Struggles Unveiled: On Getting Published

It's laudable to set up goals and aspire towards them. This is the only way to make life happening and directional. But we are governed by laws, be it physics, chemistry, history or civics. What glory exists in an undisciplined life? This is not a moral science kind of write-up, nor an act of self-glorification. I would welcome you, readers to take a glimpse of the journey I undertook years ago as a young and aspiring not-yet-a-poet stage (I'm still there) and share the experiences that might bring a smile on your face. I am still traveling and that journey shall go on till this heart knows how to beat and the sands exist on the inverted cup of life's hourglass.

Getting a book published and ensuring that it's allowed a proper channel for growth is not as easy as making a plum pudding. Especially when the author turns out to be a too young girl, with partly empty pockets (I do freelance work though so the pockets aren't that empty;)), having nobody on her side except Allah (that's sufficient and best though), (I can feel the stare of my loved ones :D. Take it easy!

Let me start with the story of how my first and second books were published. The poems grew in number with time and someone suggested to get it published. For a class tenth student, the world still seems to be shaping itself up, weaving its delicate threads, opening up its new channels every day, acquiring a new color every changing moment. Knowledge comes down upon us bit by bit, years by years. So in a pre-budding stage. I remember the first time I came to know about a book fair, which was held in Lucknow. I was really excited to visit it and see so many books assembled at one place. After a bit tiring journey of around 40 minutes sitting on the back seat of papa's bike and admiring the passing away trees partly covering the sky, roads reshaping themselves speedily. There was something too poetic about that semi rural sight gradually becoming urbanized with every passing second, little paan gumtis getting replaced by tall buildings, roadside trees gradually disappearing and shops, cemented structures replacing it. So as soon as I reached the place there was no sight of any book fair. The ground was in a partly disoriented state, tents, stalls almost cleared up. So there were last shards of the book fair left, and a gatekeeper busy in reading a book. We got to know that it got over a day ago. My eyes got too blurred that I could notice the title of that book. We took the journey back to home. It was easy to hide those broken heartbeats, that dream-torn face but yes I let my emotions out as soon as I reached home.

At Delhi Book Fair, my brother met a children's publisher and he liked my poems. It was a dream come true. But it took so much time, eating all my patience away. It felt like everything was a lie. I gave up on it, embittered and sad, tired of reminding my brother to know the status. Suddenly, as if after decades, two books arrived at home. It was the most beautiful moment of my life, laying my eyes on those two little ones. All pain vanished. Yet I wept. So that same feeling and excitement of getting one's book published. Then came the time for book launch. That was something :D. I was so clueless as to how I am supposed to behave, with so many eyes on me. Sudden elation scared me. I even gave one T.V. Interview. Two people came to my house. Clicked pictures, asked me to recite some poems. Allah knows what and how I spoke. Thank God it was never featured on T.V. :D and its memory slowly faded away with time. So yes we were at the book launch. It happened on 15th or 16th Jan, 2011 I guess. It was among the coldest days, with a thick fog. A big hall was booked at Nagar Palika in Barabanki. I was given the gift of a diary and a pen from the D.M. And this happened on stage. I felt so shy. I took it but felt shy enough to take it with me. As if someone will say something. Out of, don't know what, I kept it at that very side of the table and went back to my seat after the launching thing was done. Then I forgot it out of excitement. My loving school friends were there with me. We were all so happy and excited. I even spoke something. Allah knows what it was. There were many gifts. I went back home with family in our cherry colored, old model, Ainy car, carrying rose garlands. Being a rose lover, it's nothing less than heavenly to be surrounded with that tantalizing rose fragrance. I remember being surrounded with friends, a moment of pure bliss. Umama, Ayesha, Honey, Jagriti, Anam, Arpita, Shada, Sadia,etc. were all there. I remember giving an autograph on Shada's palm with a sheer dramatic expression :D. Some strangers who bought the book got it signed by me. It was so scary. Then may be after a day or two it was realized that there was no sign of D.M.'s gift. I felt so bad. One of my father's acquaintance told him that it was seen with the anchor. After further enquiries, I got the diary, but without the pen. That person stole the pen and returned the diary only because it had the D.M.'s autograph in it. So this was all about that grand event of my life that happened seven years ago.

After some years I felt that the poems have accumulated again. We contacted the same publisher who never gave any royalty, but published for free the books. Thankfully the poems were rejected, otherwise there would have been another book which I would have felt like hiding :D. Many more years passed in sadness and quarrels with my elder brother. I might have been in second year of graduation, when the desire popped up again. I typed around 200 poems during my third year of college and later, while I was working. Would do the editing between Huda City Centre and Hauz Khas Metro station. They were busy and tiresome days. After two three self-editing happened, everything was arranged with a small publication house.  But life brought a new publisher suggestion and I gave it a try. It was Authorspress. This happened during my first year of Masters. And as the third semester began, Nascent Poetry was born. I had dreams with it. Not to have amazing sales but to touch hearts with the power of simplicity.  Money is too cheap to be the sole aim to be earned out of the noble love of writing poetry. Sometimes when I look at a particular poem, I couldn't believe I wrote it. Sometimes I feel I could have written better. Amidst all the chaos of the world it's something that I can call mine, with its rare perfections, and imperfections, a work that captured my five year old, ever changing mental landscape, in pure simplicity and humbleness.

Buy Nascent Poetry here:
Amazon link: https://goo.gl/BijFXP
Authorspress website: 30% Discount: https://goo.gl/Vq3vxz

  

     Nascent Poetry enjoying the Swing :)

My dairies.. since class 7

हर पल बदलती ज़िंदगी

आख़िरकार इम्तेहान ख़त्म हो ही गए| बाक़ी रह गया तो फ़िर वही सन्नाटा जो दो साल पहले था| मगर इस बात की ख़ुशी है या ग़म कहना मुश्क़िल है| इम्तेहान शुरू होने से कुछ ही दिन पहले की बात है| कॉलेज फेरवेल के दो दिन हुए थे| काफ़ी ख़ुशी थी| अच्छे अच्छे पल तस्वीरों मे क़ैद हुए थे| साड़ी पहनी थी ज़िंदगी मे दूसरी बार| अलग ही बात थी| पाँव मे बेड़िओं सा मालूम हुआ था मगर दिल ही दिल मे अच्छा लगा था| |

मेरे सबसे अच्छे मामू की तबीयत कई दिनों से ख़राब चल रही थी| वो दिल्ली आए थे कुछ दिन हुए मगर असाइनमेंट्स में हम इस तरह घिरे थे की मौक़ा हो नहीं पाया मुलाक़ात का| इस बात का ग़म ज़िंदगी भर रहेगा| सुबह फ़ज़िर पढ़ कर नींद में मुब्तला हुए ही थे की अप्पी का फ़ोन आया और मामू के इंतेक़ाल की खबर मिली| अंदर से जैसे कुछ हिल सा गया हो| सन सन सा होने लगा| हम लेट गए| आँसू भी नहीं निकलते थे| यक़ीन नहीं होता था| उनकी बातें कानों में सुनाई देती थीं| हम सब कज़िन्स को आवाज़ देते हुए की उठ जाओ नाश्ता कर लो| छोटे थे तो थोड़ा ख़ौफ़ भी रहता था उनका| रात में खाना खाते वक़्त मामू आज तक पर न्यूज़ सुनते थे| हम सब बेचैन रहते थे की मामू जल्दी से खाना खा लें तो फ़िर स्टार प्लस पर हमारे पसंदीदा सीरियल्स या कोई फिल्म देखी जाए| मामू रेडियो पर भी न्यूज़ सुनते थे| हम बच्‍चों से सर में तेल मालिश करवाते थे| हम सब लोग खाना खाके टेहलते थे| कभी ना ख़त्म होने वाली बातों के साथ| गर्मी की छुट्टियाँ बहुत मज़ेदार हुआ करती थीं| वक़्त ने मानो कितना आगे लाके खड़ा कर दिया हो ज़िंदगी को| पीछे सब धुन्द्ला सा हो गया है| मामू को खाने खिलाने का बहुत शौक़ था| मुआनी खाना भी बहुत लज़ीज़ बनाती थीं| हम लोग कभी मामू के पास नहीं बैठते थे| प्यार मे कुछ ज़्यादा ही बोटियाँ मिल जाती थीं| यक़ीनन मोहब्बत और खाने का कुछ तो रिश्ता ज़रूर है| मामू की आदत थी रोकने की| इसलिए अक्सर एक दो दिन बढ़ ही जाते थे जाने की तारीख़ से| बहुत मोहब्बत करते थे मामू हम सब से| पुरानी बातें सोचकर जितनी मुस्कुराहट नहीं आती उससे ज़्यादा आँसू आँखों मे चमकने लगते हैं|

एक पल में कितना कुछ बदल जाता है| कितनी नज़दीक़ियाँ दूरियों मे तब्दील हो जाती हैं| हम जान भी नहीं पाते किससे कब आख़िरी मुलाक़ात हो रही हो| आख़िर में सिर्फ़ बातें और यादें रह जाती हैं और एक ऐसी खाली जगह जो शायद वक़्त कभी नहीं भर पाता| जैसा भी हो आगे ऐसा फिर नहीं होगा| आज ही होता है हमारे पास मुट्ठी में दबाने को, दिल से लगाने को, होंटो पे सजाने को, सिर्फ़ और सिर्फ़ आज| जितनी जल्दी हम ये बात समझने के साथ साथ अपनाने लगें, उतनी जल्दी हम शायद बेहतर इंसान बन सकेंगे|

जुदाई आख़िरी सबक है ज़िंदगी का मगर, प्यार से रह कर यादें बनाना आदाब ए ज़िंदगी है|  

Writers on Writing

'We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect

-Anais Nin

The world has been observed differently by different writers. This article is an attempt to bring together the diverse shades of ideas around writing expressed by a few writers, on various levels: regional, national, international and universal.

According to Hemingway, the best early training for a writer is an unhappy childhood. Stephen King, in his memoir 'On writing' says that he doesn't believe that writers can be made either by circumstances or self will. 'The equipment comes with the original package. Yet it is by no means unusual equipment; I believe large numbers of people have at least some talent as writers and storytellers, and that those talents can be strengthened and sharpened.' 

I recently interviewed the Founder of Kaafiya, and poet called Yaseen Anwer and asked about his relationship with writing. He replied that 'For me, writing comes when nothing else is possible, when something strikes me deep within to an extent that it will tear me apart. It forces me into some state that can make me go mad till it comes out. Writing can never go out of me. When I am not writing I am still writing something and erasing, those not erased come out for others to see'. He laid a special emphasis on universality and timelessness of a work that  surpasses all boundaries and reaches out to a wider audience. He asserted that good writing is a proof of bad society. Indeed, in an ideal society, what would be left to write?

Sufyan bin Uzayr is the author of 'The Apocalypse'. For him, writing is a temporary refuge from reality. He says that there is a lot of negativity in the present life and writing history serves to provide better comprehension of today. Writing fiction helps him picturize a better world. I asked him about the difficulties faced by writers today. He replied that 'writing is just a part of the picture. The biggest challenge today is marketing and promotion; with so many writers out there of which many are below par, getting yourself noticed is really tough. Plus, publishing houses tend to favor money over literary skills.' For him, immortality is impossible via writing. At best, one can only prolong one's memories. Immortality would be an overstatement. He makes a valid point that one should write to express and not to please.

Ralph L. Wahlstrom in 'The Tao Of Writing' describes  Writing as natural, flow, creation, detachment, discovery, change, unified yet multiplied, clarity, simplicity, personal, universal and open ended. 'Tao' refers to the source and guiding principle of all reality according to Taoism (A Chinese philosophy based on the writings of Lao-tzu that stresses living simply and honestly and in harmony with nature). In the Preface, he mentions one of the most familiar Taoist phrase: 'The journey of a thousand miles starts with one step' and adds that the writer's journey begins with a word and, like the river and the wind, flows on. He states that 'writing allows us not only to explore and discover the world around us in its countless manifestations, but it can show us paths to our inner worlds as well.' The power of writing is used by therapists to help patients deal with trauma and emotional concerns. Psychics use a practice call 'automatic writing' (writing with a subconscious mind). These methods pave a way for self discovery. Writing has a healing power. It unburdens our minds and replenishes its surface with creativity.

The Wordsmiths, edited by Meenakshi Sharma includes the exciting conversations of finest Contemporary Indian writers, rooted to their various rich, regional languages.

UR Anantha Murthystates that 'Our analytical and conceptual articulation comes from the English Language. But only our mother tongue can provide us with metaphors that describe our emotional states. All these regional languages are now developing a kind of artificial prose. There is nothing wrong in this but the living language is the language that is spoken in the streets.

He talks about the vulgarity of articulation in our daily life and that all Indian writers who write in the regional languages have access to the deep springs of life for our language is well preserved there.

He proclaims that 'Reading and writing, is an asocial act-an act outside of our obligations and privileges within the shared assumptions of our communities. It is our deepest desire to belong authentically to our community, which prompts us both to read and write, for we want to renew ourselves in the naked truth of our experience and shed all falseness and dishonest agreement to the ideological imperatives of our communities.'  

Krishna Sobti (Sahitya Academy award winner) talks about her writing habits: 'Washing utensils is my favorite way of reducing thinking to a bare minimum. Or I read shikaar stories. I love them or even cook. Add all the right masalas. Make it perfect as if I won't be cooking again for the next ten years. The process of writing is such a cerebral one that you have to make it a little physical too, to balance it. Anyway,  writing is not my only priority. I want to live life. I want to have fun.'

She mentions that 'a blank paper gives her the most fantastic feeling possible, as if you are on a mountain peak, with all this clear space before you.  A good piece is not only the result of memory and imagination woven with words, it is invariably the outcome of a complex process of intellectual and emotional intimacy with the subject. A language is nothing if it doesn't convey a certain sensibility.'

She feels that men don't allow women to share the world they inhabit and region outside the house becomes male dominated. Her choice to live alone and inhabit both the worlds is commendable. She goes on to say that having a family of one's own may be a writer's handicap. Firstly the husband (a dominating force) may object to wife's writing. Secondly the 'noise' in a family situation. She calls a married existence in a family as 'anti-writing'.    

Mahashweta Devi firmly believes that every writer should have a social conscience and must take up the cause of the oppressed and the downtrodden otherwise history will not forgive her.

MT Vasudevan Nair, the most popular living writer in Kerala, talks about a writer's practice of developing an individual style and that it takes many years of experimentation. He advices young authors to be bold enough to reject quite a bit of what they write.  

Waqas Ahmad Khwajain his book titled 'Writers and Landscapes' records his experiences as a member of the International Writers Programme, with the mixed flavor of a memoir, travelogue, critical evaluation and storytelling. It's about the coming together of writers from different corners of the world and redefining the act of writing and unleashing of creative energies though debates, discussions, conversations, etc. It's of utmost necessity for a writer to stay social, meet and converse with people, go beyond one's small circle and contribute towards the betterment of society with ideas and their execution. He rightly asserts that 'writers must not be expected to collaborate with the military or the mullah, the politician or the entrepreneur. They have their own battles to fight--against illiteracy, superstition, prejudice against totalitarian attitudes, vanity, false pride.'

There's a question we often come across: is writing a way to attain immortality. He says 'it seems storytelling overcomes or replaces death. It is the passport to survival, this ability to recount tales, recover and recount them, to embroider and amplify them in order to delay the threatened annihilation.'

To conclude, it can be said that each person has a share in the fountain of life. Some choose to be spectators (the anti-action kind), some become water itself, erupting with the rhythm of their heartbeats (whom we call writers) and some are never able to spare a moment to gaze at the fountain, being severely engrossed in the vicissitudes of life, the marginalized ones. And a writer's duty is indeed to live as many lives as possible, hunt for as many realities as possible and become the mirror of society. Despite the regional and national borders, a writer's art knows no boundaries but timelessness and universality.   

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing

-Benjamin Franklin