your WHY?’

The quotation from the speaker Stephen Nightingale shared at the CWC meeting last Saturday shone like a light bulb. 

“Writing is a way of giving to the stranger.” 

STRANGER! Huh! Did I ever think like that?  

Yes, I can feel that is the reason I toss and turn, go through enormous pain that all endeavoring writers  (or artists) go through. I wanted to give to the stranger,  to connect. 

There is a tremendous urge to give, to share my story to a stranger who’d listen, who’d connect with my writer’s soul.  This stranger is unknown, maybe even not born yet... but that is my goal. 

There is so much noise out there regarding choosing your reader I am confused.  Heck! Do I know that?  But I hear over and over ‘Who is your audience?’.

I go from one book to another, click one link to another to get that answer.  I have a wealth of information  I gather at the end of each day but I don’t know what to do with it. 

FOCUS- says my inner voice.  Just write.  


   

Nanaimo

Recently a dear friend treated me to an awesome dessert - the Nanaimo bar.

If you are a brownie lover or a chocoholic like me you'd die for it.  A thin chocolate slab would melt in your mouth with a soft taste of pudding or marshmallow which would end with again another piece of biscuit like delicious decadence of cocoa or chocolate.  Don't ask for the recipe, it is sinfully sumptuous.

My friend Anne made it for me and she did it oh so perfectly...but let it be with her, cause I dare not count my Weight Watchers Points for that.

With a bite of this delicious thing, it brought me memories of the place- Nanaimo we visited last fall.

The name Nanaimo means- the strong big tribe. But what I'd associate with this name is a tranquil quaint little place where I had a chance to listen to different sounds of the water.  The swooshing waves when a big ship passes as well as gurgling books and how water purls that are caught between pebbles and rocks.

Go to Nanoose Bay if you want to escape from the hustle bustle of the rushed life, sit on the rock and observe all kinds of shorebirds at the end of a day.

 A trip to Regards Coffee in the morning should have been a must,  we heard from our new friends Richard and Mary, but we missed it and I am more of a tea drinker.  Tea Desire is a grand place also.

Don't you miss meeting the goats on a rooftop at Coombs Old Market and definitely not the ice cream they sell there.  Out of one hundred choices, I was confused indeed, and asked for  Dulce de leche and was not disappointed at all.

Next, we went to the Englishman River Falls  Park.  A nice place for a short hike. Here what I'd remember are the awesome shades of green nature had to offer.  The dark green strokes on the branches of junipers and pines, the fern green sweeps on the bushes and shrubs along the falls and then the moss balls...oh so soft like velvet blanket on the rocks.
                                                                 

It was only about a three-hour ferry ride from Vancouver and was very worth it for the tranquility it gave us.

Why Should You Blog?

Why another blog post?

Why should you blog? And if so about what?

Last Saturday in our California Writers Club the discussion topic was about Writing Blogs.

We know that though one of the main reason to have a blog is monetizing, I knew it was not my main reason.

The reason for my blog started as journaling my journey as a writer.  The agony and ecstasy I feel.

Ecstasy:

 When I accomplish writing a new piece that I like. The high I get when something good happens in my writing life like winning a prize in a contest or receiving a publishing promise, which seldom happens.

 Agony:

Mostly it is the numbness when I stare at a blank page and suffer writer's block.  It is the feeling of shame and low self-esteem I suffer for procrastinating and miss deadlines.

I establish my lack of concentration, lack of discipline, a lack of perseverance and trustworthiness.

I fail constantly to keep the promises I make to myself and prove my vulnerability.

What's the point writing about all this negativity?

As a result, I remain silent and dig huge gaps between my blog posts.

Today I felt recharged and encouraged after the seminar.  I came to know that that is the case with many bloggers.  This vulnerability is our common ground  Together we can do something about it.

What I took away  from the seminar: Reasons to Blog:

* Self Improvement
* Giving back and sharing. Like sharing someone else's writing or a book review.

As a fiction writer, I feel confused about the topics to cover.  I found some wonderful ideas in Jane Friedmans blog articles.

 Then, I came across another article by Jerry Jenkins where he talked about twenty different steps for finishing a book.

Out of the twenty or so ideas,  the one I picked up  today is the seventh one

Establish a Sacred Deadline

I decided to take twelve months to gather, edit and add stories from my old diary and knit them in a thematic thread. Each memoir piece will be 2000 words or so.  In order to make a book, I should aim for 25 to 30 such pieces, which means I must produce at least two to three a month.

It is doable.

 Are you a writer?  Do you have such a concrete plan? If not why not make one,  and be my writing buddy?   I'd die to hear from you in the comment box.

SCARED

Scared of

A short story

Oh I am so glad to learn that this story ranked Second place! in a Flash Fiction Contest

Here it is:

Scared of  

I knew something was strange but could never anticipate it this way because Zina is a brave girl.  She is four and a half and she is afraid of nothing.  Almost nothing. 

When Dracula laughed out showing its bloody teeth sitting at Didun’s porch kicking fallen leaves all the children freaked out.  Not Zina.  

“It’s just a fake one, a record inside is doing the trick” she commented. 

When the wind howled hoo-hoo, crisp autumn air swung the hanging ghosts on the clothesline, Zoe pointed that in the wee morning hours when it is still dark, real ghosts do come and visit.  She even showed their spits on the morning glory flower bed. 

Zina shook her pigtails. “ I’m not scared.  They are not ghost spits.  They are just bud spits.  Soon you’ll see white flowers coming out.  Daddy told me so.  Trust me, Zoe, there are no ghosts, Really.” 

When Didun brought cookies for the children and Robin shrieked out, 

“A spider!” Zina held her head up, brought a plastic cup and a junk-mail envelope, slid the spider into the cup, covered the top and took it outside. 

“ Spiders are good things, Robin, nothing to be scared of.” She assured like a big sister. 

When Aria pointed out that their neighbor Melissa who dresses up like a witch  for Halloween is a real witch, “ I am scared of her mole, her real mole…” Zina came and caressed her. 

“Aria, she can’t help her mole.  It happens to some people but she is the kindest person, Really.  Trust me.  She feeds the birds every morning, cures sick baby orchids, and helps me cross the road.  She is not a witch, just pretends to be one on Halloween nights.”

Didun exclaimed all of a sudden, “Oh Zina, I forgot, I have something for you”,  and gave her a big bag. 

Inside, there was a coat.  A silver grey coat with two iridescent blue buttons.

“That’s a beautiful color!”  Zoe clapped. Aria brushed her fingers on it,  “So soft!”  Robin smelled it, “Umm!”  But Zina kept quiet. 

Colors from her tomato-red cheeks drained. Twinkles from her dark eyes dimmed.  All the giggles from spunky Zina turned into a frown,  Zina started sobbing. 

“What happened, Zina?” Didun held her chin up. Tears rolled down. She hid her face on Didun’s bosom.  “I am scared.  I am scared of buttons.” 

“Scared of  buttons?”  Everyone laughed.  “Look Zina, they are pretty easy.” Zoe showed buttoning and unbuttoning the coat several times. 

“Zina, other people will see your buttons, not you. They are too close to your throat, See!” Aria tried to comfort.   Robin poked the two buttons 

“Like fox eyes, Zina?  that’s why?   But they are not real!” 

Zina cupped her ears. “ No, no, no. Stop.  I just don’t like buttons.  I won’t wear buttons.  I don’t want other people to see my buttons.  I am scared of buttons.” She jerked. 

Didun held her. “ That’s fine, Zina.  We are all scared of something.  I’ll fix your buttons.  You don’t have to wear them.”  She yanked them out and replaced with velcro circles.  It managed to keep the coat fastened. 

Zina wiped off her tears and sniffles. A rainbow smile beamed on her face.  Didun helped her with the arms and she skipped and danced and rushed outside to play