Egad! We’ve been tagged among books that put people to sleep!

Yes, we got our first bad review. Oh! The horror! THE HORROR!!! 

The title therein made my ears prick like my cat used to do when he smelled danger. Next the hair on his tail would stand up as he would arch his body slowly and finally, hiss.

I don’t have a tail. But I was thinking of arching my body and hissing and all but the entire routine died unexpectedly within two seconds – right after the reviewer confessed she never finished the book.

Okay, I said to myself, perhaps there was a good reason for her to not be able to carry on. Maybe she says something I can learn from.

So I read on and a second later, the review was over and I was left – uhm – not knowing how to feel. The best I can say is I was confused because I thought I should be sad or furious or devastated or depressed; after all it was my first negative review!! But I wasn’t. I wasn’t happy of course – considering it wasn’t a happy review. I read it again thinking maybe I’d missed her point and perhaps another reading could make me feel something. Some anger or remorse or the will to strive and be better at my craft or something but – the review never gave me enough info about my book for me to feel anything that might’ve helped my craft in the future.

I would’ve felt angry had she said Demon was awful. Rage would’ve crowned my brow if she didn’t like the world of Realm or if she didn’t agree with my tone of voice or the names I’d picked or thought that my characters were lame and unreal and the storyline was trite and the setting awkward and boring. I would’ve been irked and depressed had she picked on the poetry in the book for being insipid. I would’ve felt determined to write better if she’d pointed out exactly why the writing style was bad and such but she mentioned none of the these things or anything else for that matter. And how could she? She never finished the book!

For all I know she probably never went past the acknowledgements page. For all I know she probably copied and pasted the same review for a number of items ranging from books to shoes to muffins. Don’t believe me? Read this:

O_O       *blink blink*

I’m sure the baker, had he existed, would’ve found such a review just as helpful as I, the new author, did. 

And for every writer who gets a review as limited and unhelpful as the one that I got, you have the right to think what I did: the reviewer never got past the title page – or at most – the acknowledgements because if they had, they would’ve had something more substantial than ‘worst book ever!’ to back their opinion of the book with.

Real and serious readers never abandon a book midway no matter how bad and terribly written. They read merely for the honor and experience of reading. Likewise, real and serious reviewers never give vague reviews. Their words mean something to them and they make sure that they mean something to others, specifically to the author of the book, as well. They make sure their opinion is understood and they take the item in question piece by piece to justify their judgment of it.

Hence, if you’ve ever got a review like this, DISREGARD IT. It’s the tag of a troll who isn't there to help you but always there to distract you.

Aoife & Demon has been fortunate enough to receive many good reviews where the reviewers haven’t simply stated ‘Oh! Lovely book!’ in contrast to our darling Miss Two Stars' ‘this book was pretty horrible’. But our reviewers have taken the time to define exactly why they loved it so much. 

I am not averse to critical reviews but I am averse to stupid ones. I encourage my readers to tell me where I went wrong with the craft. How can it be made better? But that takes time and effort and honesty and yes…to write a serious critical review, one has to be serious enough to finish reading the book first no matter how horribly it’s written :)

Happy writing, reading and reviewing to all you serious and honest souls out there. Cheers my friends!

I wrote:

It’s perhaps not the perfect pitch letter ever written but it’s truthful. This is exactly how I feel.

I remember when I first thought of writing a novel (and this was way before I’d even met Shami), my mother dished out a few names to inspire me since they were of course the North Stars of my region. Write something like Arundhati Roy, she said. I haven’t read Roy and I don’t think I ever will – not my genre totally. So that ship sank before it could set sail. I did, however, brave Blasphemy by Tehmina Durrani. She is milder than Roy and her association with the Pakistani political scene had whetted my interest enough to try her. I wasn’t disappointed, and for a while I thought I should write something like her.

This was the 90’s when we had an immense need for our voices, the oppressed voices, to be heard. The world had to know what our ruling class subjected us to and etcetera and it felt so brave and right to talk about the issues that mattered, to paint a picture that wasn’t rosy so that truth would prevail. The world had to know about us.

And so the world did. And it went in overdrive – like a never ending run of the mill misery fest that would be dished out of my region for the universe to sneer at. And while all that was still true and needed to be heard, I felt my voice being ignored and crushed.

Durrani and writers like her tell the truth but it’s a sad truth. What about the happy truth? Their books don’t portray me or the woman in my world (or niche if you may call it but even so we do exist). Nor do they talk about men like my husband or my father or my grandfather who sent his daughter to college in a day and age when most girls couldn’t even get elementary education. Their books don’t talk about women like Shami who would pitch forks and stand a post guarding the houses of minorities in the face of an angry mob. And if you think she wouldn’t do it then you don’t know Shami. They don’t talk about Sharon who would rather die than give up her green passport simply owing to a funny gene in her body called patriotism. They don’t talk about Saima, who runs out of cuss words (very fluently in English but more flavorful in Urdu) to express how mad she is at the current situation in her country, or Humzy, who is devastated all the same but rarely expresses it and yet, come Monday morning and they are ready to take on the world with renewed energy to stand up and make their land a better place to live in. Nor do they have an Ambreen or Janil or Laila or Shah Bano reflected in their writings – independent, generous, supportive and always among the first ones to see the silver lining in every storm.

These are all educated, career oriented women. Some of them are married, some of them single, some of them scarred by men but some of them are treated like queens by the men in their lives. But they do not feature in the books I see being promoted as the face of Pakistan when I look at literature about us that has made it across geographical divides.

And that is all fine.

Durrani and writers like her are strong, commendable women (and men) who had the courage to say what ailed the land they loved. It is fine that the woman they talk of, the men they describe are not me or mine. Surely, I too have heard plenty ghastly stories of tyranny, murder, oppression happening to a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend – but I never knew them personally. Some would say I was lucky; I didn’t stay in Pakistan long enough. I wouldn’t argue with them. I am happy to be lucky. But the question of who shall tell my tale remains.

Someone needs to tell stories about our weddings, yes we still have them and they’re an event more colorful than the rainbow. There still are roadside bistros brewing morning coffee and breakfast, kiosks selling hot sandwiches and corncobs and maize beads roasted in scalding silt, and fancy restaurants boasting of exquisite local food and international cuisines (sometimes with a kick of our own flavor). We have malls, bazaars spilling out merchandise and packed with shoppers (mostly women) and we love fast food (Pizza Hut, McDonald’s and KFC to name a few), movies, music and kite flying.

Yes, there are problems – mammoth sized and here to stay for longer than we’d anticipated. I can almost see my father shaking his head at me and smiling his honey-you-are-so-naïve smile as a tribute to my optimism. But my mother wouldn’t. She’s the one who taught me to see things this way – to smile and strive and never give up and be who you are and tell the world about it too. And don’t hate because it’s toxic.

And so, I have a quest.

I shall write stories embedded in Pakistan but not so you can know exactly how filthy or devastated it is. But just so you know what romance we have going on amidst all the chaos. I did that in Aoife & Demon too. Remember Gustak? To quote a friend, ‘this reminds me of my village back home’. She too is from Pakistan. And if you need to read about the filth and chaos in gory detail – please refer to a documentary on National Geographic or stay tuned to our news channels. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.

But I have a different quest. And I hope to remain true to it. And not hate because it’s toxic.

Here's a glimpse :)

January 20, 2013. I turn a year older.

I’m already past the big 3 0 mark so it’s not the fright of not being a twenties person anymore. No, it’s quite different from that. It’s something more like…I’d just gotten used to being NOT a twenties person, was getting comfy turning thirty and suddenly I’m forced to realize that hey! You know what…that’s not gonna stick around forever either.

Boohoo!

My skin is collapsing at the very thought of my birthday this year and I’m not even one of the beauty conscious people I know (and I envy and admire them because they always know exactly how to stay ageless). I would eat right if I remembered. I would sleep right too if my mind wasn’t always working in overdrive thinking and sorting out all the various stories running in my head simultaneously – the ones I’m reading, the ones I plan to read, the ones I’m writing and the ones I plan to write – all in no particular order but still very damaging. Also…I have kids. And a husband. And they all need me and love me. Sometimes they need me more than they love me. Just saying.

Recently I read a book where the heroine is turning 30 and freaking out about a frown line in the middle of her forehead – she realizes this when her mother gives her Botox injections and her dad gets her a hair stylist appointment (to color away the grays) for her birthday. Poor soul. So lucky to not have her parents. BUT…not so lucky with frown lines though.

And it got me thinking. I looked at all the characters I’ve created in the previous years to grace the pages of my books and then there were those from other authors that I liked and they were usually nice looking. Pretty girls. Handsome boys. And it didn’t matter what their features were like or if they were necessarily built fine and tall and slim – the simple youth and health of their age was what made them glow.

My own Demon is out of this world (like…literally) and Aoife is a sight for sore eyes too and I’m happy that I made them look that way because that’s how they’ll always be. Beautiful forever to look at and of course, if you give them a good personality then you absolutely land a perfect combination that will remain eternal in print for as long as the book survives.

So the question is…do we writers live through our characters then? In body and in spirit?

When I turned 30 I decided I could now write about people who were in their early twenties…new adults as the fiction market classifies them. I looked at myself and felt like yeah…this is how it feels to be young and healthy and full of energy and promise and I filled the same colors in my characters. I had only started to get comfortable in that skin when it hit me: its already time to shed that shell and crawl into a new one. Like a crab! One shell wears out its life and then he has to find a new one. I feel our bodies do something similar when they age. But I’d just got perfect at defining life at 28! I’m not ready to move onto anything above 30 yet! How do I make it stop??!!

My guess: I don’t.

This is what they call experience. I am now officially experienced to write about an age that I have lived through. And that’s a very, very happy thought. Finally, I’m mature enough to write about something without any qualms about it, thinking: Oh…is this how it feels? Really? I now know how it feels to be 22 or 26 or 28 or even 30 because I’ve lived through it. I’m not nervous about its authenticity.

And on a more personal level, I’m pleasantly surprised at myself intellectually. Okay, I was freaked at first to be honest but I think this is good. I can appreciate poetry, music and analogies I never could before. I understand reactions and issues I never had the time or patience or permission from my brain to stop and pay attention to because I was too young. Now, I don’t have to miss out on all that goodness anymore.

So happy birthday to me. And as for my not so glowing skin…I’ll take my BFF’s advice: Go to a spa!!!! :D

I will and be the fine wine she always describes me to be. Thanks babe! Love ya ;)