Category Archives: Pradeep Solanki

Ten Submission Missteps to Avoid

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Once a month we at Descant have our ‘reading session’ when we try, like a dog and his tail, to catch-up with our submissions. We receive about a thousand envelopes a year, packed with poems, fiction, essays, photographs and lots of hope. Unlike many other literary periodicals, our submission guidelines are barebones. Thus, writers sometimes feel less inhibited with creative and innovative ways to stand out from the pile. Some of the efforts are humorous but off-putting. Though we pride ourselves on being an open-minded bunch, we are only human. Some gimmicks challenge us at the start to remain unbiased even before we have read the submissions. Here our a few missteps that a submitter may wish to avoid.

1)    Size Matters. My personal pet-peeve is when I pick up an envelope and its weight causes me to groan.  Many magazines impose a cap on word length for submissions, but at Descant we do not. Once I chanced upon a submission for a ‘short’ story that was fifty-four pages long. While there is a place for longer short fiction, normally periodicals prefer more concise pieces. In the early stages of the writing process there is a phase that I call verbal diarrhea, wherein the writer needs to let out everything he can relating to his story. As the piece is refined in subsequent drafts, details get embedded into the story in more subtle ways and chunks of the early verbiage are edited out. When I see a submission that is generous with its pages, I fear that the writer has sent an early draft. I will read it though, just incase I am wrong. Perhaps it is a very engaging story that does require fifty pages to tell. Though I have yet to see such a brilliant submission.
2)    Double-sided submission. While printing on both sides of the paper is environmentally friendly and laudable, it confuses readers. The standard for submission in the publishing world is single-sided only and any departure from that norm risks the reader missing alternative pages.
3)    Fancy Fonts.  Poets are sometimes guilty of this. It reeks of desperation and puts the reader on the defensive.
4)    Bold Author’s Name. Occasionally a writer will try to catch our attention by placing his name above everything in a font that is double the size of the main text. It reads like a warning sign: Fragile Author Ego at Work, Beware.
5)    Once I opened a submission envelope and a barrage of cut-out stars and glitter hearts fell out across the desk. While it gave me a chuckle, it was an effort to clean up the mess and the text of the submission had to work that much harder to win me back.
6)    Submitting too often. There is a proverb in English that says ‘familiarity breeds contempt’. There is some truth in that. While persistence and tenacity in a writer are admirable, essential even, submitting too often can make the readers apathetic toward the submission. In this internet age many magazines around the world accept online submissions. Take advantage of this globalization, spread your stories upon fresh new fields.
7)    Obvious grammatical; and spelling errorrs. Such as the two here. While work that needs copy-editing is not a deal-breaker, it makes the text difficult to read and interferes with the flow. Always try to send copy with minimal errors. If you are submitting outside of Canada, set your spell-check for the country that you are submitting to. Americans think ‘color’ is correct but the Brits will think you are a sloppy speller.
8)    Stale-dated themed submissions. Descant routinely puts out calls for themed submissions on our website. Pay close attention to the deadline. We sometimes get submissions for themed issues months after the deadline when the text is at the copy-editing stage. We try to be flexible and the one question the editor of the themed issues will always ask is: “Is it brilliant?” In order for her to squeeze in your late submission it would have to be genius to make the editor reshuffle her careful work.
9)    Suspect publishing history. Many readers do not bother with the author’s cover letter, they go straight to the submission. But some readers will read the cover letter knowing that, like all resumes, there will be embellishments. I recall seeing a cover letter once where the author went on for a page and half listing her movie reviews on rottentomatoes.com. Anyone may write in a terse sentence and it will be published (‘This film sucked’). Descant co-editors are savvy enough to know a con. We’ll still read the submission, but with suspicion.
10)    A plethora of poems. We have a rule that we cannot publish anymore than a sweep of five poems by the same authors in one issue. Sometimes poets, because the work is so concise, will send us batches of a dozen or more. It is left to us to read them all and decide which five are the best of the bunch. Again, it puts the reader on the defensive.

The best way to get our attention is with fresh, crisp, crackling writing that gets us excited and eager to share our discovery with fellow co-editors.

The Soul of a Nation

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The first sight anyone sailing into Copenhagen catches is the statue of Hans Christian Anderson’s fairy-tale character The Little Mermaid. For visitors from North America, this stone tribute to a fictional character is particularly beguiling. Copenhagen’s main thoroughfare is named after the author and it is clear everywhere in this city that Danish identity is defined by its artists.
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Not only in Denmark, but all across Northern Europe, there are monuments and tributes to writers, composers, poets. At the centre of Helsinki is Sibelius Park, with a sculpture of composer Jean Sibelius.
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London is full of plaques recording former residences of Novelists and free-thinkers.
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Stockholm’s Nobel Museum reminded me that every year Swedes honor six areas of human achievements: Physics, Chemistry, Medicine, Economics, Peace and Literature. How wonderful to be in place where the output of a pen-pushing poet or dramatist is considered as valuable as say the decoding of the human genome or the discovery of black holes.
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Even places with long and rich histories seem to define themselves by their writers. St Petersburg has a suburb called Pushkin Village, named for the 19th century author Alexander Pushkin. This suburb was once known as Tsar’s Village but during the Bolshevik  Revolution of 1918, the Russian people decided they did not want to define themselves by the deeds of the aristocracy. Nor did they want to align their national character with any religion. And so the Russians decided upon enduring works of literature, music and dance as definitive of the national soul. Although Northern Europe had no such revolution, most of the Scandinavian countries were only Christianized as late as the 12 to 13th centuries. Maybe that is the reason they also chose art as national culture.
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Even a historically blessed nation like France has gone to great expense in preserving the garden built and painted by Claude Monet in Giveny. Flowers are meticulously replanted so that garden still resemblances his famous Water Lilies or Les Nympheas murals. Why do the French, who have cathedrals and palaces galore, make this monumental conservation effort? Is it perhaps because art can make visible the inner aesthetic of a nation in a way obvious to everyone?

I returned to Canada just before the Canada Day celebrations in downtown Toronto were cancelled. I realize that in Canada the issue of a national identity crisis is a bit of a cliché but I could not help reflecting on what I had witnessed in Europe. Unlike many parts of the world where cultural identity is intrinsically linked to religion Canada is only nominally a Christian country. Recent polls show that only 28% of Canadians consider religion to be important to them. Nor does Canada owe any debt to blood-thirsty lineages of kings and queens. We have few local politicians of distinction yet our street names pay homage to them: Bloor, Dundas, Yonge, Dufferin, etc. And Canada, particularly Toronto, continues to name cultural institutions after corporations and benefactors, even when the buildings are mainly constructed with public funds. Our symphony hall does not honor Glenn Gould but a fellow named Roy Thomson. And why is it the Walter Carsen Ballet Centre and not the Karen Kain Ballet Centre? I am no jock but even I would prefer to see the A.C.C renamed the Wayne Gretzky Hockey Arena.

The main difference, I suppose, between Europe and Canada is that we are a relatively young country. And like many adolescents we are easily seduced by money. Thus our new opera house is named after a hotel chain. The home of the Blue Jays, the Skydome, is now renamed so that the very venue itself has become a commercial for a broadcasting corporation. Perhaps we just need time to mature as a nation. After all, the works of European artists have endured through time. They are great because successive generations have found universal and timeless messages in the books of Tolstoy, Dickens, and Hugo. Perhaps in another hundred years Toronto may see a statute of Atwood’s Handmaiden at Harbourfront. I hope so.

Copycats and Copyrights

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Writing workshops open up many fears for new writers. One of them is submitting copies of original work to complete strangers. I have been in workshops where not all students handed back a critiqued manuscript of my work. Did it end up as recycled paper or something more nefarious? With the advent of cyberspace, the threat of bits of ourselves being  turning viral is even more plausable. We all want to believe our work is unique and plagiarism-worthy, but I am reminded time and again that no human thought is original.

According to Christopher Booker there are only seven basic plotlines within the canon of human literature, authors merely rework them is new ways. Slumdog Millionaire, based on a novel, Q & A, by Vikas Swaroop has won accolades. Critics have devoted columns to the narrative of the ‘new India’. While the culture of the story was alien to movie-goers (including most Indians), the spine of the story, a popular US game show, was relatable. Amid the hype what was overlooked was that the Cinderella plot was ancient and intimately familiar.
For the last two decades commonwealth writers in Diaspora have enjoyed an interest in their work. For a century we endured colonials like Kipling and Forrester writing about India. Now, as Salman Rushdie put it, “The empire writes back.” We are told that the most original stories in the UK, Canada and the US are coming from the immigrant experience. But wait, isn’t ‘the stranger coming to town’ motif a tried and trusted one? Wasn’t the normalcy of the Bennet household in Pride and Prejudice disrupted by the arrival the stranger, Mr. Darcy? Wasn’t Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire a stranger to New Orleans? It is a good way to introduce the reader to a world he may not be familiar with. Or a familiar world can be critiqued with fresh eyes.
The only aspect of literature that is unique is the author’s voice. Weak writers imitate others’ voices, strong writers cultivate their own. Editors are always on the lookout for an original voice because they know an original plot is impossible.

Perhaps because of this very fact, no copyright law exists in Canada to protect writers from stealing ideas. Sarah Sheard’s novel Almost Japanese (about a young girl’s obsession with a Japanese musician) came out almost at the same time as her friend and neighbor Ann Ireland’s, A Certain Mr. Takahashi (about a  young girl’s obsession with a Japanese pianist). Co-incidence? Legally speaking, yes.

Sometimes when reading works of fiction I am stunned by the similarities between one of the characters and myself. Mostly this speaks to the author’s talent for touching upon universal truths. But when the writer is a friend, the resemblance feels more suspicious than empathetic. “Every author steals from others,” says Wayson Choy. “But make sure you only steal from the best.” Wayson maintains that as long as we are personalizing whatever incident, sentence or detail we borrow, we are not plagiarizing. What is being handed down is a template, from one generation to another, from guru to disciple.

What if we recognize specific details about ourselves in a fictional character who is none too flattering? One American non-fiction author laughed, “Aw, Honey, I’ve been sued so many times I’ve lost count.” I was surprised to learn that anyone, even Mel the plumber, may sue a writer for “defamation of character” if he is portrayed in an unflattering light. This applies to fiction also. Despite the disclaimer at the start of the book—this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to living persons is purely co-incidental—a person who recognizes specific and indentifying details in works of fiction may sue the author. When Seinfeld became popular, a man claiming to be the real George Costanza sued (and lost) Jerry for $100 million.

Then there is the prickly issue of quoting others’ works. In my writing group recently I submitted a story where I quote a few lines of song lyrics. One of the group expressed concern of the legality of this. I investigated and found the legalese to be beyond my comprehension. The only part that made sense to me was:-

Copyright protection exists from the moment a work is created in fixed—or tangible—form, and authors automatically hold the copyright to their material (authors may thereafter transfer their rights to other parties, as they commonly do in publishing contracts). Protection, however, exists only for the particular expression of ideas, not for the ideas themselves, so only verbatim use of copyrighted material need be cleared. Yet authors are free to quote even verbatim small amounts of copyrighted published material under the doctrine of “fair use.”

…Although there is no precise definition of the concept of fair use, there are some informal quantitative rules of thumb that we can apply:  it is inadvisable to use more than three or four lines of poetry or song lyrics without permission. If the material quoted—poetry or prose—represents a significant portion of a work, permission must be secured regardless of the total number of words.

Clear? Don’t quote me on it though.

A Dialogue with a Dramatist

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Colleen Murphy is an award-winning playwright, an actor, editor, director and an opera librettist. Somehow, she manages to find time to teach the art of scriptwriting. I sat down with Colleen for a discussion about the similarities and differences between fiction and drama.

Litguru: At first glance, playwriting seems simpler than fiction because the writer needs to work only on dialogue. But then that is harder that it seems.

Colleen: It is harder than it seems because the dialogue must contain the character, the action, the subtext, as well as highlight what is not spoken.  In drama the notion of action does not necessarily mean characters running around on stage, but rather it is the intention of a character and what that character wants from another character whose intention may be entirely different. Drama is action and re-action on an emotional, psychological and physical plane…and that action lives in the dialogue and in the silence between the dialogues. Drama creates collisions and collisions create conflict, which is the most important feature of drama.

Litguru: The ‘show don’t tell’ applies to both genres but in plays, the showing is through the dialogue. Correct?

Colleen: Yes and no.  The showing is through the action of the language and how the action affects another character. I believe good drama allows an audience to watch characters make decisions and often audiences are party to why the characters made those decisions.  That process invites us, the audience, to experience something of the human condition.

The ‘showing’ is also done through structure. How a dramatist shapes the container that expresses the play is extremely important to the ‘showing’.

Litguru: Can an argument be made that in good fiction also the dialogue shows rather than tells?

Colleen: Absolutely.  Reading good fiction puts the reader inside the action and into the middle of the conflict.  I read a lot of fiction and often feel that I am inside the story with the characters and do not want to leave them.  The same is true of good drama.  Even though I sit in the audience I still feel I am in the middle of the conflict and if it gets disturbing or unbearable, I may want to leave but am riveted to my seat because I want to know what is going to happen.

‘Telling’ distances readers and audiences, whereas ‘showing’ invites readers and audiences into the story.  If a writer tells me something rather than lets me experience it, I feel cheated.  The same applies to drama.


Litguru: In plays the characters don’t speak like real life. They are allowed or need to speak with a richness and eloquence that we rarely see in fiction.

Colleen: Yes and no.  What does ‘real life talk’ sound like?  Sometimes it is banal beyond belief, other times it is stunningly strange and poetic.  It depends on the situation people find themselves in or characters are placed in.  Playwrights usually put a charge under their characters which heightens the way their characters speak.  This charge lets characters to speak in metaphor or allows subtext to reveal the powerful unconscious at work. Language is everything in theatre…it is the conjuring stick, conjuring up character, conjuring up action and conjuring up image.

Litguru: In fiction, because the reader does not see which actor is speaking, we have to write dialogue such that the reader knows who is speaking even without a tagline. This need to distinguish character voices, it seems to me, is less important in a play. Comment.

Colleen: Yes and no again. Playwrights have the luxury of live actors living in real time in three dimensional spaces to deliver their words to an audience, and actors contribute hugely to a character’s voice and personality, but all the same, each character should have a distinct voice, or rather a distinct rhythm to their language, and a distinct speech pattern.  This enables characters to reveal themselves through their choice of language.

Litguru: The main difference, it seems to me, is that fiction has more flexible with time. We use flashbacks and flash forwards. We use memory and fantasy. We can leap great many years within a story. Plays need immediacy; moment to moment unfolding.

Colleen: The stage is an unlimited, timeless, borderless space.  The past can be brutally immediate on stage.  Sometime a play can swing from past to present to future in a blink of an eye, or travel backwards in time.  That said I believe fiction can accomplish two things that stage cannot; it can stretch time, and it can fully render interior monologue.  But theatre can accomplish moment-to-moment, in real time, like no other medium except perhaps dance.

Litguru: You have said that playwriting is as hard an art form as poetry. But poetry is probably the easiest to get published. Most literary magazines have room for poetry, but plays rarely are printed in literary journals.
Is there an editorial bias? Do readers prefer short fiction, essays and poems, photographs but not plays on the printed page?

Colleen:  There is no editorial bias at all, there is only the reality that poems are short and plays are loooooong. Even one act plays are loooong.
However, all this may change when magazines go digital.

Litguru: At Descant I can only recall once seeing a play submitted in our slushpile. Do playwrights not believe magazines will print excerpts?

Colleen: Magazines, with the exception of those directly catering to theatre like the Canadian Theatre Review, do not normally publish plays or excerpts.  Their interested reading public is limited, the plays and even an excerpt are often considered too long, particularly now in the age of one-word communication.  A lot of people do not know how to read a play.  Generally they see plays in the theatre so it does not occur to them that they can read the play if it has been published.

As past president of the Board of Playwrights Canada Press, a niche house that publishes exclusively Canadian Drama, I believe that a published play is as much a part of the literature of this country as any novel.  The Press and other small houses that publish drama are constantly finding new ways to make published plays available to the academic, theatrical and literary communities.

Litguru: In Canada, novels have been turned into operas (Handmaiden’s Tale) but not plays. In the UK they seem to have more crossover. What can we do to encourage a crossover?

Colleen: I know of two Canadian plays that are being adapted into opera and that is encouraging.  Operas are very, very expensive to develop and mount and that is a determining factor in terms of what material is chosen.  The opera companies in Canada are starting to embrace new work, while smaller, more innovative companies, like Tapestry New Opera Works, continue to stimulate and encourage young composers and librettists.

Litguru: Which works of fiction, in your opinion, have the most potential for a theatrical treatment?

Colleen: Works that have the most potential for theatrical treatment are works that contain character development, conflict, and also contain exterior monologue or dialogue, as well as fiction that does not have much exposition but a lot of emotional action.

Litguru: Would you recommend all fiction writers to study some playwriting?

Colleen: Yes, but only if they are curious or interested in incorporating dramatic elements like tension, into their fiction, or if they wish to work more exclusively with dialogue. Certainly fiction writers should read plays as much as playwrights read novels…and most of the playwrights I know love reading novels.

Litguru: You will be teaching playwriting where in the next few months?

Colleen: May 9 and 10, 2009: Master Class for Alberta Playwrights Network,

June 30 – July 5, 2009: Great Blue Heron Writing Workshop, St. Francis Xavier University, Antigonish

October 22 – 25, 2009:  Master Class & Keynote Speaker, Playworks Ink 2009, Calgary

October 15, 2009 – March 4, 2010: Playwriting Master Class, University of Toronto, School of Continuing Studies, Toronto

Courage of Lions

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I recall hearing Mavis Gallant once talking about her beginnings as a writer. In 1950 she was a reporter for the Montreal Standard when she packed up her pearls and Channel suits and ran off to Paris to become a fiction writer. She submitted three short stories to the New Yorker. The first story was rejected and she decided that if the other two were also, she would give up writing. Lucky for her (and us) the New Yorker accepted the other two stories.
The literary landscape in 1950 must have been less competitive than today’s. Every writer that I know has a file folder full of rejection slips, each battle scar a badge of honor. Looking through the slushpile at Descant I sometimes think there are more writers in the world than readers. For every writer who has the courage to submit to a literary periodical, there are dozens more who fear rejection. Every writing workshop I have undertaken had a dropout rate; not all the students were able to handle having their words critiqued by peers.

All writing, even fiction, requires a writer to bare his soul. He cannot help but expose his soft and unguarded centre. But with the advance of technology, the wall between public and personal is ever thinner.

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My writing group had another one of our “dinner with an author,” only this time it was publishing maven Cynthia Good (former president and publisher of Penguin Canada). Our writing group is a supportive space; we are experiencing a momentum at the moment, a number of us are now getting published in periodicals or newspapers. Thus, Cynthia advised us to build our ‘author profile.’ She recommended each of us acquire a blog and/or a website.
There may have been a time when a writer needed only to work on his craft in order to get published. Today the world is full of writers with a high level of competency. At Descant we commonly receive submissions from MFA graduates with publishing credits spilling onto the second page. Yet many of them have not secured book deals. I have long wondered what is the difference between one competent writer who has a book contract and another equally competent one who does not. According to Cynthia, the answer is marketability. More than ever, writers need to not only put their work out there, but also themselves. Think of J.K. Rowling, for example. Isn’t part of her appeal her personal story, the fact that she was a single mother on welfare who scribbled her opus at the back of a coffee shop?

To illustrate the power of the internet, Cynthia gave the example of William P. Young, who bypassed literary agents, editors, lawyers and publishing houses by self-publishing his book The Shack on cyberspace. The book has taken the world by storm. It is so successful that it is now available in print also and has sold over 5 million copies. It has been on the bestseller lists worldwide for the better part of a year and movie rights worth 100 million dollars.

Many writers are, understandably, nervous about putting their work in cyber space.
We worry about plagiarism, we fret over giving up too much intimate details to total strangers. When cyber-material goes viral, there is no retrieving it. We have physicians in our writing group who have concerns about patience confidentiality: would clients recognize their case history? One of our group declined to be photographed for my blog because she was unsure about having her picture on the internet (Cynthia is the one in the centre). Are writers the new starlets, seeking fame by exposing themselves over the Internet?

“No,” says Cynthia, “as important as getting your name out there is building a community, a potential readership.”

Literary agent, Nathan Brandsford agrees with Cynthia. He also thinks that every author out there is doing herself a disservice if she dose not have some sort of ‘Google-able’ web presence with an e-mail address. He says, “Often I’ll come across a short story or an article that strikes me (ouch!), and I’ll try and track down the author, sometimes to no avail. Avail, authors, avail! You know what they say, opportunity can’t knock if opportunity can’t find one’s MySpace page.”

Just how much do we reveal of ourselves and our lives? The jury is still out on that one. But this much is clear: excelling at your craft is not enough anymore; if you want to be published, then have the courage to sell yourself. After all, without courage the Cowardly Lion was not able to roar.

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Watch out for future blogs by Litguru (Pradeep Solanki) on this topic.

Sign of A Survivor

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The pioneers of Vancouver’s Chinatown had taught Wayson Choy: ”Survivors pay attention to signs.” And in many ways he has benefitted from this wisdom. His writing career had two auspicious starts. The first was while in his youth at UBC. His short story made the rounds of anthologies, including Best American Short Stories. After a gap teaching, he revived his writing career in 1977 with a creative writing workshop conducted by Carol Shields. She assigned the class to write a short story incorporating a particular colour. Wayson began writing about Old Chinatown but was stumped by having to use his designated theme of pink. By chance he visited his aunt who gifted him a pink jade ornament, and Wayson saw it as a sign. His short story was titled, “The Jade Peony”. The story then spawned a novel of the same title, a prize-winning book that is now read and term-papered in schools throughout Canada.

A similar sign, a lucky feeling, prompted Wayson to buy a lottery ticket that paid out $100,000.00, enough to buy a bigger house with his ‘family-by-choice’, Karl and Marie and their daughter Kate.

And yet, in 2001, when Wayson stood at the top of his stairs, a sudden acidic tingling in his throat triggering a hacking fit, he dismissed the sign as, “Allergies.” It was in fact a combined asthma-cardiac arrest; one that left him in a coma, fighting for his life. This is a very male response to illness: we dismiss symptoms as an inconvenience.

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In 2005 I stood on top of a ladder on University Avenue, holding my two-year old grand-niece so that she could enjoy a view of the Santa Clause parade. A sharp acidic pain suddenly traveled along my left arm to my chest. I too dismissed the sign as “heartburn.” It was in fact a myocardial infraction (a heart attack). I also lay in a coma for a month fighting for my life. I too belong to a culture that values signs, although we Hindus call them intuition. My guru defines intuition as a synergy of head and heart.

Recovery is a long and introspective process. Cardiologists are adept at patching arteries and unclogging veins. But there is no one afterwards to heal a clogged sense of purpose nor to stop a hemorrhaging will to live. One of my gurus advised me to write as a way of healing. My writing led me to win the Wayson Choy Scholarship at the Humber School for Writers (where Wayson has taught for over forty years). This time I paid attention to the sign.
Not Yet is a memoir and Wayson points out at the outset, “All memoirs are works of creative non-fiction.” Events and people have been compacted, congealed for dramatic effect. The names of the innocent have been changed. But the authenticity is unmistakable.  Not Yet is written in a style that is expertly simple in construction and unflinchingly honest. As Wayson’s student, used to his uncluttered thinking and meticulous penmanship, I was shocked to discover that he ”does housework religiously, every five years.” A bedroom furnished with dust-drenched carpets and stacks of take-out remains aggravated his asthma.
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This is one the few books that I was compelled to read in one sitting.  His descriptions of the nurses forcing catheters down throats; the Demerol-induced visitors who weave over and behind a family keeping vigil at his bedside, all of it was déjà-vu.

My sisters, like his Chinatown elders, had dire warnings: “No wife, no sons, no daughters. You die alone.” But gay men usually cultivate relationships that are sometimes stronger than filial bonds. During the early days of the AIDS crisis, families unable to deal with the stigma would routinely abandon sons. It was gay men who formed the Aids Committee of Toronto and Casey House to take care of their own. Wayson comes to realize, from the unwavering support of his ‘family-by-choice,’ that he is not and has never been alone.

My sisters’ children are now grown and some of them have children of their own. They now appreciate that progeny is no guarantee in times of sickness and old age. A compassionate outlook and an empathetic intelligence however, attracts the company of angels, in whichever form they may appear.

The logo for this book is a hummingbird in flight. A bird who’s wings beat so rapidly that the effort is invisible. After recovery Wayson returned to writing, touring, teaching, mentoring. Often neglectful of his body’s needs. Old Chinatown elders had another saying: “When things are going well, look behind you.” Wayson did not look behind him. He allowed wellness to distract him from the signs. He was stricken with a second heart failure.

A book that began with a near-death ends with a second near-fatality; the body of the book being not about death but about living. Living in a way that respects the delicate weave between strangers and friends: a life curious to both the seen and the invisible meanings. This indeed is the true sign of a survivor.

The hospital picture is of me during my coma. I would be interested in hearing from other survivors of near-death. Please reply in the comment box below with contact info. 

The Narrator’s Voice

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During the Summer Writing Workshop at the Humber School for Writers, they had organized a three-minute student reading night. Somehow, my name ended up at the front of the queue. Most of instructors gave the student readings a miss, but not my mentor, Wayson Choy. “I like to get a sense of the narrative voice,’ he said. I was not sure what he meant by that. “I can teach craft but either a student has a narrative voice or doesn’t.”

I was informed after my reading that I was one of the fortunate that had this narrative voice. And so I did not spend much time investigating exactly what that might be. That is until I was asked by Descant to read a story they had published in the Dogs issue. I was delighted to be asked to read at a bona-fida literary soiree, the launch of the Descant twin issues (a diptych) Cats and Dogs. I had answered the call for submissions two years back and after six months of waiting had assumed my story was rejected. Though it was the first of my submissions to be accepted, others have been printed before the Dogs issue made its way to the front of Descant’s printing queue.

There is something particularly prestigious about having your work appear in Descant. For one thing, people in literary circles know and respect the journal. Secondly, the look and caliber of the magazine is something I have long admired. Being published in it is immeasurable validation.  When I was invited to read, this was a further compliment.

I was assigned eight minutes and Karen Mulhallen expressly said, “Don’t read more than five minutes of the story.”  I had high expectations for the reading. All writers write for an imaginary audience. An audience of intelligent, curious and wordly readers. William Ziesner, in his book On Writing Well says,
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“…delete every word or phrase or sentence that tells readers something they have already been enabled to know or are bright enough to deduce.” He warns against using phrases like of course and adverbs like surprisingly, predictably, understandably and ironically.

He and other instructors advice writers to trust our readers.

With this blind faith, I had sent out many short stories to periodicals all across Canada. Many were run by the English Department of one university or another. When the rejection notices started piling up, I questioned whether my faith in the reader was justified. Was I correct to assume that student volunteers had the same focus, the same maturity that I had cultivated over four decades? Add to that there is the issue of state of the mind of the reader when they open your envelope. I know that during our reading sessions at Descant, people sometimes show up distracted, angry or excited.

In writing workshops I have sometimes struggled with the issue of telling too much. In instances where I left the readers to figure out the central mystery in the story, I sometimes got told that the meaning was too abstract. In other pieces, I all but spelled-out the subtleties and was chastised for doing so.

And so I looked forward to seeing the eyes of the listeners as I read my story out loud at the launch. I anticipated immediate feedback, the kind that stage actors speak of. Instead, as I looked out from the stage, all I saw was the glare of the floodlights. I began my reading thinking that I may as well be reading to my bedroom wall.

As the reading proceeded, I found this process curiously rewarding. Reading aloud in my own voice I was able to sense a rhythm. Sentences that were over-written and clunky caused me to trip over them as I read. I had heard from other writers who tape record themselves reading works-in-progress. That seemed vain and unnecessary to me. My Imac came with a nifty reading software. I normally edit my stories by having the computer read my work back to me. But now, after my first public reading I understand the usefulness of reading in one’s own voice. Wayson is probably right that narrative voice cannot be taught, but that is not to say it cannot be fine-tuned and refined.

Heart Murmur

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At one of our Descant meetings, Robin Elliot, a former co-editor, made a guest appearance. She is now Executive Director of the MurmurToronto project. Passersby in various Toronto areas, when they see the ear sign, can pull out their cell phones and dial the number provided. It will link them to a recording by someone who has a personal connection to the building they are in front of. They will hear candid and revealing stories that will add a context and a living history behind the brick-and-mortar. I found the idea of this art project very interesting.

Much is said about Toronto being a city of neighbourhoods. And even before the creation of GTA, residents of Burlington, Ajax and Brampton went about claiming to be Torontonians. Surely, the heart of a neighbourhood resides in the collective memory of those who have loved and lost, failed and survived in and around the buildings of a neighbourhood. Buildings that may not have enough architectural merit to be included in the glossy guidebooks. Buildings like Malabar, the venerable costume shop located at Queen and McCaul Street.

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Tucked away slightly north of trendy Queen Street West, this dowdy brick building has been the soul of the Queen West neighbourhoods for nearly one hundred years. Over the decades, Toronto’s upper crust has rented gowns for masked balls. Opera Divas like Maureen Forrester and Marilyn Horne have been outfitted here.

My very first full-time job was at Malabar. It was the height of a recession, much like now. Every advertised job had hundreds of applicants. This meant that, in the days before e-mail, job seekers had to literally ‘pound the pavement’. In my unemployed dejection, I got addicted to watching re-runs of the sitcom Rhoda, who worked in a costume shop. From over two hundred applicants, they offered the job to me and I was ecstatic. Little did I know then that working in this dusty and costume-enchanted building would redefine who I was. I had just completed by B.Com and never saw this job as anything more than a shelter from the recession. It was here that I met struggling poets who were cataloging breeches from Tosca. Or a receptionist working on her novel between taking phone orders for Santa suits.
I recall once coming back into the building from having made a bank deposit and finding a frizzy-haired customer waiting with her daughter. I tried my best to be friendly and charming, but nothing worked. The woman remained aloof and disdainful. She purchased some pancake make-up with a credit card, for a photo-shoot she said. The receptionist was beside herself as soon as the woman and her daughter left. “Don’t you know who that was?” she was incredulous. I looked at the signature on the credit card receipt—Margaret Atwood. The make-up was used for the back cover of a small, insignificant book known as, The Handmaid’s Tale. I photocopied and enlarged the signature and it became my first gliterati autograph.

We had pop stars and Bollywood royalty walking in through the door, but that encounter with Margaret Atwood aroused in me my most cherished but unrealistic of dreams. It was soon after that encounter, fuelled by the magnificent showcase of life I witnessed daily, that I began writing. Working there was such a pleasure that we tolerated the minimal wages, finding creative ways of getting by. The cleaner got so frustrated that he put up a sign in each of the staff washrooms: “Don’t steal the toilet paper.”

When Robin asked if anyone at Descant had anecdotes or stories to contribute for an oral history project of the Grange catchment area, I volunteered to talk about Malabar. People tend to walk past this building, sometimes amused by the quirky window displays. Browsers typically want to try on hats and wigs and have a few giggles over the fake boobs. What they do not see is that one of the main reasons Queen Street emerged as the epicenter of the Toronto art scene was because of the staff and customers of this establishment.

I ended up contributing five stories about this neighbourhood, though there is plenty more I want to say about them. One day, I hope to write a novel or a short-story collection centered on this building. I can just see the cover page: Don’t Steal the Toilet Paper.

Confessions Of A Professional Liar

It’s true, I am a compulsive liar. Of course I could be lying about that too. And if I am telling the truth, then I am not a compulsive liar. This kind of paradox is so typical when it comes to issues of mendacity. As writers, we are compelled to tell lies. And what is paradoxical is that our lies, unlike truth, have to be plausible. Mark Twain is famously quoted as saying,  “It’s no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.” Every Max-Factored news anchor likes to end his or her broadcast with a ‘can you believe it’ clip—an orphaned fawn being mothered by a lioness perhaps. Where as we authors subject ourselves to peer grilling in writing groups and workshops about the authenticity of our characters and the believability of our plots. “What’s the lioness’ motive?” they would surely argue. “Perhaps you can add a scene where the lioness loses her own cub,” I can hear them say.  Editors and readers demand truthful fiction. But isn’t  ‘truthful fiction’ an oxymoron?

Not so. Recently I was called for jury duty and I discovered that motive is far more potent than truth. About one-hundred of us ordinary citizens were summoned into a courtroom for jury selection in a case of attempted murder by a young Afro-Canadian male. Of the one-hundred, seventy citizens were asked by the Defense lawyer if the accused man’s race (African) would hamper their ability to assess the facts of the case. All of the potential jurors swore to tell the truth before answering. Surprisingly, more than half said the man’s race would bias their judgment. What was even more surprising was that most of the people who admitted prejudice were non-whites (Asians and other non-Africans). I was shocked that in this post-Obama world race was still an issue. Then someone pointed out to me that all of these supposed racists were the same ones who had asked the Judge to be exempted from this long trial and had been denied. These jurors did not get paid by their employers for time-off during jury duty. I then realized that these jurors were not really racists but were financially motivated to lie under oath.
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According to evolutionary experts such David Livingston Smith, in his book, Why We Lie, species have a survival motive for lying. Those who lie well live to reproduce: from camouflage of chameleons, to the baby-complexion on Cher; from the trickery of cuckoo birds to embellishing our chat room profiles—lying is hard-wired into our DNA. Smith argues that in the world, one is either a sucker or a deceiver. Paradoxically, nature has also hard-wired us to trust. In fact our very sense of well-being and happiness depends on it. A person who doubts everyone and anything is diagnosed as “paranoid” and doomed to a life of fear and unhappiness.

So as writers we successfully deceive our readers because we are motivated to lie and they are naturally trusting.

slug.png“Mine what you know,” we are told early in our writing careers. But the problem with daily events are that either they are narrative dead-ends or they are uncomfortable. It is very tempting, when staring at a blank page, to recount Granny’s marijuana grow-op or Little Tim’s first kiss. Some of the people we know come with a rich prefabricated history and fascinating characteristics. Far less effort to write about them then to invent a whole new character. But do we really want to betray the secrets of our loved ones? Wayson Choy, who’s latest book, Not Yet, is a memoir about his near-fatal heart failure, says we should not be afraid to delve into the truth no matter how uncomfortable or politically incorrect. The modern reader is highly intelligent and has an instinct for inauthenticity (Oprah excepted). Other writers have ground rules such as: “Don’t write about present spouses and parents, but all others are fair game.” (Ex-spouses beware).
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Tennesee Williams mined his sister’s mental illness for The Glass Menagerie and his aging Southern Belle mother for several characterizations. His work still resonates some fifty years later. Could this perhaps be because he wasn’t afraid to dirty his hands digging into the primal motives of his mother and sister?

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Pen-names are one way for a writer to dish the dirt with impunity. A certain London call girl wisely uses the non-de-plume Belle De Jour for her tell-all blog, thus protecting herself from irate clients (and wives).  Oscar Wilde would be proud of her. He once said,  “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” Drag-queens know this all too well. Dame Edna Everage became famous lampooning the pretensions of Australian middle-class life but her alter ego, Barry Humphreys, probably would have been banished to the Outback for the same remarks.slug.png
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slug.pngIt seems to me that the most successful set of lies ever told in world history is by religion— and I mean all religions, bar none. Every scripture uses mythology, metaphors, poetry, parables and symbolism to hint at that sublime truth that cannot be verbalized.

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Joseph Campbell, his book series, The Masks of Gods, goes behind the mythology of world religions and uncovers surprising similarities. For example, we all know Jesus was a Virgin Birth. But so was Krishna (Lord Vishnu entered His mother’s womb as a beam of light while she was in a prison cell) and Lord Buddha emerged from the side of His mother. Whether or not immaculate conceptions are medically possible is not the point here. What is being highlighted here, in poetic terms, is that Christ, Krishna and Buddha are spiritual metaphors and not flesh and bones. Religious texts are a masterclass in the use of imagery, poetry and narrative fiction, all done with the motive of Absolute Truth.
slug.pngEvery sincere writer, I feel, needs to spend time contemplating the sublime truths that underlie existence. The time I spent  in an ashram, learning to unravel the mythology and symbols of scriptural language, I believe has enhanced the quality and authenticity of my writing. Meditation helps me penetrate the layers behind the routine and mundane happenings of daily life.
So yes, I am an ardent liar. But my lies are absolutely true.

And the SAGA continues

slug.pngI first met Nila Gupta during the Eighties when we were both young and without a voice. I had started a peer group called S.A.G.A for South Asian gays and lesbians (later renamed Khush) because as minorities within a minority we felt alienated from all sides. Hence we created our own space, our own sense of community and identity. Participation in this small ad-hoc group helped give voice to a movie director (Iqbal Rashid), a novelist (Shyam Selvadurai), NDP federal MP candidate (El-Farouk Khaki), and now Nila Gupta, finalist for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book –The Sherpa and Other Fictions.
Nila, like the titular Sherpa woman from her short story collection, is a humble observer of life, daily making the uphill trek along the roads of Jammu and Kashmir with a load on her back. My writing group invited Nila as a guest speaker to talk to us about her journey from a writing workshop to the elite club of published authors.

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The opening story, The Sherpa, was first published by Descant back in the Fall of 2002 (issue #118) when Nila was quietly figuring out her craft in writing workshops at George Brown and Ryerson. The story resonated with Mary Newberry, then Managing Editor, and was rushed from the slush pile to publication in a record three months because it fit the theme of The Writing of the Walls, an anthology exploring graffiti and other subversive witnesses to history. The success of her very first submission encouraged Nila to write more stories set in the beautiful but lately war-torn region of Northern India. She put together a collection of nine linked stories but it took another four years to find a suitable publisher. Though many publishing houses were interested in her collection, Nila told my writing group that it is important for an author to have rapport with the editor. Ideally, the editor should be a champion of your work as well as a critical eye. This complex relationship is not easy to negotiate.

She, like most writers, is by nature a solitary creature happiest when weaving her tales on the computer. But writing involves this whole other business side that most of us are not prepared for. Publishers love new writers to walk in without agents or legal representations. They are hoping that the writer will be so awed and humbled at the prospect of being published that he or she will sign without reading the fine print. The Writer’s Union of Canada cautions writers that if they do not have the temperament to negotiate contracts, check and collect royalties, then a literary agent or “persons experienced with publishing matters” should be employed. The catch here is that in Canada an unknown author has little chance of securing a literary agent. Nila used an entertainment lawyer to negotiate  on her behalf with an editor she was comfortable working with. Sumach Press, known for publishing feminist authors, was a perfect fit for her book.

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The other irony is that even after careful negotiations, no writer makes enough to live on. The average earning for a Canadian writer, including teaching workshops, is $18,000-22,000 per year. While many in my writing group bemoan having to juggle a career with finding time to write, Nila has the opposite problem. Though she is working on a novel and now has agents and publishers banging at her door (thanks to her nomination for the Commonwealth Writer’s Prize) she still needs to find an alternate source of income to sustain her writing habit. She recently completed an MFA, not to learn the craft of writing, but to have the credentials needed to teach creative writing.
Desilit, the literature of the first generation South Asian diaspora, was often self-conscious of alienation and about being in conflict between two cultures (think of ‘Darkness’ by Bharati Mukherjee). There was a certain generation of gay literature that similarly reveled in the “woe is me” genre (think of Brick in Tennesse Willams’ “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”). In contrast, Nila’s protagonists discover latent strengths that empower them to persevere living lives of quiet dignity and integrity. Solitude and alienation is not the same thing. Being unique can endow a person with a perspective and voice that illuminates the world as it truly is.

We had originally named our group SAGA, acronym for South Asian Gay Alliance because we felt that our lives were full of heroics. When Nila joined, we wanted to be inclusive of women and so we changed the name to Khush, which in Hindi means gay or happy. While Khush disbanded some ten years ago, the voice it raised continues to shout on the international stage. May the SAGA never end.