Tears and Whispers

In our efforts to be virtuous we often tolerate injustice. And in our efforts to be just, we often overstep our bounds. True justice lies in knowing the rights of creation. It is why the best of creation (prayers and peace be upon him) was the most moderate in temper, for excellence is the sum of all acts wrought in moderation.

Take care you are not blinded by
The tears in your eyes
That long to weep an ocean deep
For all that they receive;

Take care you are not deafened by
The whispers in your ear
That like the clamor of a hammer
Make your heart to grieve;

But let your inward temperate check
Your hearing and your sight;
There is no virtue if when hurt,
You steal another's right.

Won the "Lighting of the Fire" Poetry Contest

Good news for me. I recently learned that my entry was placed first in the "Lighting of the Fire" Poetry Contest sponsored by Highland Park Poetry and the Ravinia Neighbors Association.
I have been invited to read it at the November 22nd Centennial Celebration of the Ravinia Village House (that's Friday night).

Here's an article talking about the upcoming celebration.
http://www.ravinianeighbors.org/ravinia-neighbors-association-blog/your-invitation-to-a-once-in-a-century-event

And here's the winning poem.
http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/home.html

My sincere thanks to the Ravinia Neighbors Association and Highland Park Poetry for this recognition. I've pasted the poem below in case the above link expires :-).

A Spark and a Fire

I often set to wonder why
We take the stands we take;
What makes us rise from where we lie,
And stirs our hearts to wake

When forth, the ever silent, speak
To light a tiny spark
That burns a flame by which we seek
To drive away the dark;

Like planters of the olive tree,
They never taste its fruit,
Which, like the one who eats from it,
Knows nothing of its root.

I think the answer might well be
The courage of a few
Whose grit, resolve, tenacity,
And other virtues too

Deliver us to light again
This fire that will burn
In honor of their service then,
An honor we return.

Wind Beneath My Feet

I'm late for work and I'm driving down the street,
I've got the road in my hands and the wind beneath my feet;

I'm worn and weary of the one who makes me yawn,
I'd rather breathe in the colors of the autumn in the dawn;

Will I live to see the sunset and the night?
Will I see this song to its end within my sight?

The only thing I am certain of is this:
That the world is filled with things I will not miss

If I climb the mountain, descend into the cave
Where the mines of merciful love receive a slave;

I won't need to worry if I make it to those mines;
How the darkness goes when the Light of mercy shines

Till I find that diamond and hold it to my face,
Yes, I know my gem of redemption's in that place.

But for now I'm glad that I'm driving down this street,
I've got the road in my hands and the wind beneath my feet;

I feel like everything in the world belongs to me,
I feel like everything in the world belongs to me.


The Messenger, peace be upon him, said, "If anyone among you is secure in mind in the morning, healthy in body, possessed of food for the day, it is as though the whole world has been brought into his possession."

Wrote My First Book

There! I said it. And I said it with all the mediocrity I could summon into my fingertips.

Now, don't get me wrong. It is a big deal, or rather it was when I finished the manuscript. But I am trying to make a point in this post, and to get to it, I must dwell on the title line a bit. So I'll say it again.

I wrote my first book.

Yes. I wrote it in January of 2012. It all happened quite suddenly, and very unexpectedly.

I was with my family one Saturday morning brunching at the Egg Harbor Cafe in downtown Naperville. We were just making small talk when my wife brought up the topic of schooling in India. Before we knew it, somewhere between the belgian waffle and the cheese grits (if you haven't, you've got to try their cheese grits), the conversation whittled itself into a long and slender bamboo cane - one that graced the hand of our high school headmaster. No, we're not that old, but we did go to school in India, and back when we were in school, about twenty-five years ago, getting your daily stripes courtesy said bamboo cane could easily become an everyday ritual, albeit a painful one.

So as we whittled the proverbial cane of our conversation into dust, I said to my wife (and I paraphrase):

"Hey, maybe I could write a book on this. You know, about oppression at two entirely different levels. There's the headmaster figure, and... and maybe a tyrannical ruler, like the pharaoh. Right? You know, to show how oppression is ugly, however small or large the scale of it. Right?"

My wife looked at me, and said, "Why don't you do it?"

My then-nine-year-old daughter looked at me and said, "Do what?"

My then-six-year-old daughter looked at me and said, "I can't finish my eggs."

So, I finished them for her.

I spent the rest of the weekend thinking about our conversation, and a plot began to emerge in my head. The following Monday, my commute to work helped me finish chapter 1. I decided I would call the book "Tyrants". The return commute knocked out chapters 2, 3 and 4 (maybe even 5). Anyway, by Wednesday of that same week, I had a fully thought-out story in my head, divvied up into thirteen chapters. I told myself the plot had to be tight and engaging, and the characters interesting and believable. I even decided I would be as minimal in my writing as possible, with everything distilled down to only what was needed to carry a story and keep it interesting. I read somewhere that it was easy to add pages, but not so easy to remove, and feeling insecure as a first-time writer, I embraced the advice fully.

I wrote the first chapter the very next night. And then I kept at it for the next three weeks, working weeknights and Saturdays. And when I finally finished the manuscript of "Tyrants" in three weeks flat, it felt good. I had a 53,000 word manuscript on my computer. I put it on a flash drive and drove down to a copy shop where I printed it out. It felt so good.

My wife had been reading the chapters as I was writing them, so she finished reading the book about the time I finished writing it. She liked it, but her feedback was a bit tainted as she knew the plot from the outset.

So then I gave it to my Dad. He had no idea I had written a novel, so when he liked it, I was encouraged a bit.

I began to read up on the querying scene that all writers ought to get familiar with. I became a frequenter of queryshark.com (great resource for new fiction writers by the way). After several iterations of "writing my query letter and letting it sit", I felt my query letter was ready for the world of literary agents.

My query letter in its current state

I mustered the courage to send out a few. I started with the most popular agents on the east coast, sending them email queries, and in some cases, snail mail.

One in three got back to me and politely declined saying the work "was not a good fit for them". After about five queries, my interest began to wane. I began to wonder if my two-hundred-page manuscript was a colossal waste of time. In the days and weeks and months that followed, I shared out the manuscript with a close circle of family and friends. Some liked it a lot, a few had mixed but good feedback, while some (actually many) never got back to me.

Then someone said, "Friends and family will never tell you your book is garbage."

So I approached the founder of the poetry club I had been a member of. She was not family. She was not a friend. She was... an acquaintance. She seemed unbiased. And she taught creative writing too. She agreed to read my manuscript. It took her three weeks to get back to me. We met up right after an open mic. Her feedback was very good. She liked the story a lot, she liked the writing, she liked the characters and the twists in the plot. She pointed out a few inconsistencies and I fixed them.

And that's when I told myself there was something here. I redoubled my querying efforts.

Fast-forward from then to six months ago: I had altogether sent out just under twenty queries, twenty if you count one pathetically half-hearted attempt. That's really not a lot at all. There are happy souls out there who celebrate one-hundred query rejections by throwing their friends a party - it is the sort of grit you need to keep your head up in this industry.

Nevertheless, one bright and sunny day in May, I stopped querying. I had grown tired of it, but that wasn't why I stopped. I stopped because I had started to think. You see, my father-in-law visited with us some time back and he had given me some advice. It was simple advice: keep writing; churn out the books; when you finish one, stuff it under your bed, and start on the next one. He told me not to worry about getting published, but rather to be preoccupied with the craft of writing.

When this advice finally sank in (and it took a few months), the realization was quite liberating for me as a writer. And that is really the simple point I am trying to make in this post.

You see, I was getting better. My writing had improved. I could tell. My ability to spin yarn from word-pulp, and weave an intricate tapestry of fiction drama had increased. Cheesy imagery, but you get the point. My writing had improved just with stepping into my second book. I felt like I had crossed a bridge after dodging the one-novel-publisher troll who dwelt beneath it, a beast that ceaselessly spat the word "Publish".

Now, if you ever comes across such a bridge by happenstance and encounter a troll beneath it spitting the word "Publish", do take my advice and risk your everything to get to the other side where the grass is greener. I know, I'm chewing on it right now. And guess what, there will be more bridges that I, and you, will have to span in our respective journeys as writers, and you don't want to not cross any of them. Now, don't get me wrong. You can lean on the railing, chat with that troll, you know, query an agent every now and then with the work you have accomplished - just make sure you continually sharpen your query letters. But then once you've done that, flash that troll a smile and keep walking. The grass will keep getting greener and greener with every bridge you cross.

So I've decided that on my journey as a writer, I will not allow myself to be preoccupied with my destination. Besides, the journey is far too beautiful. And if you've been stuck on that query-your-nth-novel-like-there's-no-tomorrow bridge (especially if n = 1), I hope this gives you a push to keep walking.

I close this post with the opening verses of an old Cat Stevens number.

Miles from nowhere, 
I guess I'll take my time,
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Look up at the mountain 
I have to climb,
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Fox, Persistent

Although this poem is crafted as a first-person account, I was not part of the experience recounted in it. Rather it is based on what I heard from the esteemed Dr. Umar AbdAllah in a lecture delivered recently at Darul Qasim. The scene is the lush campus of the Alqueria de Rosales in Southern Spain. 

These last few days, each day had we

A visit from a fox,

A quiet, handsome creature, he

Attended all our talks;

For when we'd set to congregate

Upon a grassy hill

To purposefully separate

Our hearts from chatter ill,

This beast was wont to venture near

Neath the temperate sun,

Day after day to persevere

In a skulk of one.

He caused us no distraction nor

To mischief he inclined,

But stood in grand inaction for

What pacified his mind.

Then on that peaceful night as we

Prepared ourselves for prayer,

We sensed a sweet serenity

Excite the silent air;

I do suspect our vulpine friend

Detected it as well,

How quietly did he ascend

The grounds I cannot tell.

However, witness may I bear:

He walked the straightest line

Between the crowds assembled there

And made an exit fine.

I think the blessed night of Qadr

Came upon us then,

Upon us and on every other

Creature in that glen.

Take Heart

My daughter blurted the phrase "leaves can have dimples" as part of an otherwise nonsensical conversation this morning. The silly phrase landed up defining the rest of my drive to work.

Even leaves can have dimples
If you know what dimples be
In the grand scheme of beauty
To a shy and simple tree.

Even rocks host a banquet
If you know what banquets be
In the grand scheme of gaiety
To a sunny rockery.

And when the tear-laden cloud
Crosses winds that blow and blow
Till it throws a thunder tantrum
As its tears begin to flow,

Then the dimpled smiles of leaves
And the feasting of the rocks
Make the cloud that sadly grieves
To ignore the wind that mocks.

Even clouds feel encouraged
If you know what courage be
In the grand scheme of being
To whatever tries to be.

So stop drowning in your worries
And take heart from what you see:
Even leaves can have dimples
If you know what dimples be.