The right frame

Hi! I would start by wishing you all a Happy New Year except that the new year has come and gone, its tinsel brightness already dulling. But still here it is, Happy New Year! 

So I was on Linked In yesterday scrolling through idly when I chanced upon a post by someone( I'm sorry. Blame my failing memory for not remembering the name) in which he said (I think it was a he) how he had gone to great lengths and expense to procure a book but having read a few pages/ chapters he had abandoned it for another. He exhorted the others not to feel guilty if they did the same. That started a train of thought in my mind and led me to write this. 

Take a beautiful painting for instance. How much of its beauty is subtracted if it is not framed right? The painting in itself might be flawless but the wrong frame can make it hideous diminishing much of its beauty. Then it becomes ordinary. Just another piece of art. All of us speak right? All of us write. But how is it some sentences can mean so much that you quote  that speaker while others disappear into the vast cavern of "just words"? 

So many times I've opened a book, a fantastic book, a book that has garnered rave reviews and then abandoned it halfway because it just didn't strike the right note? Or to be blunt, was plain boring. That is not to say the book or writer is less for it. Sometimes I've read a book that no one has taken any note of and it has spoken to me in ways that books speak to readers.It is just that at that particular moment I wasn't in the right frame of mind to appreciate that book. Maybe I was too hassled and was looking for light relief. Or that book was all light relief, and I needed spiritual counselling. Or at least something that would add value to my life instead of being just a pot boiler. It is the frame that makes all the difference. ( Even if it's a person you're scrutinizing.)And the right frame can make and break every work of art - whether it is books, movies, or painting, or even music. 

So next time you abandon a book or think it's not good enough maybe you should grant the author some leeway. Perhaps you weren't in the right frame of mind when you read it. 

Perhaps going back to it in years months or days you might be able to appreciate it more. Then again you might not think it's worth it. That's for you to decide. 

I think if framed correctly, seen from the right perspective, everything has a beauty of its own. Even a common potboiler. 

Your island

I've always heard that no man is an island. That man is a social animal. Or words to that effect. But in today's world and age we all need our islands. The lyrics of an old song drift into my head :"Where do you go to my lovely?" So where do you go when you want to be alone in your head? Do you take off for a long walk? Or a hike? Go off on an expensive vacation overseas to unwind? Or simply settle down on your couch or bed to binge watch T.V? Or read a book? Maybe you head to your garden. Yank out a few weeds. Plant a few saplings. Go off on a long drive. 

We might have different ways of relaxing, of coping with stress but all of us need a space where we can let go and just be. 

While the world around you might be exploding into mayhem and madness what is the only thing you hold on to? Me I read books. That's my island. My space. 

There is so much that is wrong with the world today. 

There is so little any of us can do about it. 

People killed in Texas, people dying in Iran quake, school boy murdered in Ryan- ugly disturbing things. Gone are the days when we could sit in our homes and say complacently- how does nuclear testing in Korea threaten us? How does a church full of people gunned down in the US affect us? The world is shrinking. It is invading our homes. We cannot be impervious to anything that happens anywhere in the world. Be it France, England, US, China, or India. The social media has seen to it. And in such a scenario all of us need an island we can turn to. Where we can drink of the cup of forgetfulness and be selfish. I say it is not natural but imperative that we do so. To hold on to our sanity. To be in touch with ourselves. 

Because unless you have an island somewhere inside of you or out of it you can retreat to, life becomes pretty much unbearable. Then man kills man, countries go to war, worlds disintegrate. Mayhem and madness happens. 

Search for that island which gives you your slice of self, that momentary reprieve, that escape and forgetfulness all of us crave but few admit to craving, and go there. If even it's only in your head. For it's your special space in this great big world. Your island. 

Of plants and lessons learned

Hey there! It's been a long time since I wrote. So long in fact that my account was closed! So this is me posthumously. (Sigh!) What it is to die before you actually die! Like I said before there's little to say if you've nothing really to say. And my last post was around Christmas last year I think. See. It's been that long. I can't even recall. Okay. So here's what I want to share. I like greenery. I like plants. Stationary enduring eternal. There's something wonderful about them. Yet they are so transient. Flowers bloom wither then bloom again. 

So it's about a certain plant in a pot in my terrace. The most humble of all plants. The most common. Frangipani. Plumeria. Champa. It has many names for such a common plant. I'd grown this plant from a cutting taken off the roadside in my colony brought to me by my chowkidar. 

The cutting grew into a healthy vigorous plant. It had nice glistening green leaves and a fat healthy trunk. But it refused to flower. Year after year I waited with baited breath. In vain. It remained stubbornly green without a single flower to crown my efforts. I waited and waited. I fertilized it. Watered it. Assiduously showered it with my TLC. Five years passed. Several plants in the interim flourished and perished. I had a hard time deciding if I had green fingers or brown fingers or decidedly black fingers. My successes were few; failures legion. My cactus bloomed generously; so did a few others. Many died. I watched gardening videos; scoured google to find ways to make it flower. Tried to shock it into flowering. By watering it then withholding water. Believe me I left no stone unturned. Finally I gave up. And forgot about it. Totally. Completely. 

Then a month ago after a rainy day I happened to peep out of my kitchen into the terrace which is adjoining. And lo and behold I saw a crown of flowers. I couldn't believe my eyes. I went out, peered suspiciously at the buds, touched them to verify then still skeptical went inside. Maybe the buds wouldn't flower after all I thought. But they did. A month later they are still flowering. 

What is the point of all this you may ask? No point really. Plumeria blooms by the roadside with little or no care. It's the hardiest plant around. But my plant taught me a valuable lesson. Sometimes it's better to let go. To stop trying. To just do your bit and give up. Maybe there's a time for everything. A time to flower. A time to win. A time to fail.  A time to fall. A time to rise. 

And maybe your efforts will pay off. In the end. Whenever it is. 

And sometimes neglect is a healthy thing and not caring the right thing. Maybe caring too much can ruin things. So take a step back relax and turn away. 

Who knows just when you are at your wit's end and about to give up you may just succeed? 

REALITY FICTION

So I've been thinking a great deal about this idea of reality fiction and yesterday while watching a U-tube video I heard the same idea reiterated. The man who was talking about writing in general and screen writing in particular claimed that you can write about heartbreak only if you get your heart broken. And that your writing should be drawn from real life. I beg to disagree. I've been hearing this for so long that I thought I would address this topic today. 

Is writing a mirror of life? Yes. It is. Is fiction an imaginative piece of work? Yes it is. Then does it follow you cannot mirror life if you are writing fiction? No. It doesn't. Because that's where imagination comes in. Let us not deride imagination. It is a powerful tool in all creation. It helps us in creating situations, people who might not be real, but simulate reality. All actors do that. Enact people or situations which might be far removed from their reality. I think that makes them good actors. To be able to imagine themselves into their roles. They don't actually have to murder people to act as murderers. To commit crimes to portray criminals. To actually suffer heartbreak to portray it. Good actors simulate. So why should writers be any different? They cannot actually live the characters they create except in their imagination. In my opinion writers are not so different from actors. They too simulate. 

To say that you are a good writer only if you have lived your writing is to say you cannot write for instance, about the first world war because you were never born in that period. For that you must research your topic. Then use your imagination to dress that research. That's how a book is created. 

And it is in my opinion a very myopic way of looking at things to say you must write from real life. Your imagination is also very real, let's not forget. To you in your mind. The murderer in your book is as much as part of you as the hero. Because you have created them. You have given birth to them. Birthing you'll agree is the most real the most potent the most primeval connection in the universe. Nothing can transcend the bond between a mother and her child. In that sense all fictional characters are real. 

And what happens when a writer writes using only reality? Then he  becomes severely  limited. Because he cannot imagine beyond the scope of his experience. It means if I'm a campus writer I can  write only campus novels. If I'm from the corporate world I can only write about it. And that is where limitation comes in. Just because I was a schoolteacher I can only write about it and nothing else? It seems to be an absurd argument. Does my work becomes less because it is purely fiction ? Does it automatically become better if it is autobiographical in nature? No. I don't think it does. The best books I've read have not been autobiographical in nature but imagined pieces of work. That is my observation. That is my argument. I rest my case. You may or may not agree. This is what I think. What do you think?

Money, money, money!

We are in the throes of change. That's what we are being told. These long queues outside banks and ATMs are mere hiccups. Who are you kidding? Have you seen any of the queues? The insane rush to the banks? Because ATMs do not have sufficient cash? I know. I know. Papers are full of it. Go cashless. Banks, leaders, newspapers-(anyone and everyone)are telling you. Sure ready to go cashless. But how will you pay the domestic helps? Some of them don't even have bank accounts. For those who do you can wire money into their accounts through EFT. But and this is a BIG BUT you have to go into a bank, fill a form and drop it to do that. For every transaction now you have to go to the bank. And you can't get into the Bank. AT ALL. Hundreds are lining up from four in the morning. Some I'm told are sleeping at the banks. 

Yesterday after watching the news and hearing that ATMS will be up and functioning only after 28 days I rushed to the bank today. Luckily my driver helped out by standing for an hour and a half. I only deposited money. Mark you I did not exchange anything. No cash. Now I've no idea how our domestic helps will be paid next month. Anyone listening? These are poor people. They need money to eat. Most don't own smart phones so downloading Paytm app and singing paytm karo is useless. How do they get paid? I've also heard from people that only 2500 is being allowed to each person even with a cheque. So how are we going to survive on a few measly rupees when EVERYONE is dealing in CASH? The milk vendor is paid in cash, the vegetable vendor,(you name it)they want cash. 

EFT is possible with net banking but most Indians are afraid to because their accounts maybe hacked. Check recent credit card fiasco. 

Just some questions for you, Mr. Prime minister.

 Sweeping reforms require planning and forethought. There is still time. Till dec 30. Usher in a joyful year. Find solutions to problems because admit it or not the really rich are not affected. They do net banking. Their employees have bank accounts. For the rest it is - Money, money , money. 

What do you see?

The creative process is an incredibly convoluted one. Or so I'm told. An author is hardly an author till he or she spends at least 5 to 10 years writing a novel. It is so difficult to express oneself ably. To say what you want. And to say it in a different, newer way or form. So is the writer an inventor? Possibly from what I read or hear. Masterpieces often are new ways of looking at the world. To have a world view no-one else has. "To go where no-one has gone before." Sorry. Just couldn't resist that. 

But today I'm not dealing with this creative process however convoluted it maybe. I'm dealing with the "after- phase" if you like. What happens after the author surrenders the creation into his/ her reader's hands? There the control exercised over that body of work comes to an end. It is then up to the reader to make of it what he/she will. I will give you a simple example. The phrase" naked and helpless" can be interpreted in myriad ways. The nakedness maybe symbolic or physical. Now what happens when a supposedly symbolic reference is taken to be literal? Then the gross meaning of the text is altered. What the author wanted to say is twisted completely. Because both physical and symbolic nakedness are miles apart. This was just an example. There are many more instances where the intent of the author is missed by the reader or misinterpreted. (Don't know which is worse). Our ways of perceiving things are always different. How can the author ensure that the work is interpreted exactly as he/she meant it to be? Well, in today's age of media and internet it's not difficult at all. There are plenty of talk shows, publicity where authors talk of their work. But without those explanations the author is at the mercy of the readers when the work is delivered to them. 

The creative process then includes an important chapter. That of the reader or the target audience as we call it today. Most books, of course, are easily interpreted. But ultimately the author has to leave it to the reader to see what he/she will. 

Which brings me to another question- what exactly do we mean by fiction? I've read of so many people talking of drawing on their real life experiences in fiction etc that I must confess I'm slightly puzzled. Then is fiction supposed to be based on reality? Is there something known as real fiction? As far as I know fiction is supposed to be just that. An imaginative account which has no basis in reality. If I was writing a real account it would either be a biography or an autobiography or.... Sorry. I can't think offhand about any other genre. Maybe we should add a new one called the real fiction genre. These are merely random thoughts and questions. 

My main issue( which I've wandered from) is that of interpretation by readers. The author is all powerful in the act of crafting his trade but once he has given it to his audience he/ she is at their mercy. All he/she can ask of the reader is- what do YOU see? 

The standalone novels

Some novels are never meant to have sequels. These I call the stand alone novels. 

Very recently I finished reading "Go set A Watchman" by Harper Lee. Like millions of readers I had waited eagerly to read the sequel to "To Kill a Mocking bird" written years ago. But I have to confess Harper's Lee's sequel fails to evoke the same emotions her first  novel does. Scout Finch returns home from New York to a vastly changed home town; worse, her much idolized father seems to have feet of clay. The Atticus Finch she has looked up to her entire life disappoints her. "Watchman" deals with the same theme of racial prejudice, of white against black but for some reason it fails to have the same impact as "Mockingbird. "The tone of narrative is shriller, strident and at times it borders on didactic. It could be that the narrative of an innocent nine year is vastly different from that of an adult. The love angle between an adult Scout and Hank is touched upon in passing as is the death of Scout's brother Jem. Jem, a central character in the first book, dies in this one. But his death is glossed over. I found that to be a deficiency. Jem and Scout seemed inseparable but in this sequel Jem appears only in a flashback cameo. After the emotional impact of "Mocking bird" "Watchman" is oddly flat. Perhaps racial prejudice has more impact when seen through the eyes of a nine year old. Much of the humor that leavens the narrative in the first book is absent in the second. The vision is darker, the didactism pronounced though humor does make its appearance in brief flashes. All in all a sequel which fails to stir the heart as the first did. "Mocking bird" is ludicrously simple yet unbelievably profound. As truth always is.  However the sequel does not achieve the greatness of the first. 

Another sequel which should not have been written is the sequel to Gone With the Wind. It is a great book. Those who call it a love story are doing it an injustice. It is so much more. A picture of a world gone by, a way of life, an epic portrayal of the Southern culture. There are layers within layers. Even if Margaret Mitchell had attempted the sequel herself I doubt that she could have lived up to the breadth and scope of the first. Sometimes a creation becomes greater than the creator. And to attempt to match the matchless is a futile attempt. But I've to applaud the courage of one who dared to do so. Just as the attempt to write a Poirot novel after Christie's death. Poirot is one of the greatest creations in detective fiction and no matter how one tries to resurrect him after Christie's death I don't think the effect is the same. Which brings me to the question of ghosting novels. Is it really possible? Can ghost writers achieve the same effect long after the author has abandoned the post- either due to death or lack of inspiration? What about this idea of co-writing novels? I find extremely difficult to comprehend it. But I can see for myself it is successful. Lars Kepler is a husband and wife team writing together. I've read their work. I must say it does seem to work for them. But I'm old fashioned. I still think writing is a hugely private affair. And it has very little to do with talk shows, tours and publicity. In fact I think the best thing about it is the anonymity it affords. But in today's world of internet it's next to impossible. And anonymity probably won't spell success. 

What do you think? Is it a private thing? Or nothing so sacrosanct? Do you think a creation can surpass the creator? I think it does. And has. In a few standalone novels.