on time warp, reader's block, and discriminatory writing

It's been a disorienting few days.

D is now in Grade 5! School began last Thursday.

The sky is still a bright blue even though the mornings are quite chilly. But with D back at school, it feels as if summer is gone, lost to the mists of the past.

Meanwhile, KrA turns 45 tomorrow!
Halfway to 90, as someone once said.
If you're lucky, as someone else once added.

The past couple of years I had managed to schedule a fun day out on/around his birthday.

Two years ago, when KrA's birthday was on a Sunday, we spent the day in Toronto Islands. It was such a gorgeous day, and D was old enough that we could rent bikes and ride them from the rental place to one end of the island.

Last year, we checked out a virtual escape room. It's the kind of thing KrA digs, and he enjoyed it.

This year I couldn't plan anything. D's schedule has gotten wildly busier, now that he's made it into a rep basketball team. Thankfully not the one with that judgemental coach.

Between trying to make the most of the last few days of summer with him, and getting everything ready for school, and trying to keep myself sane through all of this, I couldn't come up with ideas for a cool experience for KrA.

I finally decided to cut myself some slack this year, and D and I bought him a bunch of thoughtful gifts, some of which we gave him over the weekend. The rest, we will surprise him with when he wakes up tomorrow morning!

I did have a meltdown that lasted two full days though. Shortly before D was to return to school. The thought that he'd be away and that summer is coming to an end and that we'd soon be heading into the season of shorter days and darker nights was enough to bring me to tears.

Sometimes I look back and remember the sweet, slow days of innocence I got to spend with D. Then, memory does its thing and also offers remembrances of harsh words I said or of the times I snapped, or of the times I was so out of my mind with anxiety that I couldn't help or support D in his choices.

The fact is — those times were far and few in between. But memory refuses to cooperate, especially when I'm feeling low, and paints a bleaker picture of the past decade than it truly was.

Today was one such day. Maybe because I was yet to pick up a birthday cake for KrA, or because I was feeling a little bad at not having pushed myself to schedule a magical day for his birthday, I was rather despondent this morning.

So instead of the two hours I had planned to spend reading Books 1.5 and 2 of The Separation Of Souls Saga, I spent only an hour.

I finished reading Book 1.5. The Folly Of Longing/The Making Of Alexi. It is the backstory of one of the supporting protagonists in the series. It's a love story. With a tragic ending.

Raja is easily my favourite character in the series. No wonder I had to write an entire book for him. I remember I was in the midst of writing Book 1, when I had to digress and let Raja tell his tale in Book 1.5, and only then was I able to come back and finish writing Book 1.

I'm glad I still turned up at the library and attended to the manuscript for a bit. One hour is better than nothing. And not everyday can be identical in terms of output and productivity.

Besides, after that I set out to run errands — buy a birthday cake, get a gift bag, get greeting cards, wrap the presents — then came back home and started to work on the laundry that had been piling up, and I feel that tomorrow I'd be able to focus better on the manuscript.

Another thing that has thrown me off the rails is the lack of interesting books that have come my way.

I picked up an Indian romantasy novel, mainly because the author is coming to give a talk at the local library later this month. So I decided to use that as an excuse to give romantasy a try.

The previous times I've looked at romantasy novels, I couldn't get past the first couple of pages. This time I promised myself I'd give this book a serious try.

I mean, romantasy is all the rage right now. So if I don't like it, something must be wrong with me, right?

I lasted all of 60 pages this time.

I really wanted to read the entire book. But somehow I didn't find myself caring for a newly married prince who was still pining for his mistress, or for the prince's brother who sees his younger sibling's marriage as a route to expand his kingdom. It just didn't work for me. 🤷🏽‍♀️

Then I thought maybe I needed to read a thriller, something that would keep me hooked and turning pages, so I decided to check out Michael Connelly's The Late Show, the first book in the Renée Ballard series.

I've never read a Connelly novel before, although I've seen his books recommended widely.

In the first chapter itself, Ballard is called to investigate a wallet theft from an old lady's home. The resident realizes her wallet has been stolen after she receives a fraud alert on her credit card. Ballard asks to speak to the credit card company in the hopes of getting more information on where the card was used, so she could try to catch the culprit there.

She was talking to a fraud alert specialist with an English-Indian accent. Ballard identified herself as a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department and asked for the shipping address that had been entered for the credit-card purchase before it was rejected as possibly fraudulent. The fraud alert specialist said he could not provide that information without court approval.

"What do you mean?" Ballard asked. "You are the fraud alert specialist, right? This was fraud, and if you give me the address, I might be able to do something about it."

"I am sorry," the specialist said. "I cannot do this. Our legal office must tell me to do so and they have not."

"Let me talk to the legal office."

"They are closed now. It is lunchtime and they close."

"Then let me talk to your supervisor."

...

After five minutes the supervisor came on the line. Ballard explained that they had a fluid situation and needed to move quickly to catch the person who stole Mrs. Lantana's credit card. The supervisor explained that the attempted use of the credit card did not go through, so the fraud alert system had worked.

"There is no need for this 'fluid situation', as you say," he said.

"The system only works if we catch the guy," Ballard said. "Don't you see? Stopping the card from being used is only part of it. That protects your corporate client. It doesn't protect Mrs. Lantana, who had someone inside her house."

"I am sorry," the supervisor said. "I cannot help you without documentation from the courts. It is our protocol."

"What is your name?"

"My name is Irfan."

"Where are you, Irfan?"

"How do you mean?"

"Are you in Mumbai? Delhi? Where?"

"I am in Mumbai, yes."

"And that's why you don't give a shit. Because this guy's never going to come into your house and steal your wallet in Mumbai. Thanks very much."

She stepped back into the kitchen and hung up the phone before the useless supervisor could respond.

~ An excerpt from The Late Show by Michael Connelly

I was shocked when I read these lines.

Isn't Connelly a big-time author whose books are read by millions around the world? Don't his words matter? Don't they influence those who read his books?

These lines reinforce the South Asian stereotypes of call centres and outsourced workers, the distant foreigner who reaps all the benefits without seemingly lifting a finger.

What happens when people who have enormous cultural reach casually attach a negative quality to an easily identifiable group of human beings?

I can only imagine some American reading this and nodding their head in agreement and thinking, "Yes, Indians don't give a fuck." And from there, it's only a short leap to "Yes, immigrants don't give a fuck."

There was some talk over on Reddit yesterday about a photo that had apparently been circulating online featuring four Americans who were on their way to Halifax wearing sweatshirts proclaiming 'Lake America' on the front.

I don't know how true this news story is.

But there's no doubt that we live in a world where a number of people are looking to widen the divides that exist between people. People who probably think all this is funny and smart-alecky, and don't understand how such an act could possible hurt anyone else.

In such a world, and in times like these, what happens when culture portrays protagonists who inadvertently say or do discriminatory things that only serve to reinforce and widen this gap between groups of people?

My first instinct was to shut the book and move on to something else. But now that a good 24 hours have passed since I first read those lines, I'm calmer and also willing to keep an open mind and read on to see how Ballard is portrayed in the rest of the story before jumping to conclusions about her prejudices and biases.

I also began to wonder about how discrimination might have crept into my own writing, even if only inadvertently. The question stayed in my mind all of yesterday, and the answer presented itself this morning.

As I was reading the last chapter of my own yet-to-be-published book, The Folly Of Longing, I came across these lines.

The Knowing tapped into the collective consciousness of everyone at the OCRE, a shared hive mind that guided every member in the direction of the one, true, noble cause. The cleansing and resurrection of earth.

Alexi strode with purpose up and down the Departure Facility where rows of human beings stood, awaiting their turn at the check-in counter. Every person was deformed in some way. They were either weak in body or in mind. The old and the vulnerable. Some were chronically ill. Many were disabled. 

Each was an unsuitable specimen for the OCRE’s mission and needed to be sent away from the planet. They were a burden the new earth didn’t need to shoulder.

~ An excerpt from The Folly Of Longing by Anitha Krishnan

Are these lines discriminatory? Would an old or chronically ill or disabled person read these lines and feel upset?

In the series, there is an entire organization that believes in cleansing the earth off any imperfection and goes to great lengths to achieve this end.

I'm not trying to say that we should never say anything controversial in fiction. In fact, fiction is the safest place to explore our deepest and darkest biases.

But what if it inadvertently reinforces those very biases?

How do we, as writers, ensure that doesn't happen?

To what extent is it even our responsibility in the first place?

I don't know.

Please note I'm not making any statements about Connelly and his personal views on racism etc. I don't know anything about him as a person. Moreover, as I previously said, this is the first ever novel of his that I've picked up.

All I want to point out is how a seemingly harmless collection of lines can inadvertently influence a group of readers who may be quick to latch on to stereotypes like that.

A couple of years ago, a writing coach pointed me to an online writing workshop by another instructor. I don't recall the names and the point is not to malign anyone, anyway.

But in this workshop, the instructor had included for analysis a passage by a very racist English author, a passage written in the 1800s or 1900s, a passage about how brown and dirty as mud Indians were.

Given the time period that author lived in, it's understandable that as a member of the colonial British Empire, he'd have harboured racist views against India and her people.

But given the time period we live in right now, is it necessary to use excerpts from that era, that too such a disparaging passage, to prove a point on descriptive, evocative writing? Aren't there countless other examples to choose from?

Sometimes the instructor may not even realize they're being racist. They might think they're being very progressive in that they're able to talk about these touchy subjects without flinching.

Well, in that case, I think they could choose excerpts pointing to settler colonialism and its barbarism, and I'd love to see them dissect those pieces of writing without flinching or feeling a tangle of emotions.

These past few days have been eye-opening in several other ways too.

D's ultra-busy schedule — which feels that way mainly because we've deliberately maintained a relaxed schedule up until now to allow plenty of time for adequate sleep (waking up without an alarm), rest, leisure, reading, and free play — has me on the edge of the seat.

The child has chosen activities he's interested in. In doing so, he dropped plans for other activities, like a monthly book club meeting at the library, playing weekly Nintendo Switch games at the library, a six-week book-writing workshop (which he attended last year and in which he wrote his very first book!), and some others.

I think D has a better idea of how much he can handle. And I wish to give him the opportunity to try out a busy season before deciding it's too much for him. Maybe he'll learn new skills about juggling multiple projects without getting overwhelmed.

Often, I find it is my anxiety and worry that conjures up problems before they even exist.

When I'm able to focus on the task on hand and not rush D through things just to finish them, it seems to work well for all of us.

I've come up with a mantra — Not mine, Not now.

Every time my mind starts to worry about something, I first ask if it's an issue I can do about something about. Mostly it isn't, and so I remind myself 'Not mine'.

Then I ask if it's an issue I need to attend to right now. Again, mostly it isn't, otherwise I'd be doing it, and so I tell myself 'Not now'.

Well, everything is teaching me something new about myself and how I approach life.

And right now, I think I need a half-hour of reading The Late Show and relaxing in the just-warm late evening sunshine before D returns from basketball practice.

I too have come to appreciate these unplanned moments of quiet and rest, and I have learnt to take them as they come.