Universal application of Platitudes

In January, I made a decision to try to come up with a twelve step program for writers, primarily because I needed both something to blog about and a way to discipline my own writing.   My first "step" was "Take your time, hear the voices."  Then I went off to India and got distracted with my travel journal. Then I actually finished another draft of a work in progress (Invisible) and then in April I challenged myself.   In April I was determined to walk every day, encouraged by fitbit and an April walkabout, and to write at least a thousand words on 750words.com.  I got the words, but for the most part, they were just garbage, stuff you write when you are going for word count only. I didn't get all the walking in I wanted, but i did increase my activity level quite a bit.  I'm sorry to say that the activity increase was as tied to repainting the entire house, supervising installation of new floors, moving and removing furniture, cleaning carpets... you get the picture.  Whatever works.

Here it is half-way through May though, and all those good habits have gone by the wayside as I participated in "life."  I've had time with my grown up children, which is the best. I've had time with my spouse, a rarity we are getting happily used to.  I've even had time with the once woolly dogs, shorn now with summer cuts that reinforce their resemblance to lambs even more.  (My youngest son's Australian shepherd drives them crazy with the herding "pokes."

And I've been going to weight watchers again, lost a few pounds, but that's what prompted me to do the 12 Step theory, renamed here  Universal Platitudes.  Because really, don't the same rules work for all the things we are trying to do?

Weight watcher's program centers on three tenants:  accountability, group support, and environment.  By "tracking" your food and activity, you become self aware of where your calories (or carbs or whatever you want to count) are coming from.  You see how you spend your calories.

Applying that to writing, it is easy for me to see how 750 words a day can be written, yet no writing accomplished.  It becomes about numbers, and not quality. Weight watchers will let me spend my points anyway I want, so long as i write it down and 'quit' when I reach my limit. (I'm oversimplifying, of course, and the weight watchers folks will be quick to point out their Healthy guidlines. Bear with me as I stretch this metaphor a bit.)  While I can work the program by eating chocolate and taco chips all day, I will never be healthy on 26 points worth of m & m's.  Likewise, if the only writing I "indulge" in is word count words, nothing fit to be read will be created.  Better to slow down, worry about content, character and voice than to just type for words.

Group support is integral to twelve step programs. Missing the meeting is the first chink in the wall it seems, for those inclined to fall off the wagon/diet/self help whatever.  I've found the same to be true with writing. The more time I spend in the company of writers, the more likely I am to want to have new material to share, discuss and compare.  Writing is not lonely: my mind is filled with fictional characters who often just won't shut up... but it is important to shower, dress and talk to living people in the non fiction world.

Finally, environment plays a huge role in the Platitude Programs.  If there is an open wine bottle on the counter, it's going to be tough for the alcoholic to leave it alone.  If there is a dish of candy next to the computer, the dieter will have trouble not dipping in.  If the computer is sluggish, there are no pens or paper available and the desk is a mess with bills and catalogs, it will be a bigger challenge to coax fiction to come out and play.

Can you think of more similarities?

Happy Elephants

A trip to India wouldn’t really be complete without shopping, at least that is what I was led to expect. When we met up with the local people, they discouraged us from going to the old market near the Red Fort, probably the most famous market in Delhi, the Chandni Chowk market, dating back to the 1600s, because of the crowds, high crime rate and the fact that we’d just be overwhelmed.  If local people tell you that you will be overwhelmed when the things they take for granted overwhelm you, my advice is to listen to them.

They encouraged us instead to go to Delhi Heart (we thought) because it was a market representative of the 29 states of India and that vendors rotated bi weekly and therefore were encouraged to bargain reasonably.  So we told the hotel driver, who we engaged for the day because we really wanted someone who could speak English, to take us to the market and to the Akshardham temple, the newest Hindu temple in Delhi.

This driver was very proud of Delhi, and while his English was better than the company driver’s he still had some issues.  Some of his insights:  Too much money in the temples. Too much smart in the Jain religion. And my favorite: Too much Mother Theresa. 
First we went to the temple, and here we were required to leave leather bags in the car, and take off shoes.  It was warm that day, so not an issue and we’d been prepared for both so weren’t surprised. We were a little surprised that there was no fee to enter the temple grounds, and we were very impressed with the gardens, architecture and traditional art.   No pictures were allowed inside I’m afraid, but here are links to the web where you can get a better idea:

Temple  (elaborate… note all the hand carving!)
Lotus garden   (this was very pretty)

There was yet another separate line for women; while cell phones and cameras are not permitted inside, and security is tight.  I had an odd moment when they patted me down and discovered my little fitbit (pedometer.)  They wanted me to “open it”… which of course made no sense as it is simply a clip that slides over a pocket or waistband or belt.  I finally convinced them that there was no danger from it… demonstrating the steps and walking…while my husband and the driver laughed from their “men’s line.”  My husband told me I’d learn to use it as a money clip sooner or later… he had the same device and didn’t raise an eyebrow!
  Our judgmental driver considered this to be an excess of the "jannis" (Jain) particularly (we’d told him our son in law’s family was Jain)... too much money. We spent a couple of hours at the temple, and then asked the driver to take us to Delhi Heart. 

He asked “Which one?” and we explained what our friends had said.  (They said it as though everyone knows about Delhi Heart!)  He explained to us that since the new light rail line was being built, Delhi Heart was sliced in two, so he’d take us to the one he knew best.

He drove us to an area with signs that said “Delhi Haat” and were a line of very old, very dirty shops selling traditionally touristic goods:  saris, pashminas, carpets, marble carvings… and while the place technically met the description of what I’d read in the guide books, the fact that there were only about 5 shops in the area made me suspicious.  Nonetheless, we went inside, and let them show us all grades of pashminas and then they took us to the carpet room.

Now, I love a bargain, and the Indian government subsidizes these cottage industry stores, so they a) take credit cards, b) charge no tax, and c) ship to the U.S (or other countries) for free. So … always needing new carpets (remember I have puppies)(okay, they are a year old now, dogs) we let them bring us bottled water and show us their carpets.

Even cheap rugs are not cheap, these running in the thousands of dollars, depending on size. But the salesman, though very interesting to listen to, fell into what I know now as an Indian salesman’s habit:  he kept showing us more.  If he’d have just stopped, I think we’d have bought something, for the entertainment value at least.  But …when the overwhelming flags started going up, we told him we had three more days in India, and we might be back. And walked away.  What we knew was that we didn’t know enough about what we were dealing on to make good choices. When we got back to the hotel, we went and talked to the dealer in the hotel, who showed us what to watch for and what indicated fraud… and sure enough, I’m certain we were being shown machine made goods, in synthetics.  It was a fun experience though…and we didn’t spend anything on it. 

At the rug vendor.

But we still hadn’t seen what had been described to us as Delhi Heart. So we went to the hotel travel desk and asked for directions.  The Concierge showed us the site on the map, and we engaged yet another driver for the following day.

I’ve not mentioned food or drink. Mostly when we were out and about we avoided it… took water with us, and stuck to eating breakfast and dinner in the hotel, which featured a very international buffet for both meals.  I grew very fond of the Indian dishes, but my husband was less enamored, so this was a good choice for us.  And since our room came with “happy hour” for two hours every night, it was economical too.  Happy hour in India (Delhi at least) begins at 7 pm… they eat very late there.  So by 7 we tried to be at the bar, where they served us our drinks of choice and different chef specialties as “snacks”… a couple of nights this was enough for dinner.  The options there are not “western” and “non western” … but always veg and not veg.  At any rate, I enjoyed the Indian sparkling wine, and Sapphire Bombay Gin kept my spouse happy.  And yes, made it easier to go with the flow, if you will.

Bar in the hotel, felt very British

Thursday, we got up early and met the hotel driver. Once again, we asked to go to Delhi Heart… or Haat as it said on the map.  He took us to yet another slummy commercial district.  This time we were better prepared, and after a quick perusal of the goods, and asked to go to the place on the map.  The driver wasn’t pleased, but we’d been in Delhi long enough to know some of the landmarks, and were quite sure we weren’t close to the place indicated on the map.  We think the drivers and the shop owners have … arrangements… bring the tourists to me and I’ll give you a percentage kind of thing. 

We finally made it to Delhi Haat, which was much more tourist friendly. The place is like a craft market where the merchants from the different Indian states rotate on 15 day schedules and sell their wares.  They do the famous bargaining, but my little bit of experience says that they didn’t really have Indian prices to begin with. We had some rupees though, and they took credit cards as well, so we bought several 100% pashmina scarves and some other trinkets… happy elephants from a puppet maker and some vegetable on hand-made paper paintings.   It was clean, the merchants were nice, and we had fun.

What we have not seen that we were warned to expect were the hoards of child beggars.  A few, when stopped in traffic, noting that we are in a rental car, and a Chevrolet at that.  Kind of like wearing white tennis shoes in Europe… just marks you as American.  The children motioned hunger, but they also laughed and the dancing that they did against the car made their gestures seem insincere. They just looked like kids.  One thing that did strike me was that two of the little girls, who could not have been more than 8, carried babies. One was a toddler, all toothy grins, the other a bald headed infant lolling in the girls arms.  It reminded me of the gimmick in Slumdog Millionaire. And I have to say that slumdog prepared us for most of the images of India, which gives the producers high marks for realism from me.

Let’s talk a little about women while I am typing here, waiting the 8 minutes to fully charge my laptop before we go.  First: I expected to see more women in the craft shops, the hotels etc.  Unless they were in the plentiful Ayurveda salons, they are few and far between.  In the craft shops and bazaars, even more so.  And when we are out in public, I’m barely granted courtesy, never deference, in this country where men rule.  No wonder the women are rising up and being pissed off. I saw dozens of women on the streets and in traffic, often dolled up in the colorful saris but never in the position of prominence.  Lots of women ride the backs of motorcycles, and hold children, but I have not yet seen a woman drive.  The local newspaper this morning recognizes the new voting block in India as the female vote, and the news is full of the demand for better protection under the law, especially for rape victims. Something to research.

We are on the plane to London now, ready to land soon, and so it is time to close out this narrative.  I want to remember the look of India falling away as the plane rose, a million postage stamp parcels in shades of green and brown, and tiny brown villages connected by almost roads scattered like seeds among the plains.  Then the jagged jolt of the Himalayas, darker brown, and empty, with the few settlements squares that look more like the remnants of pallets strewn about the land, and dusted with snow.  Then the snow caps themselves, so cold and empty and extreme.  They seem to separate the possibility that is India from the rest of the world, and I choose to think that rather than isolate the subcontinent, the mountains protect it, saving all those happy, contented people from the anger that seems to be Pakistan, the arrogance of Arabia, and the desperation that I think of when I think of Russia. I want to save them it seems, not from the poverty and stress that comes from being an underdeveloped third world, or emerging world, but from the silly stresses that come from westernization.  The need to fit in, to wear the right thing, say the right thing.  I want them to keep their pride in their heritage, their culture, their food, so that they can always share that lively wonder with sojourners like me. While I want to bestow on them self respect, I don’t want to take away their humbling humility.

I wonder how my market experience jives with that sentiment, and can hear the smiling handsome men beckon to me, “just take a look” “just one moment” and then not know when to stop to give me time to actually buy something.  I want to help, but I want to help in ways that let them earn their profits, not by handing out rupees and money, but encouraging their free enterprise, their joyful spirit, their undying energy. I feel as though I have just “taken a look” and have been sucked in by the entreaty.  I want to see more.

Happy elephants, for luck, from the heart of Delhi.

end of India journal. at last!

On to Agra

These are the days when I feel I’ve seen India. We began early, 5:30, so we could make it to Agra and back in a day. The morning was foggy, so the journey began in a dreamlike cloud.  There were clear things up close, not so much in the distance. When the fog hadn’t burned off by ten a.m., it was clear that it was not really fog, but smog. It wasn’t unusual to see people on the side of the road with their faces covered, not from any religious piety, but to keep from breathing the terrible air.

Side note. It is six thirty a.m. and I’ve been up for an hour and a half.  I got a brainstorm that today should be Muslim research day and wanted to put together a set of questions I’d ask the Muslims I meet.  Silly maybe, but there is no reason not to work on the book while I am here. And there is no reason my Khalid and Davis can’t be from Delhi as easily as from Saudi Arabia. Maybe easier, because there isn’t as much world focus on the extremism here, while there are still hostilities and terrorism.

So the trip to Agra. First, I believe our driver, a nice young man about my son’s age, was lost more than he knew his way.  He often stopped, rolled down the window and rattled off questions to strangers in Hindi. Many of the strangers looked like they had never left the particular corner they were on at the time… that they were in fact fixtures there.  Most often they just waved him on, indicating the same direction he was headed already.  Now all of that wouldn’t be such a notable thing, if we hadn’t spent nearly 9 hours in the car, there and back, when the drive was supposedly a two to three hour jaunt.  The livestock, cows, wild boars, along the road and so many dogs, all an indistinct lab like short hair breed and then the people in all manner of costume, from turban rags to elegant jeweled saris, made it an interesting drive, but the dirty dust of the “road” which was more hole than pothole, left us feeling, riding in the back of what is really a luxury vehicle in India, as though we’d been beaten up, the jostling was that extreme. 

And the slums.  I’ve seen slums, in Rio, in Mexico, Malaysia, and of course in the US… but I’ve never seen slums like these. The best constructed ‘homes’ were made of blue plastic tarps. They had common walls, one tent to the next and they were patched together with garbage bags and whatever else you can imagine.  People squatted, sometimes on old crates, others just on the ground, sometimes around an open fire, inside them as we passed by on this chilly morning.  Surrounding the slums were areas that reminded me more of garbage dumps than anything else, with ridges of dirt as though they’d been plowed up that way.  And yes, not a few people had their pants around their ankles, squatting to take care of their biological needs, right along the roadway, on top of the mounds, along concrete abutments, wherever. Men, mostly, but women too, with saris or other draping wrapped around them, both the butts and their faces the only bare parts in sight.  For anyone who thinks women’s privacy, even at that level, is sacred in India… no.  Biology and poverty seem to be the great equalizers in India.

As we drove along the road in the pre-dawn hours, we nearly hit a black cow, crossing the road.  I wonder if there is superstition about black cows the way there are around cats. My son in law explained when we got back that it was very fortunate we didn’t hit it, and that had we, there was a good chance we’d never make it out alive. All those nice people along the roadside would have, apparently, turned to an angry mob, complete with Mob Justice.

I saw only one cat, a skittish terrified creature that ran past us later in the week as we lounged by the pool. My son-in-law explains that Indians hate cats and consider them terrible omens.  (This doesn’t stop him from being the favorite of my daughter’s sweet gray tabby who lives with them.)

The visuals were overwhelming, but nothing prepared me for the noise.  Instead of driving in single lanes here, cars drive where they want to drive and then honk when they want to pass a vehicle in front of them. Multi-colored Tata (freight) trucks, which I am told are painted that way to ward off evil, rule the road, and since all goods are shipped into the city at night, night time is particularly perilous.  The Tata trucks are not as big as a semi trailer in the states, more like the size of a standard garbage truck, though without the rounding, if that makes sense ness. The trucks are tarped, (unlike in Houston, nothing flies out of them.) I sense pride in the ownership and operation of motor vehicles, and frankly, it is more like race car driving than driving on a highway. Starts and stops are frequent and plentiful, with the constant blaring of millions of horns.   “Honk horn and wait for aside” the trucks have painted on them. And at night, use the dippers.  As best I can tell, that means flash your headlights.

I haven’t mentioned the smell… which wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be.  A kind of smokiness that I assume is from the pollution is the standard, and frankly, you get used to it.  Possibly because the air in Houston has my body already primed to reject it.

As the drive was long, and as we left so early, it wasn’t unusual that our driver wanted to stop.  As mentioned, his English wasn’t great, and he kept saying “repast” to us.  I don’t know if he meant he was offering it to us or just wanted a break, but no matter how many ways we said, “ we are fine” he pulled off the road to one of the myriad roadside cafes, known as dhabba’s.   These are three sided buildings, made of tin and tarps as best I could see, with what looked like an outdoor kitchen and steam tables.  There were plastic tables and chairs, enough to seat a hundred or so, scattered both under the roof and out in the “yard”… a cleared dirt area.  A two stalled Indian style bathroom was a few meters separated from the kitchen area in its own concrete building, with a sink for hand washing outside.  Monkeys climbed all over the roof, light brown thinly furred ones, and they reached down inside frequently, trying to steal food.  A brown dog curled in the dirt in the corner and her puppy, a sweet little girl who came to me right away for belly rubs, wandered the area.

Dhabba: note the "fog," the bathroom building to the right, and the monkey on the roof.

I’d have had to have been starving to eat, drink or use the facilities, but our driver sat down to what looked like a four course meal, and very much enjoyed it.  My husband and I walked around until the owner, who assumed his chairs must be wet, came out with a towel and dried a couple, turning them toward the road so we could watch the view.  We didn’t want to insult anyone, so we sat.  When I described this to my son in law, he got a dreamy look in his eyes.  He loves dhabba food and told us we screwed up by not eating.  He also says every time he comes back from India, he looks like a refugee because he always gets sick and loses weight.  He hasn’t put the two together yet. We were very big on hand sanitizer and washing, and didn't eat any roadside food. We also didn't get sick. Or lose weight for that matter!

When we finally arrived in Agra, I was a little surprised to find the big city atmosphere.  At 1.7 million, it is only the 19th most populous city in India.  They don’t mess around with population in India, and I’m pretty sure the concept of “small town” is lost on them. When my husband first introduced himself to the employees there, he explained to them that he’d come from a small town. They wanted to know how small…. 500,000?  A million?
He grew up in a tiny place in Iowa with 37 other people living there. They shook their heads.  37 people in a house might be remarkable, but it is no town.

At any rate, Agra houses the Taj Mahal, another UNESCO site, so tourism is the biggest industry. In fact, to halt pollution, the city has banned industry, and there is no tax on goods produced by hand created in Agra.  So it is a thriving area of crafts, though I had no real use for the carved marble reproductions of the place.  Thriving on Tourism, there is racket after racket and you have the sense that each level is paying off the next one.  You must park a half-mile or so away from the Taj. To get there, you must ride either a city taxi (three wheeled, open air electric rickshaw thing) or ride in a cart pulled by a camel. You must have a guide.  He meets you in the parking lot, where he explains his fee and the fee of the transport, who is his brother.  He sticks to you like glue, explaining his favorite features over and over. 
He takes your rupees to buy himself and the driver entrance (20 rupees apiece, again) while you wait in line to buy Foreign tickets, (750 rupees) and go through security.  Your 750 buys you not only admission, but a bottle of water and shoe covers… the same thing delivery people put on so they don’t have to take off their shoes.  The Indian line just took off their shoes and went barefoot.

He leads you to the entrance, explaining the structures, the architect and the history. For the most part, you will have already read up on this, so you lag behind and appreciate the craftsmanship and beauty, letting him do his job.  If you hear one more time that it took 22 years to build the Taj, you will try to feed the guide to the resident parrots.

(transportation to front gate)                                                 (driver and the entrance)

The Taj is really a tomb. From trip advisor: 
Where better to go for a romantic vacation than to the great testament of love, the Taj Mahal? Built by the grieving Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his late wife Mumtaz Mahal, the Taj Mahal’s unrivaled beauty explains why it’s regarded as one of the eight wonders of the world. A visit to India wouldn’t be complete without it.

The building itself is nothing short of beautiful, but I expected that.

We are accosted first thing with the guides, who must be hired I fear… though now that I think of it none of the Indians had guides.  Ours was clearly on the take with both vendors and cabs. We road a camel cart the mile into the TM complex from the designated parking areas… more jostling… and spent time admiring the entry “gates” gardens and hearing the story of the mosque and quarters that flank the Taj itself.  The marble for the Taj, and it is all mare only things that aren’t perfectly balanced are the graves themselves. The Taj’s dead wife was laid to rest in the exact center of the complex. When he died, they buried him next to her.  There is no grave on the other side.

Marble of the Taj is inlaid with semi precious jewels, (another item that they want to sell us in the Kasbah we must walk through to get back to the car.)  It is built with several optical illusions, inlay of dark stone so that columns that are flat look three dimensional, etc.  It is definitely worth the trip; photographs can’t capture the luminescence of the marble, the sense of calm that permeates even among the tourists.

(Marble details, including optical illusion columns (those zig zags are flat) and residence built to match the identical mosque on the other side)

View from the back (the back is identical to the front) with armed guard.

I do feel like I’m becoming an expert on Muslim art and architecture though. 

After leaving the Taj, we took the “new highway” out of Agra, which was supposed to get us back in 2.5 hours.  You already know the end of that story.  I soon found that my senses were overloaded. It no longer surprised me to see herds of cattle sharing the roadside, the tiny thin children walking around with no pants, the hundreds of uniformed boys and girls getting off and on busses, the motorcycles carrying at minimum a young man in western type clothing, a young woman in full sari and a child all at once, other motorcycles loaded with plywood, or crates of goods or mattresses, held on precariously by string or just the hands of the men, darting in and around traffic, without helmets or other protection. It didn’t surprise me to see an elephant walking alongside the road.  I am ashamed to have lost my wonder and empathy.

from inside the car. Sharing the road.

More from India

On our way to meet with our local friends,  we stopped by a monument to Shiva,  rising out of a part of Delhi that could only be called squalor. The forty foot high bronze statues, the largest of Shiva, surrounded by flowers and other gods reigned over a lovely park, where we could buy marigolds to leave as offerings, but otherwise cost nothing.  Our hindu driver for the day, M, took off his shoes, flattened his palms in prayer, kissed his hand, and then touched his chest and the earth.  He motioned for us to take off our shoes and get a closer look at the statues.  Clearly the place was sacred to him. We didn’t feel the spirituality but it was really cool. (When we left Delhi the next day, we were amazed to see similar statues dotting the countryside, behind fields, whatever. There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to their location, but they were beautiful.)

We then met up with the India CEO and his wife to see the Kingdom of Dreams and the Bollywood style production of Zangoora, the gypsy prince.  There was no photography allowed inside, and they were very Disney-like… lots of photo ops where they took the photo and offered it to you after the show.  There is a you tube video that was a preview of the show, here: which gives you a taste. It lasted for three hours.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wC2QHQ6juY

Before we went to the show we went through a bit of Culture Gully… felt a bit like an Indian version of Epcot, with shops showcasing each of the Indian states, both in food and artisans.  We ate at one from Lucknow, and tried the kabobs, which are not kabobs at all, but patties of fried mush, whether vegetable or . ick…Mutton. (They don’t eat beef or pork at all in India as far as I could tell. That was fine for  me, but my poor husband really missed his red meat!) We were polite and tried everything… it wasn’t as spicy as I’d expected it to be, but was full of flavor.  We also drank Kingfisher beer, which I liked.

 The production was a truly amazing feat of light and dance and special effects like I’ve never seen, and I’ve seen a lot of live theater.  It was completely three dimensional, with side screens that were used to bring the sets all the way around the audience.  Of course most of the action was from the live actors on stage, but they used many aerial acts as well. Costumes were fantastic, from the belly dance (which is more hip than belly,) to sparkling sequined swim trunks and amazing abs.  And the music and energy were on fire… I’ve never seen a cast so lit up, especially for a Monday matinee.  The production was all in Hindi, and I admit to falling asleep a few times, but I got the gist of it.  Interesting that at the end of the show they performed the same “jai ho” number that ends slum dog millionaire, with just as much energy and fun.  It felt good to watch… all positives.

 Also after the show Qutub Minar, the tallest minaret in India. When we arrived, the entrance near us was already closed, and there was a large crowd waiting for a popular light show to begin.  We decided to admire it from afar, and elected to come back to the hotel, our safe haven of western-ness amid the mess that is Delhi.

An Interlude in India

 I'll get back to the twelve steps soon, but this is where I put my travel notes, and i've just spent several days in the UK and India.  Travel journal being edited, but here are my "I'm home" thoughts.

I've actually been back since Saturday night, but the travel and time changes and all the things that go with coming back after two weeks abroad had all my time yesterday.  My sleep schedule will take a while to get readjusted... it was 11 and a half hours to adjust the time zones. I didn't reset my watch, just remembered that it was half an hour fast, and morning instead of night, etc.

No crises while I was gone. The dogs were clean and fluffy and happy to see us, and seem to be none the worse for wear. The fear is always that they will regress in behavior or get sick or ... all those things we doggy moms worry about.  But they seem to be just fine.

I've kept a running journal of the India trip, and will try to clean it up for posting this week.  Quick impressions for you... India is amazing. All the bad things you've ever seen are there, but if you think that is the gist of the country, you would be very wrong.  It is full of joy.  The people, from the lowliest beggars to the loftiest business people seem to have made peace with their lives and exude an essence of being thrilled to be alive.  Of all the things I saw and did, that is the take home message for me.

The country reminds me of what I think the US must have been like at the turn of the century.  The industrial revolution has sort of passed it by.. infrastructure, except in the biggest cities is non existent.  Their most abundant and greatest asset is their people, and the population continues to challenge well meaning politicians.  We talked to a banker at a dinner one night, and he said that 50% of the people are doing fine, but the other 50%, the very poor, the homeless who give India its reputation, is a problem no one can figure out. And they are trying, because these are not people who don't care.  It is very hard to change what has become an accepted way of life for so many though.

I recognize that I travel in a bubble. We stayed in the same hotel in Delhi every night, mostly because it was a known and India must be taken in small bites.  The first day we ventured out of Delhi, my husband cautioned me that I would now see the "real" India. Twelve hours later, I knew that if I had days like that at the first of the trip, I'd have been booking earlier flights home.

And that would have been a mistake, as I wouldn't have had the time to fall in love with the country. With its spirit, its problems, its pride.  It is humbling for me as a person, and like the best of travel, will make me appreciate all the more what there is at home, and what there is to do, everywhere.

I'm not ready to download all the details from my mind yet, and have quite a bit of work to catch up on, so I'll beg off the travelogue for now, and hopefully sprinkle experiences in as things get back to normal.

In the meantime, namaste.

Mangal Manjusha, Delhi, India, February 2013

12 steps for Writers

Some of the most successful programs for self improvement in the world are what is know as a twelve step program.  Modeled, I think, after the system used by Alcoholics Anonymous since its inception, the programs are outlines for healing.
So like any good netizen, I googled Twelve steps for Writers.  And yes, there are lots of articles out there. Mostly they appear to be comedic, tongue in cheek articles that are entertaining, but not really helpful. There were some that made sense for article writers, maybe even blog writers. But what we are dealing with here are writers of fiction.  Story telling.

So I thought I'd see if i could come up with twelve steps.  Maybe even helpful steps.  Rather than force myself to come up with all of them in one sitting, I'll do what will necessarily end up on the list, and take my time. In fact, let's make that number 1.

1. Take your time.  Hear the voices.

By this I mean that it is great to stream of consciousness write whatever comes to your head.  Most writers I know do ten minutes of free writing, or three pages or 750 words. Or they open a paper journal and go outside and just write the weather.  Remember the sunrises I used to write?  Like that.

All of those are just methods of clearing the cobwebs.  They let you move from the focus on life as you know it, from the kids and puppies and telephone and clock and all the other things that insist, demand your attention. Until you can give yourself a chance to put them aside, it is going to be tough for your characters to whisper to you what they want to do.  Impossible for your plot to show you the interlocking pieces.

And when the characters do speak, or the plot unfolds in your head, get it down on paper, but don't go running to Aunt Martha, your biggest fan just yet.  Let it sit. For hours, days, or in some cases, even years. Good writing doesn't expire.  Later on we'll have a step on revising, but for now, just take the time you need to go a little crazy and hear the voices.

(by the way, if you stumble across this blog and think, how sad, she's writing and no one is reading, don't worry.  I've been around a long time, and I'll get the hang of marketing some day.  I think that may be step 12.)

If you are reading and you have things you think should be included on this list, don't hesitate to comment or shoot me an email.  I think I'm all linked up now.

40 days...

Thanks to the folks at Inprint I'm back in regular writing workshops again.  I don't know that I learn a lot from workshops anymore... I suspect I have enough writing books and critical essays to have earned an MFA by now, but given the number of "drafts" that have taken up residence on my desk, I clearly need the discipline of deadlines. I don't know what possessed me to think that printing out drafts was a good idea, other than the ability to "not edit" while sitting in positions not conducive to a notebook computer, but these pages now haunt me every time I sit at my desk.

So my commitment to myself is to a) write new things for workshop, and b) FINISH something.  So not only have I signed up for another round of workshopping at Inprint, I've agreed to a less formal group with classmates from the last workshop.  That means I will have new eyes for some of the drafts and I will have deadlines to get them moving. Even if they move to the trash or back to a box in the desk that I'll save for the day I have a publisher begging me for anything...

What's that saying I like?  It costs nothing to dream, and everything not to.

Tomorrow I'm with the Old group, and am taking them a short flash piece I wrote in 2009 and a longer one I wrote way back in 2000.  Both of them inspired by the state of Michigan, one winter, one summer.  Since it has been almost fifteen years since I've lived in Michigan, it interests me that this is the work I feel safest with.  Now I've been in Texas longer than I was in Michigan, so it may be time to take some Texan sized risks.  The last two novels I've worked on have major Texas scenes... all i need to do is edit 300 pages before I can get back to them.

at 7.5 pages a day....that's only 40 days.  And nights.  We all know what can happen to the world in 40 days!

Resolved...

January is resolution time.  For writers, that means time to renew our commitment to our characters, our word count, or at least our butt in the chair time.  I'm  no different.  In fact, I made several resolutions, for the year, about writing.  One of them had to do with editing. One had to do with publishing. One even had to do with actually writing.  Here we are two thirds through January though, and the only one I am faithful to is the writing.  Sad to say, I write because I love to write. Not edit, not publish.  Unfortunately, I already have hard drives and baskets and folders full of "writing."  It's time to do something with it.

Challenges are helpful.  I am competitive, and I like winning, so I have accepted the challange from a writer friend to enter a non prize winning contest.  Why? The winner gets their work read on stage. Hmm.  Maybe being read is enough of an incentive to get me to polish up a few things.

Fear is also helpful.  I signed up for another workshop, and have to have stories or chapters reader ready at least two times in the next ten weeks.  That doesn't sound like much, but I've challenged myself to make it "new writing." That's right. no pulling a tried and true and already work-shopped story from the baskets. That's too easy. Those stories are old and the emotion that created them is long gone. I'm no longer attached to them, so when I read them cold, they don't elicit a need from me to fix them, while preserving the passion from which they were created.  Great for editing. Not so great for creating.  And I want the encouragement that comes from having someone read what I'm working on now, and want more.

What gets you to keep your resolutions?