Kanazawa street at sunset

(All photos by my husband. My hands were busy pushing a stroller.)

I returned recently from two weeks in Tokyo, Takayama, Kanazawa and Kyoto. The trip was sublime, even with a not-quite-three year old in tow. It is an experience that is remaining with me, impressions and images vivid in my mind even as I have been fully sucked back into the whirlwind and mundane aspects of regular life. And I can tell these will stay with me for a long time, with my self as an observer of the world, as a student of an art form, as a parent and as a writer.

Three things resonated with me the most, the first of which was the attention to detail, the thought put into the smallest of things. Everywhere were umbrellas available for borrowing, and bins for drippy ones post use. All restaurants we frequented, no matter how un-childish, immediately set out plastic utensils and bowls for the little one. All toilet seats were pre-warmed. (Well, that’s a whole other topic–the intricacies of the toilets or “washlets” and the many functions they can perform.) Every room we stayed in was equipped with a Zojirushi hot water maker, ready on demand with water for tea (with different settings for green and black). There is a focus on service, even outside the service industry. People came up to us to offer help, to give up their subway seats for the children. And I could wax rapturous about the ekiben, the bento box lunches made and sold specifically for train trips.

All this spoke to me of a people aware of their surroundings. A week after our return, I sat at the Muse & the Marketplace writing conference in Boston listening to acclaimed literary critic James Wood give a keynote talk in which he focused on the notion of the writer’s ability and mandate to “seriously notice” the world around her, and I thought about how much more the Japanese seem to seriously notice their surroundings, and care about them, than Americans overall. (Pardon the generalization, but I trust you understand what I mean.)

Takayama cherry blossoms

Which leads me to the second strongest impression I had in Japan: aesthetics reign. The emphasis on presentation–of spaces, of food, of nature, of objects, of oneself–and the importance of doing things right and getting to their essence was a delight. And I realized how much I value this. I may never have articulated as much to myself, but I understand now that a focus on aesthetics is something I have always appreciated, for better or for worse. From the way I used to set the table in my childhood home, folding the napkins into fans and arranging the tomatoes and cucumbers into designs on the lettuce, to the way I fear sharing some of my writing, even before writing it, because it won’t be sufficiently well-crafted. Sometimes I wonder in frustration why one should bother to make an extra effort, but now, having been to Japan, I see how such an effort, on a larger scale, can be transformative. The small, ten foot square gardens in front of the most modest of homes, with their thoughtfully arranged stones and moss and maple tree, are delightful enough, but then look at the Kenroku-en garden in Kanazawa, and how everywhere the eye turns it is met with magnificent compositions, and one is almost overwhelmed by the magical aesthetics of it all.

Kenroku-en garden in Kanazawa

The timing of this trip, along with these realizations, has segued most serendipitously into an exercise: crafting a writer’s mission statement. With a juggle of responsibilities and minimal time to write–the plight of most writers–I want to ensure that I deploy my resources on those activities that will get me closer to what I truly want to achieve as a writer, and that necessitates, unfortunately, that I figure it out and articulate that goal to myself. (Admittedly, this provides a good opportunity to put off actual work on one’s manuscript, under the guise of an otherwise productive and useful endeavor.) As soon as I was over the incapacitating jet lag of our trip, I sat down to think about what really drives me to write fiction, and adhering to a strong sense of aesthetics figures strongly there. The Kenroku-en garden is like an ideal to strive for, a magical place that engages the senses, where the sum of individual and carefully crafted parts adds up to a wholly immersive experience.

Garden at Denpo-in, Tokyo

With current writing projects focused on India, people in unique societal positions, history and art, this third aspect of Japan grabbed at me and won’t let go: the very aliveness of and respect for history and tradition without any compromise to the advances of modernity. In the midst of high rises and neon (arguably not really advances) will be nestled a gorgeous shrine, set about with lovingly shaped trees, swinging lanterns, and incense sticks whose spirals of blue smoke are a testament to the attentions of living souls. In the bustling streets, in front of a convenience store, will be a trio of kimono-clad women going about their business of simply living. In the traditional townhouse, or machiya, that we rented in Kyoto, stunning in its simplicity, was a wooden soaking tub, a mainstay of Japanese cleansing rituals.

Kimonos in Kanazawa

 

Kyoto machiya

Last night, as I was singing to the little one before bed and after her own bath, I overheard a conversation between eight year old K and her father. After the usual prodding, K was going through the routine of cleaning up her belongings in the common areas–sweater flung across the armchair, sneakers tossed in the general direction of the closet, Scotch tape and paper scraps from her craft project involving a stuffed baby kangaroo on the counter–before retiring to her lair, I mean, bedroom.

K: Why do I always have to go around cleaning up every single little thing?
Father: Remember when we were in Japan, and things were so neat and simple and organized, and how much we all enjoyed that?
K: Yeah. (Her intonation rises, implying the unsaid: What’s your point?)
Father: Well, wouldn’t it be nice to bring a little bit of that into our own home?
K: But we’re in America!

I wonder if she meant that as in “We’re not in Japan” or whether it was more of an observation about America itself. Regardless, isn’t that why we travel? To experience and assimilate new ideas, new aesthetics, new perspectives? What experiences in other locales have had a long-lasting impact on your life or work?

Shirakawago

This coming weekend is one of my favorites of the year: the weekend of the Muse and the Marketplace writing conference in Boston. Among the best in the country in caliber and professionalism, it attracts writers, editors, agents, PR specialists and many others connected to the craft and business of writing. (#Muse2013 for those of you active in social media.) After six years of attending this conference religiously–holding the weekend sacred and putting aside all other responsibilities of parenthood, teaching and freelancing–I have a few tips for anyone attending this, or any other, writing conference.

Wear something interesting. The dress code is casual but professional. No jeans, cut-offs, etc. But within that, be creative! You want to stand out, be noticed in a positive way. Everyone will be meeting hundreds of people. Don’t you want to be easily remembered? Keep your clothing appropriate, of course, but don’t be afraid to accessorize, or wear something that helps spark conversation. Even better if it relates to the type of writing you do. My historical novel is set in India, and I own some salwar kameez, the loose pants and tunic outfits that many women in India wear. Aside from the fact that they are remarkably comfortable, these colorful outfits invariably stand out from the sea of slacks and jackets, and often attract comments, which then naturally segue into a conversation about my writing.

Dress in layers. Writing conferences, like many types of conferences, often take place in large hotels. There are invariably fluctuations in the HVAC system that are beyond the control of conference organizers. One year, there was an Arctic gale blowing through some of the session rooms. Another year, some floors of the hotel were sweltering and oppressive. Dress in layers that can be removed or added as necessary.

Bring plenty of business cards. Like 30 or so for each day of the conference. These can be your “regular” business card that relates to your other, non-writerly (gasp!) life, if you have one, or cards made specifically for your writer avatar. (I use Zazzle.com for the latter.) Either way, have plenty on hand, and make sure that the information is up to date, and contains the URL of your web site or blog if you have one. Then, don’t be shy about handing out your card, although always do so in a respectful and understated manner.

Keep a pen on hand. Even if you are planning to take notes on a laptop or other electronic device, keep a pen handy, if only to jot down, on the back of each business card you receive, a few key words about the person whose card it is. After 2-3 days of conference-going, you will be glad for the reminder of who was who.

Follow up with the people you meet. Wait a day or two for people to travel back home and unwind from the conference, and then drop them a note to tell them how you enjoyed meeting them. Include some kind of reminder of who you are–a reference to your conversation, or something that will jog their memory.

Engage with fellow writers, not just editors and agents. Even if you are on a quest to snag an agent or land a book deal, do not neglect the vast and supportive and resource-full community of writers around you. Other writers are your allies, your support network, your source of encouragement, your creative sounding boards. I met every member of my writing group through Grub Street, and have made many additional friendships through the Muse.

When engaging with editors or agents, be mindful of their schedules. At these conferences, agents and editors have responsibilities beyond simply being at the conference. They may be leading sessions, or participating in manuscript consultations, and their free-to-mill-about time might not always coincide with that of writers. If you spot your dream agent at the bathroom sink two minutes before the start of a session, that is not the time to launch into your pitch, even if you’ve honed it down to a dazzling 30 seconds. Smile, perhaps make some remark that is appropriate or might make the agent laugh, and wait for another chance, when he or she will then notice and remember you for being someone likeable.

Do plenty of research in advance. Look up the bios and web sites of presenters and others before the conference (and bear in mind that this takes a good bit of time). I use an old-fashioned method of index cards, jotting down some key facts about the people I would like to speak with if I get a chance, and keeping the cards on me at the conference.

Begin conversations with topics other than your book. If you are in the lunch line behind an editor you’d like to connect with, begin a conversation about something from that person’s bio, or something relating to the conference, or even relating to the food. If you are engaging and pleasant, conversation will naturally lead to your writing. And if it doesn’t, you can then actively steer it that way, in an artful manner, of course.

If you have a web site or blog, make sure it is updated. People you meet with invariably look you up online. Everyone can be forgiven, of course, for having a somewhat outdated site, but it definitely makes you look more interesting and on top of things if your last post is not three months old.

Sit toward the front. I have never understood why people will shell out hundreds of dollars to attend writing conferences and get the chance to learn from and speak with accomplished authors, editors and agents, and then sit in the way back of the room. Go ahead and sit up front. I tend to favor the second row. The first can be a bit awkward, and there is nothing in front of you to hide your feet if you need to slip off your uncomfortable shoe for a minute (although–why are you wearing uncomfortable shoes?) or hide your phone if you need to check it to make sure there is not word from your sitter about a crisis at home. But in the second row, you are close enough to be seen by the speaker and make eye contact, and you can be among the first to go up to him or her to speak in person.

Reach out to people who look lost or shy. Attending a conference with 700 other people can be overwhelming, especially for some writers who are used to their solitary pursuit and may be singularly introverted. You can make a big difference in someone’s experience, and create a lasting impression, just by inviting him or her to join your lunch table, or simply smiling and being approachable. And you may end up making a connection that is meaningful for you as well.

Practice your elevator pitch. It is essential that you be able to summarize your writing, especially book-length writing, in a succinct and engaging 2-3 sentences. You will be asked many, many times a variation on “So, tell me about your writing” and you need to be ready with a 30 second reply. Memorize it, and then practice how to say it without it sounding memorized. Perhaps have a couple of different versions, so you have multiple ideas in your mind, and you will be less likely to freeze if you forget a specific word. I worked on a book for ten years and still worry that I’ll sound like a bumbling idiot and won’t be able to tell an editor what it is about.

Did I miss anything crucial? Please chime in!

Tarte Tatin. Photo courtesy of the blog of Christine Pae.

Look, there’s no big secret to a successful Tarte Tatin, the traditional French apple tart baked with the crust on top, and then flipped over to serve. I don’t know why people think there is. Or perhaps, there is a secret, and I’m about to reveal it to you. Ready? Here it is: don’t try too hard. Don’t complicate things. I’ve often heard people bemoan their inability to make a good crust, thinking it’s harder than it is. And, believing they can’t make a good crust, they just give up, and deprive themselves of this heavenly dessert, looking at me as though I were a wizard for being able to conjure one up in my kitchen. Or if they can manage the crust, they then worry about caramelizing the bottom (which becomes the top) of the tart.

I say this: Skip the caramel top. Instead, make a simple brandied caramel sauce to drizzle on afterwards. Then, all you need is a good crust and 6-7 non-mealy, somewhat tart apples.

Here is how to make a crumbly, buttery, delicious crust:

In the bowl of a food processor, put:

1 ¼ cup flour, a pinch of salt and 1/3 cup cold butter, cut into pieces.

Process for a few seconds until the mixture is the consistency of rough sand.

(If you don’t have a food processor, just use a regular, large bowl, and two butter knives to cut the butter into the flour. This is not a big deal. I grew up doing it this way, and it really doesn’t take long. Plus it’s kind of satisfying to criss-cross the knives through the mixture, going after the larger butter clumps until the consistency is right.)

Now add three tablespoons of ice cold water, and process/mix again.

That’s it. Knead the mixture together into a ball, and flatten slightly with your palm. Wrap in Saran wrap and place in fridge for a half hour.

While the crust is chilling, peel and slice about 6-7 apples. I like to use half Granny Smiths, half some other kind like Fuji, Pink Lady, Macintosh, etc. Avoid Red Delicious or Golden Delicious. If you have an 8 year old helping you with measurements, and a two year old puttering around with bowls of flour and sugar and generally making a mess on the floor, you can feed them some of the peels. (Yes, in some respects, these smallish creatures bear a striking resemblance to piglets.) Place the slices in a large bowl and sprinkle with sugar (I use about 2 tbsp, but you can use more for a sweeter experience) and cinnamon (about half as much as the amount of sugar you put). Squeeze half a lemon into the bowl, and toss.

Take out a pie dish and butter it generously. Lay out the apples in it, in several layers. You may want to make the first layer into a pretty pattern, as that will end up being the top of the tart. The pie dish should be very full, a bit higher than the edges of the dish, as the apples will soften and fall in on each other. Put a few (4-5) small pats of butter on top of the apples.

Take out the crust and roll it out on a piece of wax paper. If necessary, dust your rolling pin with flour. The crust will be crumbly, so roll it slowly, taking the time to re-stick any bits that threaten to separate from the main piece. When it is big enough, flip it onto the pie dish. Tuck in any overhanging bits. With a fork, poke a few sets of holes in the crust, to let the steam out.

That’s it. Place in a preheated oven at 350 degrees (Fahrenheit) and bake for about 45 minutes, maybe a bit more, until the edges of the crust start to turn golden. You might want to place a piece of foil below the pie dish, in case apple juices burble out.

When the pie is done, remove from the oven, and let sit for a good hour or so. Then, place a plate over it, and flip the dish over, so that the tart ends up crust down on the plate. You might need to coax some of the apples down from the pie dish with a knife.

I tend to leave it at that, and serve warm with two things: crème fraîche (which is NOT the same as sour cream) and the brandied caramel sauce.

Voilà. Bon appétit. It’s not apple season in most parts of the world now, but apples are widely available, and this is a dessert that is always a hit.

An original manuscript page from J.G. Ballard’s CRASH, found at http://www.fountainpennetwork.com/forum/index.php?/topic/164727-j-g-ballards-pen/

There is true magic to be found in good editing. If you are a writer hesitating in the least about spending money on an editor, I say this to you: Do what you can, and spend what you can afford, for the best possible one. It’s the single greatest thing you can do for your work.

In order to get my manuscript in as tip top shape as possible, I conducted some extensive research and found a gifted editor who also turns out to be a gem of a human being. His name is Steven Bauer, and you can find him here. I may have worked and reworked my manuscript for years, all the while receiving valuable feedback from critique partners and writing teachers and agents, but nothing has come close to the depth and breadth of the insight I received from this editor. And now that I am going through the line edits, I see unfolding before me pure wizardry.

In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll admit I’ve always been a sucker for playing with words. In eighth grade, our English teacher gave us “précis” exercises, paragraphs we’d have to whittle down to a set number of words without losing any of the meaning. I reveled in this challenge, and in the satisfaction of coming in just under the word limit. Perhaps this is why, just a few weeks into joining Twitter, I’ve come to enjoy the 140 character limit so much. The challenge is all the greater for the purist (stick in the mud?) in me who shies away from the usual text speak abbreviations, of the “R u going 2 go thru b4” ilk, although I greatly enjoy and admire folks who have found their own, creative ways to put colloquialisms into short form, à la @djolder.

Anyhow, I’ve spent the last few days going over every single edit that the above-mentioned fabulous editor marked up. This was his second reading; the first resulted in a 20 page developmental report which, in thoughtful and articulate prose, summarized the plot, themes and characters of my novel with breathtaking clarity, and highlighted a few very important issues which were holding the manuscript back from being the best I could make it. Best of all, it contained concrete suggestions for how to fix the problems, thus leaving me encouraged and chomping at the bit to get down to work, rather than despondent at the massive morass of undefined work ahead.

This current round of edits constituted the line edit of the revised manuscript. Some pages were chock full of tiny suggested changes, and I accepted every single one. When three pages went by without any edits, my heart leapt. Either the writing was tighter, or it was just strong enough to lose the editor in the “continuous dream” of which John Gardner writes, and make him forget his red pen. Here’s an example of a paragraph that stands much improved after his touch:

Before:

My heart jumped at this, for I wanted nothing more than to greet the morning alone in the quiet of the temple, without his shadow over me. I skipped out of the room, then tiptoed past Ma in the kitchen. Something gnawed at me inside, the way it did when Bapu did, or made me do, something of which I knew Ma did not approve. But this time I pushed that feeling aside. I parted the bead curtain at the front door as quietly as possible, but not quietly enough to escape Ma’s hearing.

After:

My heart jumped, for I wanted nothing more than to greet the morning alone in the quiet of the temple, without his shadow over me. I skipped out of the room, then tiptoed past Ma in the kitchen. Guilt gnawed at me, as when Bapu did, or made me do, something I knew Ma did not approve of.  But I pushed the feeling aside and parted the bead curtain at the front door as quietly as I could.  Ma heard me anyway.

See how those slight changes make the paragraph so much stronger? And here are a few specific ways in which to get rid of extraneous words:

Things swirl together, they don’t need to swirl around together.

You don’t have to feel your way around the room, you can just feel your way around.

A single bell on a piece of string is also a single bell on string.

Don’t focus your mind on something, just focus on it.

Don’t listen to the sound of bangles, listen to the bangles.

Sit on the ground, don’t sit down on the ground.

It seems obvious to me now, as I read these examples, but when you are immersed in 98,000 of your own words for the umpteenth time, trying to make sure the story arc is complete, the main characters have changed, the dialogue is smooth, the tension is high, there’s very little of you left to pay attention to the extra words. But that’s what an editor is for.

Yesterday afternoon, as I prepped my home to host and run the first meeting of K’s book club, I felt an odd nervousness. What if the girls—the gaggle of eight year olds arriving straight from a birthday party—were just not interested? The book was The Secret Garden, which I knew for a fact some of them did not enjoy, and did not finish. K was among those. For the first couple of weeks of the month, I had reminded her repeatedly to read the book, until it became clear she just was not nearly as absorbed by it as she was by the Goosebumps series with which she’s recently become obsessed. I worried that the other girls would come grudgingly, that their lack of interest would be indicative of a failure on my part or, worse of society in general.

I used the precious time that the toddler was asleep and K was at the birthday party to make afternoon tea sandwiches (cuke and butter, cuke and cream cheese, salmon and cream cheese) and set out a bone china tea set, to dash out to buy a bouquet of roses (the main flower of the garden in the book) and set up a table of pencils and markers for the girls to draw their own secret garden. I created personalized binders, and book review sheets, and all the while I thought: I could be using this time to read, to write, to exercise, to do any number of things for myself which are always the first to fall by the wayside. I grumbled at myself for, once again, putting too much of myself into something that could yield disappointment, for caring too much.

At exactly five o’clock, they arrived, carpooling from the birthday party. I opened the door and let in a gush of cold air and a tumble of jabbering kids, one of whom immediately showed me the copy of the book she read and told me how “cool” it was that she was reading the selfsame copy her mother read 30 years ago. They flung their jackets on the newel post and disgorged their birthday loot (panda-themed bracelets, goodies, stuffed pandas) on the couch and chairs and floor. They set upon their binders, looking at the book review sheets, and coloring the stars to rate the book. Are there snacks? they asked. I told them there was tea, finger sandwiches and scones, and they squealed in delight and asked if they could have tea right away. (I spared them treacle and porridge and beef-tea, which would have been more true to the book. What is beef-tea anyway?) My worries dissolved.

What followed was the most enjoyable and satisfying 90 minutes I have ever spent with a bunch of 8 year olds. We fell into an animated, engaging, literary discussion of the language, plot and characters of The Secret Garden. We talked about the use of “broad Yorkshire” and how the choice of language, although at times difficult to decipher, added immeasurably to the sense of place. We discussed the ways in which the book is different from what the girls usually read, and they made astute observations about “the Harry Potter era” of books. We talked about attitude, how it can change, what made Mary a “sour” child, whether she helped Colin for himself or for her or for some other reason. The girls told me about which parts they “connected” with the most. We discussed the “magic” of the garden. We talked about what constitutes a “classic.” The girls were raising their hands, jumping up and down for a chance to express themselves. We could have gone on for much longer, but we had not budgeted enough time.

They all had tea, and downed the scones and sandwiches and berries. They drew elaborate secret gardens of their own, with tree houses and swimming pools. They discussed and negotiated the choice of the book for May (From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler), and clamored for their copies of the April book (Judy Blume’s Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing), announcing they were going to start reading it right away. And then they all left in a whoosh like flock of twittering birds, gathering up their birthday goodies, riffling through the pile of clothes for their pink and purple and blue jackets, and clattering down the stairs to the cars of the three parents who were going to redistribute them to their respectful homes in the neighborhood.

They left behind scone crumbs on the rug, a coffee table strewn with teacups and plates, a water bottle, a plastic bag from a party favor, and a very pleased hostess. Among all the things I have volunteered to do, this one so far has yielded the highest satisfaction-to-effort ratio.

The recent and horrific gang rape of a young woman in Delhi who subsequently died from the injuries inflicted during her ordeal has catapulted India’s women into the headlines of media around the world. Someone recently asked me what I thought of this. Is this good for India or bad, she asked. She went on to say that she assumes it will be terrible for tourism. She, for one, would hesitate to go now.

I found myself having several concurrent and conflicting responses. There are so many things to think, it’s difficult to untangle them. As a person of Indian heritage, I felt my hackles rise in defense of a country that has so much culture, tradition, integrity, beauty and richness. Specifically as a woman of Indian heritage, I wanted to remind my friend that India, unlike many more “developed” nations, has in the past elected female prime ministers. As a practical, realistic person, I wanted to point out that this type of thing surely happens in India, and in other countries, much more than one wants to imagine. As a woman traveler, having felt the eyes and hands of strange men in buses and crowded streets in foreign (and not so foreign) countries, I understood her visceral fear.

Indians are trying hard to make the recent tragedy count for something. To that end, the extensive media coverage is a good thing. Public scrutiny, foreign scrutiny, internal scrutiny, these are what can really shake up the status quo. Add to that powerful awareness-building movements such as last week’s Feb 14^th One Billion Rising and you have a recipe for change.

But how does one untangle India’s deep, long history of treating women as both sacred and profane? Of venerating female deities—among them Saraswati, goddess of knowledge, music, arts and science whose annual celebration, Saraswati Puja, was just two days ago—while denying some female children education? Of worshiping one’s own mother while copping a feel at someone else’s in the street? Of viewing female temple dancers as auspicious vessels of the divine, yet paying those temples for their more carnal services, as experienced by the central character in Faint Promise of Rain?

Perhaps one doesn’t untangle. One just acts. One takes what is good, and beautiful, and strong, and just, and one spreads it as best one can until it pushes out the rest. In a reversal of the last juxtaposition mentioned above, the New Light Foundation in Kolkata is working with (among others) the children of sex workers to empower them to find opportunities for themselves beyond the world their mothers have inhabited, and has included kathak dance classes as a means toward this empowerment. Kathak, the very dance that originated in those Hindu temples many hundreds of years ago. Pandit Chitresh Das, master kathak dancer and teacher, and the Kolkata branch of his school, has been involved with New Light:

Five years after this clip was shot, another was made with girls from New Light dancing, on the occasion of One Billion Rising. (Thanks to my mother Sara Mitter, author of Dharma’s Daughters who has worked with the New Light founder, Urmi Basu, for calling this to my attention.)

The videos speak for themselves. There are changes to be made. There are changes being made. So yes, I say to my friend. Absolutely. Go to India.

Ancient Jain temple inside Jaisalmer. Photo by Sangeeta Dhanuka (Wikimedia Commons)

In Rajasthan, a five year old child is likely never to have seen rain. For centuries, the monsoons have been elusive, and it was no different when I was young. So it is understandable that when I was born during the first rainstorm in so long, some considered me special. In the royal palace of the citadel not far from our home, the walls of children’s rooms were, and are still, trimmed with black and blue cloud designs, so when the gods finally did send rain, the little ones would not be afraid. But for others such as my brothers and sister, who grew up looking at thatched roofs and endlessly blue skies, the day of their first rain can mean an intensity of both fear and hope.

I have no doubt that I now possess an unusual gift, but it came late in my life. I began as all children do, accepting of my lot for it was the only one I knew, and living by the decisions my father made for me. When I was old enough, I began to understand that I could shape my own path. And although I struggled greatly along the way, the gods must have approved of what I chose to do with it, for many, many years later they gave me this gift. I am not sure why they acted as they did, or how they chose what knowledge to grant me and what to keep concealed. Was it a moment of selfishness on their part? Was it for our dance? For humankind? Or, possibly, just for me? Whatever the reason, knowing now the minds and hearts of some of those close to me when I was a child allows me to tell this story. It is not the story of me alone, but mine alone to tell.

www.faintpromiseofrain.com

]]> http://anjalimitterduva.com/2013/02/06/writing-wednesday-possible-prologue-for-faint-promise-of-rain/feed/ 0 http://anjalimitterduva.com/2013/01/16/wednesday-writing-on-starting-a-book-club-for-a-gaggle-of-8-year-olds/ http://anjalimitterduva.com/2013/01/16/wednesday-writing-on-starting-a-book-club-for-a-gaggle-of-8-year-olds/#comments Wed, 16 Jan 2013 16:27:31 +0000 Anjali Mitter Duva http://anjalimitterduva.com/?p=249 Every time my oldest comes home with a book club flyer from school, my heart sinks. I understand and fully support the motto of “building confidence in young readers,” but does that have to mean that each flyer must be a compendium of mostly the following:

1. Books pertaining to underwear and bodily functions;
2. Endless series of vapid characters in interchangeable stories;
3. Books packaged with items such as zombie glasses, glow-in-the-dark slime or Ninjago figurines;
4. History and science presented in terribly uninspiring and reeks-of-school titles;
5. Books derived from cartoons or other TV characters?

Lost among all these are a few gems: Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends, Eleanor Este’s Ginger Pye, Charlotte’s Web. But those are not the ones the child clamors to buy (but look, Mom, it’s only $3.99 and it comes with a cupcake charm!)

For a while, I went with the whatever-she-reads-is-great attitude, because I just wanted her to discover the joy of reading. But now that she’ll happily curl up on the couch with a book, I find myself very discouraged with the books she’s exposed to through the library at school, or the book fair, or the abovementioned flyers. Sure, she can read all the Captain Underpants books and giggle with her friends about how often the word “fart” shows up in Diary of a Wimpy Kid (I’ll hand it to those authors that they’ve nailed their audience on the head), but I feel compelled to help her dip her toes into the vast, rich, magical world of wonderful children’s literature – the kind that transports you, haunts you, affects your very soul and stays in your memory forever – that exists out there. The one that sustained me, nourished me, when I was a young child.

And thus is born our book club, for her and up to seven of her friends from school. We held our first, organizational meeting this past weekend. There were snacks, coffee and tea for the parents, several girls piled onto each arm chair, and lots of pink-and-purple-socked feet waving around. We discussed ground rules, respecting opinions, what to do if you don’t like the book (read at least 25 pages and come prepared to explain why you didn’t like it), what the name of the club should be (there were evocations of bookworms, pandas, panda worms – ew – without any consensus), and of course what the selections would be. I handed each girl a booklet with a list of titles and authors, a picture of each cover, and a description, and asked each one to nominate three from among the 22 or so on the list.

The first vote was almost unanimous for Francis Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden. Remember that one? I thought so. I can’t wait to see what the discussion of the book will yield. The book was written one hundred years ago (I don’t think the girls know this yet), takes place for the most part in Yorkshire, England (after Mary’s parents die of cholera in India) and is quite unlike anything these girls have read yet. It’s a far cry from the school-based series revolving around someone’s best friend moving out of state, or a weird substitute bringing the class on an adventure, or a band of classmates solving the mystery of the disappearing lunchboxes. I wonder how much of their decision was based on my use of this particular cover? (On a very abridged, Scholastic version from 1993.)

I’ve written before about the drastic variation in covers on editions of old classics, and how that predisposes today’ children to shy away from some of these gems. What if I had used this cover image instead? (Simon & Brown, Dec 2012)

Or this one? (Random House abridged version from 1987)

And here’s the list of book options that I have compiled so far. Other suggestions welcome!

• Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Judy Blume
• From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, by e. l. konigsburg
• The Little House in the Big Woods, by Laura Ingalls Wilder
• One Crazy Summer, by Rita Williams-Garcia
• A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L’Engle
• The Complete Verse and Other Nonsense, by Edward Lear
• Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech
• The Story of Doctor Dolittle, by Hugh Lofting
• Sideways Stories from Wayside School, by Louis Sachar and Julie Brinkloe
• Rickshaw Girl, by Mitali Perkins
• The One and Only Ivan, by Katherine Applegate
• The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles, by Julie Andrews Edwards
• My Side of the Mountain, by Jean Craighead George
• Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, by Robert C. O’Brian
• Frindle, by Andrew Clements
• Where the Mountain Meets the Moon, by Grace Lin
• Poetry for Young People: William Carlos Williams
• Wonder, by R. J. Palacio
• The Double Life of Pocahontas, by Jean Fritz

Our table last night, in full Commune effect, with two two year olds slurping at oysters.

I don’t really make New Year’s Resolutions. The New Year is too fraught with expectations, other people’s lofty announcements, the ineluctable disintegration of many of these and their accompanying disappointments, the underlying knowledge that it’s just a day, a week, a month like any other, with as high a likelihood of happy events and terrible events, wise decisions and uninformed ones, as any other day or week or month.

That said, if any day is a good one to try to better oneself, or the world, then why not choose that day, sometimes, to be January first? It doesn’t make sense to avoid January 1^st as though it carried the plague.

There are many changes in my habits, my behaviors that occur to me throughout the year, and so this day, my only resolution per se is to try a bit harder to make some progress within that realm. (You see how I’m setting myself up for almost certain success? It’s all in the metrics.) To manage to incorporate at least one new good habit into my life, or to shed one bad one. To be able to say, a year from now, hey, that was a good change, I’m so glad I stuck to it.

Oh. I guess there is one actual resolution in the commonly-accepted sense of the word that I am making, and that is to get my book out there in 2013. Next July marks both the ten year anniversary of my first scribblings on Faint Promise of Rain, before I even knew I was writing a book, and a certain supposedly significant birthday of mine. Those seem like good reasons to make a resolution of this kind.

But the other things, they are smaller, more intimate, more day-to-day. Significant only in their accumulation. Drink more water. Consume more calcium. Correct my posture more often. Allow myself to read more. Write more. Be patient with my two year old who is growing up too fast. Guard my creative time. Observe with words. Send some actual paper letters or cards. Remember to say no sometimes. Not worry too much about whether a certain blog post fits my “author brand,” whatever that is. And sure, why not, exercise more. Cliché, but always valid.

So here’s to 2013, incremental improvement, steps taken one at a time, little drops of water, little grains of sand. And that book of mine, the product of this approach.

How about you?