National Novel Writing Month

Tomorrow begins the National Novel Writing Month. I enrolled in the India chapter. I don't know what I can achieve, precisely during a time when I'm supposed to work full time on a translation that I've basically ignored for the past 6 weeks, but if I don't try, I'll never know. Even if I only manage to write 5000 words, it will be 5000 words, and with them, all the thinking, plotting, brainstorming that goes with the actual process of writing, so what is there to loose?

If I try to be realistic, I would like to write at least 500 words each day. It's got to be doable, come on. And 500 words per 30 days is 15000 words! And who knows, there might be some days when I'll be able to write more than 500 words. So, we'll see. I don't want to put too much pressure upon myself or I'll end up all deflated and depressed if I don't meet the challenge. Easy is the rule of the game, here. Well, the official one, anyway.

And here It is...

"A tear on the face of eternity", said the poet Tagore.

 

Of course, it's just another picture of the Taj Mahal, but that one was taken by good old me, so that makes it quite special, right?

The Taj Mahal is as magically beautiful as I hoped it would be. And the rest of the trip - Fatehpur Sikri, Barathpur and Jaipur - was great also. The north of India is very different from the South, where we live.

I really like that picture for some reason. The lady is holding her baby on her lap, the way Indian mothers and Indian ayahs - nannies - do it. Legs crossed, the child nested safely in the middle of that warm, perfect cradle. They feed them that way, they put them to sleep that way, slowly shaking one leg. I'd never seen that anywhere before, but I'm so used to it, now, that it feels totally obvious and natural - as long as you can sit like that for more than a few minutes, which of course I cannot.

Off to see the Taj Mahal !

This blog will be quiet for a week. We're off to Delhi, and then on to Agra to visit the Taj Mahal, and we'll end our little trip in Jaipur, Rajasthan. We've been in India for a little over three years now, and even though we've been around the country a bit, we are yet to visit what everyone rushes to see first : the famous Taj Mahal. I can't wait.

More after I return...

Book Question of the Week on Shen's Blog

Anyone interested in multicultural literature ought to read Shen's Blog. Over the summer, they had a fascinating 6-weeks series titled "Crossing Cultural Borders." And now, they've come up with an interesting game called "Book Question of The Week." This week, the question is about conflict and anyone is invited to choose a picture book title - it doesn't have to be a multicultural book - and play.

I chose Monsoon by Uma Krishnaswami. I loved the atmosphere and lyrical quality of the book when I first read it. Now that I've experienced that longing for the rains to finally break the sky and bring an end to the blistering heat and dryness, I can appreciate it even better.

Want to think of a picture book title - before you know the question - and play bookish games with other book lovers?

This blog is 6 months old !

Already! And I'm so glad I ignored my reservations and went ahead with this project. It's been a lot of fun, and it has also somehow changed the way I look at every day life. As a writer, I tend to look at pretty much everything with a leech's attitude. Let's be honest: that's what writers are like. Everything can be used as fodder for a story. But creating this blog has turned this strong tendency into a way of life. Because I also have a big flaw - well, OK, maybe two or three, but we won't go there, today: I tend to live so much in my mind, in a world of my own making, that I sometimes forget to look at the world around me. Or I look at it, but in a passive way. I still struggle with the "how" and "when" and "ways" to channel all that energy and turn it into stories, but the process is under way. And now, I'm constantly on the alert, because what will not be used for a story can be used for the blog. So, once I got over the first few weeks' anxiety over being able to post something on a regular basis, I really started enjoying this blogging thing. And I've made new friends, too, and I'm sure it's only the beginning. So, happy anniversary!

Haleem in Hyderabad

Yesterday, I finally tasted the famous Haleem of Hyderabad.

During the holy month of Ramadan, most observant Muslims get up before sunrise to eat and pray, and then fast until the sun sets.

All over the city of Hyderabad, food stalls have sprung up to offer the famous Haleem, traditionally used to break the fast.

 

Prepared with wheat, lentils, lamb, spices and pure ghee (clarified butter), it is cooked for at least 10 hours in a bhatti (an oven made of mud), until it gets its paste-like consistency.

Another example of modernity cohabiting with tradition in India, it is, this year, possible to order haleem on the Internet or over the phone. You pay with a credit card, and it will be delivered all over India in less than 48 hours.

 

I went to the old city thinking we were going to sit somewhere, order a portion of haleem, and proceed to eat. What can I say ? I was born and brought up in Europe, where one sits at the table to eat, and then lingers on as long as possible in order to digest and enjoy coffee and good conversation, and it would seem that the number of years spent abroad cannot have any influence on that particular habit. I'm forever surprised when I see people eat and go.

Anyway, we arrived in front of Pista House, THE best Haleem outlet, according to my friend, Piush, and it didn't take me long to realize that we were going to eat the famous dish standing in the middle of the crowd. We made our way through the dozens of motorcycles parked in front of Pista House, and there, as I looked around with big eyes, and started taking pictures - I know, the perfect tourist: must be a vocation -my friend swiftly caught the attention of one of the young men delivering haleem to the crowd, and before I noticed anything, the guy was back with two bowls.

 

Here is our speedy waiter...

 

And here is my haleem...

 

So? Haleem tastes good. Haleem is also as rich as anyone can imagine. I was advised to squeeze lemon on the pasty mixture, and I did, then wiped my hand on the paper napkin, trying to get rid of the shreds of paper that stuck to my fingers, and I ate with the little plastic spoon provided. I really liked it, but I could never have finished the whole bowl.

 

 

 

And here is Piush, balancing bowl and paper napkins.

There weren't many women, almost none, actually. They were probably home, cooking dinner. Because haleem is like an appetizer, something to break the fast. Later, everyone has a big meal at home.

Piush proceeded to order more haleem for all her friends in Delhi and Bengalore, so they could partake in the festive mood, and we left. I would have liked to stay longer, but the kids were waiting at home, my husband was on his way back from the airport, and my friend also has a child to take care of. But at least, I got to experience another little slice of real Hyderabady life. Standing.

More thoughts and questions about anti-racist parenting from the point of view of a white mother

I've been reading more blogs written by multi-racial parents over the past few days. Basically, anyone interested in these issues, anyone concerned by them, parents of multiracial kids, parents who've adopted children from other races, seem to agree on a number of things: Racism is difficult to fight because it's everywhere, it's such a part of the social fabric that it permeates every aspect of life: it's on TV (and that's why we don't receive any TV channel in our home. We own a TV and we watch DVDs that we have chosen); it's in books; it's on the shelves of every toy store (I loved reading posts of parents sharing my concern about the supremacy of blond Barbies, and the dearth of dolls representing multiracial children,) etc.

Things start getting a little more difficult when the issue of whiteness comes into play. Basically, are white people capable of fighting racism? And it should be understood that the white people I'm referring to are not those who deny the existence of racism (that's another issue altogether), but white people who recognize that racism is a major problem and are willing and ready to do what's necessary to eradicate it from the world.

I'm a white person and I belong to that second category. I agree that white supremacy is hard to destroy. It sucks. The white supremacist approach to society allowed slavery and colonialism to happen. And it perverted the thinking of generations of people all over the world. If I cannot drive in the streets of India without seeing huge billboards advertising soaps or skin products that will make your skin "fair" - read lighter, whiter - it's because for so long, the people of India were made to believe that white was better, white was where the power/the money are. And they still believe it. It's everywhere. Before coming to India, I lived in Nigeria, where women destroy their skins in their attempts to make it lighter. For the same reasons. And I could go on and on. Yes, white supremacy has done some horrible things to the world. I agree. Now, what ?

I am white, but I'm not a racist. Or rather, I am white, but I'm not consciously a racist. By that, I mean that I understand how growing up as a white person in a dominantly white society is bound to have perverted some of my thinking, IN SPITE OF MYSELF. I'm aware and I want to fight my white outlook on things as much as possible. I want to live my life with open eyes, and an open mind and heart. I want it, first and foremost, because I hate injustice. Injustice makes me sick and angry and disgusted. That's who I am, who I've always been. Now, to that, I have to add the responsibility of being the mother of two bi-racial children who may, some day, face prejudice.

I read a comment somewhere that said : "being actively anti-racist for white people often means attacking their own privileges." This, to me, feels like an over-simplification of a very complex issue. I will not deny feeling sometimes defensive. It's hard, being part of a majority that's acted badly. Just ask the generations of Germans who came AFTER the Second World War. They had/have not participated in the Nazi horror, and most of them felt/feel? very much ashamed, but they still had/have? to bear that terrible legacy. Why? Because they happened to be born in the country where it all started, where it all developped, where it was all allowed to happen. Feeling defensive is natural and I'm also aware of that. But how could I possibly give a damn about seeing my white privileges attacked, if these privileges have the power to hurt other people, especially my own children?

My kids are what matters, much more than my need to voice politically correct ideas and to feel good because I know that I’m right. What I want is for them to be happy persons, well balanced. I don’t want them to be eternally angry at the world because I don’t think that will make them happy. Not to say that a healthy dose of angry criticism is not sometimes - often? - necessary. But anger is not the emotion I want to instill into my children’s souls at such a young age. And I’m weary of hammering concepts – however proper and correct they may be - into their young brains. I'd prefer a softer approach.

So, once more, I’m NOT rejecting the concept of being actively anti-racist. Of course not. Rather, I wonder what being an active anti-racist parent actually means? How do mothers/parents go about being actively anti-racist in the BEST, LESS DAMAGING way for their children, without being too forceful and obvious, without the subject of race becoming an issue? I mean, we are all part of the human race, and ideally, that should be the beginning and the end of the discussion.

For some people, it may seem as if I’m taking the easy way out. I'm not so sure. I’m searching. I’m questioning. I’m spending time writing in this blog, reading. If I look around our home, I also realize that we have created an environment which is as multicultural as it can possibly be. My husband and I have travelled and lived in many countries and it shows on our walls, in our furniture, on our books and CD shelves and even in our wardrobes. Is that enough? I'd like to think that it is, but of course, I can't be sure. Time only will tell. In the meantime, I can only keep searching and wondering. Most probably I’ll blunder my way along, but isn’t parenting (white, brown, black and all the shades in between) a massive and humbling circle of trials and blunders, anyway?

My first video : it could only be someone singing !

I found this on Mary Hershey's blog and after watching it three times, I decided I needed it right here, on my blog. First, because I've never posted a video, so I had to at least try - I can't believe I found the way to copy the link and I'm still not entirely sure it will actually appear on the blog. But most of all because this little film is immensely inspiring, it makes your eyes all misty, your heart goes boom-boom-boom, and it's about a guy singing opera. Now, if there is something in life that I love as much as reading, writing and books, it's opera. I just had to have that video handy and ready.

How does a white mother best prepare her bi-racial children to face issues of racism?

I've been guilty of procrastinating an awful lot, lately. I have a good excuse, mind you. The number of interesting blogs out there is simply mind blogging, euh, no, boggling. Anyway, I came across an interesting new one - for me - titled My Sky - Multiracial Family Life

Of course, the question raised was bound to hold my interest: how important is racial identity?

I could not help but add a comment, and as I wrote it, I realized, once more, the extraordinary magnitude and complexity of the issue: are white people as aware as they should be of the need to actively fight racism?

Actually, having now lived in India for a while, with a Black husband who's had to deal with the blatant racism of people barely darker than he is, I wish I could widen the debate, because the white/non-white approach seems to reduce it. But of course, that would make things even more confusing... as if they weren't already.

There was an interesting conversation on the same topic on Alvina Ling's blog, last year.

My interest in the issue is two-fold. First, I can't imagine not fighting racism for simple human reasons. Racism is NOT acceptable, period. The fact that I married someone from a different race had basically no incidence on that statement. I was always shocked by racism. Did marrying a black person make me more aware of racism in general ? Frankly, I'm not sure. We met in New York, ten years ago, and lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn, which was home to a wonderfully diverse population of artists, mixed-race couples, same-sex couples, etc, etc. Whenever we went to France, I never felt that people were bothered or shocked to see us together - now, I'm NOT saying that France has no problems of racism, far from it. But, again, I never felt directly concerned or threatened by any particular racist attitude towards us. My take on the issue was basically that racism must be fought at all costs, and that means racism coming from anyone. I read books about that because I'm curious. And that was it. But then, of course, I realized that if we were to have children, I would have to think long and hard about how being bi-racial might affect them. I'm the type who searches for answers in books. I always have. I have dozens of books on races, racism, color issues, and raising bi-racial children, on my shelves. And so, I started approaching the issue a bit differently: as the mother of children who may suffer from racism, some day.

This is where things become far more complicated. Because it's very, very hard to get out of one's white skin. Even when that white skin belongs to a person whose natural inclination is too denounce and cry in outrage against any form of injustice, and racism is one of the worst forms of injustice there is, it is extremely difficult to view the world through eyes that are not coloured by our whiteness. It takes an active decision. It is a conscious choice. And even then, we'll need to fight a natural tendency to overlook things, to maybe shrug and overlook a situation that we'll think is borderline, but that the person who is not white will judge hurtful or unacceptable.

But as a mother, I want to protect my children. Of course, I want to prepare them for the times they might have to fight prejudice. But I don't want to traumatize them with heart-breaking stories of slavery and inhuman suffering. Not before they are a little older, a little stronger. I do realize that avoiding an issue in hopes that it will not present itself is not a good option. I have read to them all the books I could find about diversity, about the beauty of living in a world with children of different colors. I tell them frequently that their skin color is gorgeous. When I comb their hair, I tell them how I love all those lovely curls. And I suppose that the fact that we live outside of the US, in an expatriate and multicultural community, also makes it easier for us. And yet, when I read posts like the aforementioned one, I can't help but wonder if I'm doing enough.

Time shall tell, I suppose. My second-grader asks more and more questions, and probably, questions about race will soon pop up, and I'll know the time has come to tackle that issue. But, frankly, I'm in no hurry. And I don't know if it's because I'm a mother who'd rather avoid painful, difficult issues, or because I'm a white mother who'd rather avoid painful, difficult issues.

The Cybils 2007 : Nominate your favorite books

Nominations are now open for the Cybils 2007. The only literary awards by bloggers, they're seeking nominations in eight genres:

Fantasy/Science Fiction
Fiction Picture Books
Graphic Novels
Middle Grade Fiction
Non-Fiction: Middle Grade and Young Adult
Non-Fiction Picture Books
Poetry
Young Adult Fiction

The books must have been published in 2007. And we can only submit one title per category. Anyone with an email can participate, and we have until November 21 to post our favorite titles.

I'm off to work on my own list. Not so easy, when you live thousands of miles away. The books I read are not necessarily books that came out this year. I don't get my books at the library or in bookstores because the latter tend to carry mainly hugely successful books - of course, Harry Potter, all the Enyd Blytons, pretty much anything by Roald Dahl, and Meg Cabot is also very big, around here. So, I tend to browse on Amazon.com, I jot down titles that I gather in conversations with other writers, or while reading blogs, and these books are not always the last ones that came out.

I just finished A Wrinke in Time, by Madeleine L'Engle, which I thoroughly enjoyed, even though I'm not usually a big fantasy reader. I've read three Junie B. Jones, and going over The Magic Tree House series with my daughter - in a French translation because I want her to develop her reading skills in French, too. I also read Younguncle comes to Town, by Vandana Singh, and loved the light humor, the Indian setting, and the wonderful cast of characters - the baby is especially irresistible, and I like the mother who speaks in Capital Letters, the grand-father who rides his cow as if it were the fastest horse alive, etc. None of these were published this year. No matter, I will try and participate.

How about you? Of all the books published in 2007 that you've read, which are your favorites? Go add your choice(s) on the Cybils blog.

We have an illustrator !

Finally, I can share this news. I've had to bide my time while waiting for the contract to be signed and everything to become official, but now it is, and so I can shout it out : Dimitrea Tokunbo is working on the illustrations for my picture book.

Dimitrea is half Nigerian on her father's side, and American on her mother's side. How is that for serendipity striking again ? I see some kind of cosmic harmony in this Nigerian connection. It just feels right. And Dimitrea has a multicultural background, and that, to me, feels like life coming full circle.

Last, but far from least, she has an interesting illustrative background. Check out how she describes herself, below. How is that for poetry? I just love the way her words sing.

http://www.boydsmillspress.com/contributors/contributors/tokunbo_dimitrea.html

Well, actually, there is more : Dimitrea is also involved in The Children's Theater Company. Here is the CTC mission statement.

http://www.childrenstheatrecompany.org/about-mission.htm

Is that great or what ?
And you'll find Dimitrea somewhere in there if you scroll down.

http://www.childrenstheatercompany.org/about-staff.htm

Now, I just have to wait to see how She sees my Ifeanyi Amadi. I also have to let go of my baby as she works to give him a face, a body, and the physical presence and expressions that she, the artist, will be coming up with. More to come on that, I'm sure.

Good Bye, Ganesh... until next year !

After more than ten days of poojas, Ganesha's festival ended yesterday. Roads had been cordoned off. Most buses didn't run, and the few auto-rickshaw drivers who ventured in the streets charged double, even triple. The whole city resonated with the pulse of the beating drums, and everywhere, trucks, big and small, carrying Ganesh statues, converged towards the lake Husain Sagar, where huge cranes awaited the statues to immerge them in the water.

I try to imagine the botton of the lake, today, and think about something that my 3-year-old daughter said, not long ago, after she'd finished her lunch. "The bread, the ham and the cheese are inside my belly and they're all talking to each other now." Maybe all the Ganeshas are having a conversation. Or maybe it all looks like an underwater dump, crowded and dirty. A desolate factory full of broken statues piling up in the darkness.

I sound gloomy, and it's a shame, because I really like Ganesha and I also want to remember the joy and cheerful spirit of that festival. Here are a few more pictures, some hastily shot while driving... oops !

 

 

 

 

 

Vignette from India: Ganesh Chaturthi Festival

This Saturday, it was the festival of Lord Ganesh, celebrated on the birthday of the God with an elephant head. Ganesh is the God of wisdom and prosperity. He uses a mouse as his vehicle, the mouse representing our ego and the need to control that ego, has a broken tusk, and loves sweets.

 

During that festival, statues of Ganesh or Ganesha - some of them as high as 30 meters, which would be about 80 feet high - are installed in street corners and in homes, and those shrines are heavily decorated with lights, flower arrangements, etc.

Everyone is happy to show their Ganesh, and we had young people run after us and invite us to wander into back alleys so we could admire their statue. Of course, we then took pictures of everyone. The wonderful thing with digital cameras is that we can show the pictures on the spot. Everyone loves that, and there is always a friendly jostle as they elbow each other to be able to look at the pictures. My husband has even started printing some of these photos shot in the streets, so he can give them back to the people - usually children and young people - who so gracefully posed for us.

 

 

Prayer services - called Poojas - are performed several times a day. After 1, 3, 5, 7 or 11 days, these statues are transported on decorated floats to the nearest river, lake, beach, and immersed.

Why immerse these statues in water? I wondered. Here is what I gathered: all bodies of water (rivers, lakes, the sea) are sacred to Hindus. If you were to keep the statues of Ganesh in your home, or on the street corner, poojas would have to be performed everyday. Neglect is not tolerated. And so, once the poojas are over, the statues are immersed in water.

 

 

That last picture shows young people on their way to the lake for the immersion of their Ganesha. This is a joyous affair, and the procession is accompanied by drum-beats, songs and dancing.

As so often, here, in India, I watched all this with mixed feelings. Curiosity and fascination, of course. I love that Indians honor their culture. I love the mystical quality of these traditions. But then, I also looked at these men entering the filthy water of the lake and swimming in it. I looked at the piles of plastic bags on the shore, and I couldn't help but feel sad. Someone told me that in old times, the Ganesha statues were made of mud, of clay, and when immersed in the water, the mud, the clay dissolved in the water. Earth returned to earth. Same for the coconuts, the fruits offerings, the flowers: all biodegradable. Today, there is a whole industry behind the making of these Ganeshas, and they are painted, and all these statues end at the bottom of the lake, and it's definitely not good for the environment. Not to mention those plastic bags that contain the offerings to Ganesha. Once the puffed rice, the saffron colored powder, the fruits, etc, emptied in the water, the bags remain there.

There must be a way to strike the right balance. Yes to keeping old traditions alive, but while doing that, remember also the realities of today's world, one of them being that we need to stop using the planet as a dumping ground. Right now.

I found the solution...

I ERASED that sentence. CUT, and NO paste. Gone. No more m's to send the tongue on tripping trips. And you know what ? I think it works. I hope... Well, I sent the umpteenth last version to my editor, and we shall see.

One "m" too many ?

Here comes a perfect example of what I was moaning and ranting about in my last post. A tiny sentence. Just a few words. But after months and months of seeing it written a certain way, and finding it just fine, I just can't wrap my teeny weeny mind around its new appearence, or rather, its new sound. Anyone want to chime in with their thoughts ? Does that sentence bother you ? Do you see, hear, what I mean by "one m too many?"

The sun burned high in the sky by the time Amadi reached the first stalls.

It used to be :

The sun burned high in the sky by the time Ifeanyi reached the first stalls.

In this case, it's not the number of syllables that bothers me, but "time" and "Amadi" being so close together. My tongue trips over all these "m" sounds.

So, I keep coming up with alternatives. Only, now, I find myself changing everything around, even moving dialogues, and I'm freaking out. What ? That's what writing is all about ? I had no idea!

Anyway, here a few samples of my writing wanderings.

- The sun had climbed its blazing path up the sky when Amadi reached the first stalls. (Huh???)
- The sun burned high in the sky when Amadi reached the first stalls. (Obviously, that would be an easy alternative, except that I don't like it. But don't ask me why.)
- Amadi felt the sun beating down on him as he reached the first stalls.(And when doesn't one feel the sun beating down on them in Africa, if I may ?)
- The sun beat down on Amadi's shoulder as he reached the first stalls.(Forget about the sun beating on anyone's shoulders. Cliche. Obvious. Boring.)
- The sun had almost reached its zenith when Amadi reached the first stalls. (repetition of reached. Bad.)
- Amadi squinted at the sun, as he reached the first stalls. Almost midday. (Mm...?)
- As he reached the first stalls, Amadi squinted at the sun high in the sky. Almost midday. (Not sure. This is a contemporary setting. Kids don't look at the sun to find out what time it is. Either they have a watch, or in Amadi's case, they ask someone who has one. Right? Amadi, what do you say?)
- Amadi squinted at the sun, as he reached the first stalls. (Would he squint at the sun? Ifeanyi Amadi, where the hell are you ??? You just took off towards the market, and now what ? Will you squint at the sun ? Or not? How dare you write in my blog while I sleep, and remain totally mute when I need you to say something ! Anyway, upon reading the sentence again, I realize I don't like "squinted at". Too many d's and t's.)
- As he reached the first stalls, Amadi squinted in the sunlight.(there is no reason for the squinting being there. I mention the sun to give a sense of the passing of the time. It's almost midday. But in fact, I don't want Amadi too aware of that.)
- A little while later, Amadi reached the first stalls. (Pff!)


Well, Amadi is strangely silent and absent, today. Must be striking poses somewhere for his mother the illustrator, feeling all important. And I'm left with my m's. I think I'll go eat some ice cream, now. Or help my daughter find the piece of Lego she's looking for all over the house. Did I mention I also have a translation I need to work on ? But that's OK: deadline still far away so I have plenty of time to feel guilty about not working on that.

What's in a name ?

Still processing the change of name of my picture book character. Amadi turned out to be much better than me at this. But I have good reasons. More than ever, I realize the importance of each and every word in a picture book text. I already knew that, of course. But now, I'm experiencing it in a very real - and confusing - way. Whenever I try to read the whole text with the name Amadi in place of Ifeanyi, it sounds all funny - funny as in strange, not as in laughing funny, even though that would also be a problem, as the story is not exactly comic. I was very careful to choose a new name that ended with the same sound, foreseeing such problem, but I also had to LIKE that name, and in the end, I was unable to find one...
a) which I really liked, hear a name that spoke to me, a name that seemed to adopt my Ifeanyi
b) which ended with the same sound
c) which had four syllables.
I do like the name Amadi. But it has only three syllables. I find that disruptive. And I'm having a hard time deciding whether it's me still unconsciously resisting this name change, whether it's just old habit - I have written some 57 millions versions of this story over the past 5 years after all - or whether, really, it doesn't flow the way it used to. And I can't ask my critique group because they've also seen and read the old version with Ifeanyi a number of times. Plus, we are still on break. But it reminds me, if I ever needed to be reminded, how crucial the music of the text is in a picture book. Sentences not only have to flow in a seamless way, they must carry an internal tune. And I can't overdo it. I need to read it, try to make some changes, let it rest, go back to it. That's the only way I've found to deal with this problem so far.

Being an artist : Joy or Pain ?

A post written by Disco Mermaid's Robin reminded me of another post I had started writing and saved - it was that mad time in July when I was being a mom 24/7 - and sure enough, here it is, in my draft box :

I'm reading books on the process of writing, at the moment. About three at the same time. That way, I can follow the kids moving around the house - and they move fast - and not have to worry about where I left the book. One in the bedroom, one in my office, one on the table in the dining/living room, always readily available. I thought I'd quote some of the thoughts I found interesting.

Art and Fear, Observations on The Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking, by David Bayles and Ted Orland

"Often the work we have not done seems more real in our minds that the pieces we have completed."

That phrase certainly hit home. How easy it is to forget the thousands and thousands of words and phrases that we crafted, the drafts, the stories unfinished, to only remember the few pieces that are deemed good enough for submission, and to despair, to think it's not enough. But every single word written, whether it belongs to a completed story or not, participates in our process as writers.

The second chapter's title is the same as the book, and begins with a quote by Stephen DeStaebler.

"Artists don't get down to work until the pain of working is exceeded by the pain of NOT working."

Jane Yolen would probably disagree (Take Joy) and yet, I think both approaches are true. My biggest challenge is to start ! To actually sit down at the computer to work on my writing, rather than finding every possible excuse to procrastinate - like this blog ? That's the painful part for me. Once I actually start working, I forget the time, I forget the world, I can even forget my family - well, not quite, but almost. And even though it's work, that work does give me joy. What's painful is the guilt I feel, the unease, the judgemental voice I hear in my mind, telling me that I ought to make time, I ought to organize myself better, I ought to write. I think that what Stephen DeStaebler means is that when the voice becomes strident, forceful, unbearable, the artist has no choice but to get down to work.

What I can add, after having been almost totally disconnected from the writing world for a few weeks, is that it's easy for everyday life to take over - especially when there are little children around, but not only - and muffle the voice of the writer. Which is probably why all books and quotes I've read about the creative process seem to agree on at least two things : the famous butt on chair rule - write everyday, no matter what, even if it's only for ten minutes - and find time to "being" as opposed to "doing" in order to reflect, to meditate if you are into that, or just do nothing, walk and look at the world, at the trees, the sky, whatever, the goal being to connect with our inner self, where creativity - our whimsical muse - is seating, waiting, or coquettishly playing hard to get.

Well, now that I know what to do, guess I just have to do it, right ?

I'm back...

... and don't ask me where these past weeks disappeared to, because I have no idea. I was sitting at the computer, posting pictures of India and fantasizing about peaches and saucisson, and next thing I know, I'm back at the computer, suffering from jet lag - I usually sleep, at 5 am - and even though I recall eating peaches, saucisson and so much more, I can't believe it's all in the past already.

Highlights of the summer ?

I went horse riding and I was actually riding the horse on my own, as opposed to sitting stiffly on some enormous polo beast and requesting that the young man holding him remains with me at all times, which is what happened the few times I tried, here in Hyderabad. Of course, I didn't have the proper gear, so I made quite an impression, riding with my bright pink Converse...

 

I painted one of the bedrooms of our house from top to bottom in a lovely trio of shades - white, green bamboo and chestnut brown - and got so manic about it - we had guests coming and I wanted it ready AND perfect - that I was still at it at 9 PM, trying to see, on the ceiling, the spots that I had not yet covered with fresh white paint, and I still have pains in my hands, more than two weeks later. But the room looks really nice, doesn't it ?

 

Look at the Palais des Papes, in Avignon, in the pinkish twilight : pure magic.

 

I went back to Paris, the city where I was born and lived until I was 16, for the first time in more than ten years. I had forgotten how beautiful it is.

 

 

We discovered the new project just launched by the city of Paris - after Lyon where it's been a smashing success : Rows of bicycles await customers, who pay a fee to rent them, and later leave them at another of the many parking spaces created around town. With the kids and the stroller, it wasn't an option, but I can't wait to try.

 

Something else that definitely wasn't there last time I was in Paris: a Starbucks coffee ! Est-ce bien raisonnable?

 

Lows ?

I was so busy redecorating, entertaining guests and eating peaches that I had to withdraw from the Enneagram online class I was taking. But there will be another class in November, and this time, I'll be there from start to finish.

I had to imagine my friends having an absolute ball at the SCBWI conference in LA, and then read all about it in their blogs, but that's OK. Next year...

I had to give Amadi a stern lecture about not using people's blogs - not even mine - without asking first.

I did not have a minute to write a single line. Bad, bad, bad girl. I have to get back to work. NOW !

What on earth is wrong with my given name ?

Hello everyone, I'm Ifeanyi, the main character in the soon-to-be-published picture book that's been mentioned, here, a few times. I'm being sneaky and surely, my authorly mother - that's Katia, the owner of this blog - will not be happy when she finds this post. She will go all stern and reasonable on me and lecture me about everyone at the publishing house doing their very best to make sure the book reaches the widest audience possible and doesn't turn anyone off for some silly reason. And maybe she's right. Still, my feeling is that the situation is serious enough to warrant a coup d'eclat.

What situation? Well, I hear that they are changing my name. Can you believe it ? I know that I'm a fictional character, but that doesn't mean I don't have feelings. The general opinion seems to be that my given name, the name that my authorly mother chose for me, is too difficult to pronounce and therefore unacceptable. What is so difficult about Ifeanyi, I ask? Ee-feh-ahh-nyi. See? Easy. Well, some people think it is impossible.

Imagine. Mother, who's supposed to be on holidays, and instead, has been busily painting walls and ceilings, got an email from the publishing house telling her that the decision had been made to change my name. She was given two options ; both options unacceptable in her opinion, and mine. She spent the day angry and upset, and was still feeling that way when she went to bed, and of course, she couldn't sleep. So she got up and spent the night trying to find me a new name that she liked, a new name which would be deemed acceptable... hear easy to pronounce. Jack, Jill, Tom, Jo, Dan, Bob, Bill, Tim... That kind. She found a new one. It seems that I now go by the name of Amadi.

Amadi means "free born" in my native language. I wonder if she's making some kind of a statement, here. As far as given names go, I'd say Amadi is just fine. And definitely Igbo. It does sound like home and when I say it, I can almost hear my ancestors' voices travelling on the wings of the Harmattan as it blows its dusty way from the desert. Still, it's going to take some getting used to. It's been a few years since I came out of my authorly mother's mind. I'm used to my given name. I LIKE it. It's a beautiful name ! It means : with God, nothing is impossible.

Mother - the authorly one, because I now have another mother, an artist busy painting me - has been telling herself that it was maybe an omen that she chose it for me in the first place : it will now help us prove that indeed, nothing is impossible, even getting used to a different name. Amadi is OK, really. She does come up with nice names.

I'm going to do just like her and repeat, again and again : I have two beautiful names. The first one is a name that only a handful of people know and use, people like my authorly mother, her close friends, and myself: Ifeanyi. And the second one is the name that will be used by all, the name that will come out in print in a book that will tell my very own story: Amadi. And later, when people know and like me as Amadi, maybe I can tell them that I have another name, my first given name, Ifeanyi, and maybe they'll like it and not think it's so impossible. Because nowhere in the world should there be such a thing as an impossible name. On the contrary. People all over should be curious and open to hearing new sounds, to learning new words and names. Nowhere should anyone be afraid to leave their comfort zone and try new things, to let their tongue taste new sounds, see how they roll off of it. Nowhere should anyone worry about sounding funny, about struggling with different combinations of letters and syllables.

My authorly mother is also using another trick to help her deal with this name issue. In her husband's country, Haiti, newborns are often given several names in order to honor family members. In the end, the name that everyone uses is often the very last one, and not at all the first one. And so it will be for me. Only, the giving of my second name kind of got delayed.

Signed : Ifeanyi Amadi

Enneagram Test

I'm taking an online class (writers.com) on building characters using the Enneagram, an ancient personality study that originated with the Sufis, hundreds of years ago. We've only had one lecture so far and I haven't even started working on my first assignment, but in order to do so, I've done a little research, and just completed a test.

I'm always a little wary of personality tests. In high school, I remember I tended to give the answers according to what I wanted to be, or rather what I thought I should be in order to be "good enough" - whatever that meant on any given day at the time. Thank goodness, my delusion was not as strong as my innate curiosity, and I always ended up doing the whole test again, this time replying as truthfully as I possibly could. I'm glad to report that life, and a few years on the couch, have helped me gain some confidence. Mostly, I want to learn so I can evolve, so when I do one of these tests, nowadays, I really try to be totally honest. I say that I try because I find it often difficult to know the answers. To a lot of the questions asked, I'll find myself thinking : well, it depends...

Anyway, here are the results on that particular test, and I'd say they do feel pretty accurate. I can't wait to learn more about the Enneagram.

Main Type	Overall Self

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Enneagram Test Results Type 1 Perfectionism |||||||||||| 47% Type 2 Helpfulness |||||| 28% Type 3 Image Focus |||||||||||| 42% Type 4 Hypersensitivity |||||||||||||| 60% Type 5 Detachment |||||||||||| 48% Type 6 Anxiety |||||||||||| 43% Type 7 Adventurousness |||||||||| 32% Type 8 Aggressiveness |||||||||||||| 58% Type 9 Calmness |||||| 29% Your main type is 4 Your variant is self pres

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