'Tis a girl...

Thank the insurance and car companies that have been leaving spam comments. As I deleted them a vague memory of other recent comments came through the fog. T'was Minx and Cath J asking for news. So sorry, it's been a bit crazy here but my baby is the one on the left... no right... no left...


Hee hee. OK, this is what she really looks like. She was born at 3.33am on 10th October, can't believe she's going to be 3 months in a few days time.

Not Writing and Routines...

I suppose I should begin this post by explaining that I have been asleep since February; seriously. While sleeping/snoozing I became hooked to a programme called: Un Diner Presque Parfait. I think it's based on some British thing where 5 people cook for each other every day of the week and are judged on their cooking hospitality and decor (is it really that important?). I realised that my brain was melting when I found myself weeping along with the Senegalese man who won the 1000€ one week and said he was going to send the money to his village back home. I then changed to a more serious channel ARTE (the French German collaboration) and snoozed through loads documentaries about all sorts of stuff, such as artificially inseminating elephants to how time is the architect of the planet.

I think I'm more awake this week. I can't be a 100% sure as I'm on holiday, but the goal is to get all those boring things done that I have been putting off since ... eh like October and to write. So I got my verruca done this morning by some sadistic bastard who called me into his office, looked at my referral letter, looked at my toe, went: YEP that's a verruca. He then proceeded to open this huge canister where dry ice poured out, poured a tiny bit of smoking liquid into a little metal bowl, muttered something about: 'this is going to hurt' and then proceeded to cause me extreme PAIN! So, the idea now is to write ...

The thing is, and no offence to you guys, but I was hoping that I would open up the folder that contains the first draft of my book and the other folder that contains bits of the slowest ever edit on earth and skip the blogging bit.

But it's the routines. Don't laugh, you all have them and I'm in desperate need of some new ones. I wrote to a friend last week ranting on and on about this whole visualisation process before the actual act of fingers tapping on keyboard. In my mind, it's dark, I have my pathetic tiny ashtray to the left, packet of cigs behind the laptop. Also on the left may be print outs that I'm currently working on. On the right is my notebook, a cup of tea/glass of wine. I may have one song playing in the background to start with, but by time the CD is over I won't put another one on because I'll be there... you know that place.

So I'm now going to start tearing that image apart. By the time it's dark I'm usually ready for a nap. I've stopped smoking(permanently I hope), I've stopped drinking (temporarily I hasten to add) and I'm down to one cup of tea a day (and decaf tea is pants let me tell you). I can still play the CD, but... I think that somewhere along the line, blogging actually became part of the writing routine too and I was trying to skip that bit to actually have some time to write, but the end result was nada.

Anyway, I'm now going to request that you all send me some new writing routines that will work for a non-smoking, non-drinking, caffeine deprived, slightly pooped writer. OK, I know that's a lot to ask for someone who's vanished off the face of the earth for two months, but please... It was for a very good reason honest. You can find the reason why tucked in between the flowers and Tibo on the right hand side bar.

Jaisamler Jaunts

Perhaps it was the insanity of the driving or the monotony of the scenery: a rush of scrubby, sandy landscape broken up by women in brightly coloured saris balancing improbable loads on their heads, oh and the odd camel, but I slept through the Great Thar Desert. We were deposited in the middle of what seemed like a building site where the road seemed to end with our hotel at the end of it. At night the garish lights of the ‘Artist Hotel’ were like a beacon in the darkness guiding us towards shelter.

During our two and a half days in Jaisalmer I discovered that I could read maps. It’s kind of a handy skill to have in a place where street names are dispensed with and there seems to be no rhyme or reason to town planning. The Fort hangs precipitously over the town, concealing the chaos of clothes, book and fabric shops that fill it’s every corner bathing it in cacophonous colour. The mob of bored salesman and rickshaw drivers in the main square watch cows jostling with each other; only the high pitched scream of a sari clad Indian woman raises them out of their torpor to throw water over the otherwise docile creatures. Streets weave away to little doorways filled with mouth watering smells which lead up to breath taking views. From above there is a hint of a Jain Temple or the Royal Palace peeking out at you.

My memories of Jaisalmer and the Havelis below the Fort are like gliding back to a time when Princes wooed the most beautiful Princesses in all the land on their trusty camels. Acrobats bounced precariously on the tight rope, while musicians beat out a syncopated rhythm, the strange high pitched string accompaniment weaving in out of the beat. I could also imagine the women in the Jaiwana (women’s quarters) spying on the proceedings on the other side of the intricately carved stone screens. The further you wandered away from the Fort, the closer you came back to the modern day of Gin & Tonics and rampant consumerism: Special offer, almost free. Buy this shirt to make your man more handsome. Bedspread, good for two. And there was conflict; the khaki uniform tucked into heavy black boots was forever present reminding us that the Pakistan border was only 150 kilometres away.

Jaisalmer was also filled with disparate characters, most of them staying at the Artist Hotel it must be said, but there were a few that we bumped into in the Fort. The little British/Israeli girl who obviously recognised my British tone from three tables away and came to share her sequins and holiday anecdotes with us; Then there was Tog-mei the Tibetan ex-Buddhist monk who taught me how to make a singing bowl hum while making Estrella and I tea and giving us blessings. I couldn’t resist purchasing a bowl and although I did make it sing in a way that its vibrations seemed to come from all around and radiate through me, since, all I have managed to do is make a scraping noise which drives Tibo to distraction.

So the Artist Hotel is unsurprisingly in the middle of an Artist colony and Artist’s being what they are, we could be woken by the sound of traditional Rajasthani music at any time of the night. Likewise we could purchase the best Malai Kofta ever (a kind of doughy ball of vegetables and fruit in a yummy sauce) or bus tickets at any time. It seemed that Anna the chain smoking Austrian who sent the boys out for her cigarettes, tissues and what nots, all in a huskier and huskier voice that kind of made you want to tell her to quit smoking, was also ever present. Anna’s husband Wolfgang, who put a look in every now and again, was also a bit of a chain smoker and quite partial to leather trousers. Now the temperature does drop quite dramatically as soon as the sun goes down, but well, let’s not go into too many details about Wolfie’s trousers. Sister Mary and Sister Benedicta had been working on a children’s mission outside of Jaisalmer and were due to leave the next day. Mary pointed out the important articles in the newspaper, why the leader in Gujarat was a dangerous, untrustworthy character and that we weren’t far from the Pakistan border. Sister Benedicta asked us if we had tried the lassi. The nuns were replaced by red-haired Dalan. She was the kind of character who ignored all the previously established personal spaces and conversations and had you showing off your cheesy Indian lighter to the Austrians, with its flashing lights and, ooh, look at this bit, a torch! She offered to marry the manager and promised to tell us the best jewellery store in Pushkar. She laid her life story on the table before bedtime and we knew we’d never see her again in the morning as we waited outside the hotel as the sky turned rosy blue and we waited for Aman the manager to take us to the bus stop.

Culture Shock

As we left Delhi on Christmas Day, I remember looking up into the deep blue sky and seeing Falcons circling overhead. I find those birds so majestic and graceful, yet this was in such complete contrast to the chaos that reigned below. I wondered if any of the madness reached up to their currents. Inside of me there was a king of longing to be part of those currents too, to escape this madness. Maybe somehow my wish was communicated to the evil Greater Fog demons because our flight to Jodhpur was delayed for four hours.

It may sound crazy, but in a way it was almost a relief to be surrounded by plain white walls and newspapers in ENGLISH. There were advertisements that boasted Indian faces, but the slogans the world over say BUY, BUY, BUY. I realised that for the first time in a long time I was suffering from culture shock. I settled into my orange bucket seat, flicked through the Indian newspapers that were almost similar to British Papers, but just not so, and gave myself some time to reflect, breathe and kind of smiled.

There is a wonderful paradox about culture shock. The negative side was like a slap across the face when I espied McDonald's and realised why people are comforted by the sight of it in other countries. Further down this dark road was when I began to question my 'traveller mettle'. It's not as if it's the first time I've flown across the globe before. No, it isn't! But it is the first time I've stepped onto the subcontinent. And that's when the smile began to spread. Those hours of delay had allowed me to soak up the 'difference' and left me longing for more. I was now impatient to wanted to get to Jodhpur. I had a third Fort to visit, presents to buy, things to see.

We rolled into the Blue City just as the sun was setting and the Christmas lights were beginning to twinkle. We sat on the hotel roof top peering into the darkness at the silhouette of the Fort hanging off the cliff edge and then decided to amble to the market. I sniffed vibrantly coloured spices from my childhood, which made me wish that I cooked a little more nowadays. We wandered into a textile emporium and even though they spread their intricately embroidered wares before us they seemed as lethargic about selling as we were about buying. Being in Rajasthan was enough for us that evening, we had stepped through the magic doorway to the land of fairy tales.



Images show a lesson in mixing Garam Masala at the spice stall in Sardar Market and the Clock Tower in the Market Place.

On Cats (and Writing)

On Friday the Critique group squeezed into my flat and I gained a major insight into Tibo's little feline brain. I think he thinks that everyone who walks through my front door is there to see him. And after all why shouldn't he think that. The day he arrived Jane did come just to visit him. I remember watching a sporting event one night and realising the person I thought I was talking to was actually in the bathroom playing with Tibo. There was even the lady from the cat association who came specially to see him. Even the postlady and the census lady have cooed all over him. So of course he thought these women who walked through the door were here to see him. As realisation slowly dawned he decided that if they weren't here for him, he would sure as hell make his presence felt. He jumped in and out of handbags, bit knees and hair, stole pencils, tried to taste the snacks, took nips out of everyone's writing and generally TOTALLY misbehaved. After all this when someone did arrive who would pet him, he curled up on the back of the sofa and fell asleep.

Despite the fact that I spent the evening with one eye on the critiques and the other seeing where Tibo would stick his nose next, I felt the evening went quite well. Two things became very apparent to me:

1. Show not tell - Ok it's not an earth shattering discovery. It's not even new, it's not like I haven't heard it a million times before. But then I suddenly discover the advice has flown out of my head...
   
2. Along with my grasp of punctuation. I have a very intuitive use of punctuation. I think a comma or semicolon should go there. And there, yeah there, let's slip in a dash! Anyway it becomes kind of glaring when one of your crit partners sends you a link for a punctuation website. So yesterday I purchased New Hart's Rules - The Handbook of style for Writers and Editors. It's got a whole bunch of other sections that I will probably never look at, but it seemed to fit. I do own Eats, Shoots and Leaves, but I seem to have Read, Thought and Forgotten! And really to find the rule in amongst Lynne Truss's rants is not really practical.

Despite these minor flaws (uh hum) I seem to have acquired myself not one, but two Roars for Powerful writing. Eeek! The first one was from Kimy over at Mouse Medicine and she made me blush she was so kind. The second one is from Marie over at Deep Thinker. And I now have to tell you 3 things that I think make powerful writing. So here goes...

1. Write from the heart. Be it fiction or non-fiction love your subject, love your words.
2. Edit and let your love sing clearly and loudly.
3. And because you always can - keep on learning. I'm hoping YOU guys, my crit group and Stephen King's On Writing will continue to teach me a lot.

And so on to the fun bit, passing it on. It'll be interesting to see what these people find powerful.

So Kimy, I have to pass the roar right on back to you.

Vanilla at Absolute Vanilla - I hope you don't me borrowing your words, but you say it so well.

David at Witnessing am I

Apprentice at My Gap Year

And Jon from Writing in a Vacuum (and not because he's collecting awards this time).

Foreigner in a Foreign Land

On Day two, Estrella and I stepped off the Shatabadi Express at Agra Cantonement Station in a relative state of blissful calm after our cups of Assam tea and Indian breakfast. This state of zen lasted a matter of seconds before being shattered by the blasting sound of horns and the crowd who instantly surrounded us like, well flies to... you know. "Where you going? Where you going?" The crowd demanded to know. Estrella and I looked at each other in mild bemusement and what with it being just gone 8 am in the morning I answered truthfully. "This way." I pointed to the prepaid autorickshaw booth directly ahead of me. This was a major discovery of the day. In its simplicity and honesty, my answer left all the drivers completely frozen in their state of confusion.

Another major discovery of the day was my status. It's not that I objected to paying ten times more than an Indian. I accept that there is a disparity of resources around the globe and I happen to live in the land where paying 14€ t0 see a 'Wonder of the World' is reasonable. It wasn't even the fact that although it said clearly on our ticket that we should get a bottle of water and 'shoe covers' that we then had to go back and ask for them. It was the fact that I had to ask in big bold letters for a 'foreigner' ticket.

Maybe it's because I was at a formative age during the height of Political Correctness, or maybe it's because I have lived the last eleven years of my life in this state and have never felt it to be an issue, but I found it kind of ... wrong. I suppose in a way it signaled to me an attitude: it seemed to underline a curious aspect of the national psyche. There was even a special term for Indians who have tried greener grass: Non-resident Indians (NRI's). I'm not sure if I've put my finger on what that word meant to me, but I think it's something to do with it being an ex British colony. I've felt it in Mauritius and Belize. No two places deal with it in quite the same way, but let's face it, neither Belize or Mauritius gained their Independence amidst such a sea of blood as the disasterous partition of India and Pakistan (the consequences of which are still being felt today). The fact is that in one word; 'Indian', the whole of their history seemed to be encapsulated and in the words 'Foreigner' and 'NRI' we were firmly given our part in that history. Yet I also realise that this interpretation is my own.


In actual fact I never felt unwelcome. Far from it, a day trip to Agra is to be plunged straight into the country's tales of passionate romance, deception and rivalry. From Shah Jahan who was driven by the death of his second wife Mumtaz to build a tomb of exquisite beauty, to Agra Fort where Jahan's conniving and power hungry son imprisoned him. Is the Baby Taj (Itimad-Ud-Daulah) any match for the Taj Mahal's devotional beauty?

We finished off the day on the Taj Express where we made our final discovery: seat numbers. They are kind of optional, but with a shrug of the shoulders and a blank expression anything can be sorted out with the minimum of hassle.

The photos show the south gate through Taj Ganj, the Taj Mahal, Itimad-Ud-Daulah and the Palace at Agra Fort.