Month: April 2021

Why I Want To Write Fiction In 2021

Neera

Not so long ago, I was reading an article on Barbara Cartland. It was a feature article going through the life story of the novelist who had written more than 700 romance novels during seven decades, making her undisputed queen of a genre.

I still remember a photo the article included. Dressed in a pink gown on a pink bed, ninety-two years old was dictating her next novel to her assistant.

I went, “Wow! This is what I want to do in my old age. Write stories.”

The average life expectancy in Australia is 83 years. By the time I am going to reach my eighties, it will be 93 years. We all need to plan how we will occupy ourselves for three decades after we retire from paid workforce.

You can only do a limited number of things in your eighties — you can watch TV, walk your poodle, do crossword puzzles, read books. Or you can tell stories.

I am choosing to tell stories. 

Now, you can tell stories from your life (which most old people do and they are dead right boring), or you can fictionalize them (which gets the message across in an interesting way).

Fiction is more effective than non-fiction. Here is why.

Non-fiction is straightforward. 

It helps the reader solve a problem, accomplish a task, or help them learn something new. Its message is clear, concise, and direct. It also has a short shelf life.

Fiction, on the other hand, is eternal. Fairy tales are centuries old. I bet you still remember the fairy tales you heard when you were a child. Religions use stories too. Parables do what scriptures can’t.

Humans have unsatiable hunger for stories. Even as adults, we crave stories as much as we did when we were children.

“Nonfiction reveals the lies, but only metaphor can reveal the truth.” — Ms Forna

Non-fiction appeals to our logic, but fiction touches our hearts.

Stories are how we communicate. 

Ever since language has been invented, we have been weaving our hopes, messages, reflections, and insights into stories.

When we read stories, we get to know the characters’ inner lives, which makes us reflect on our own lives. We get drawn into their world. Their troubles become ours. We share their laughter and their tears and walk with them as they muddle along in their journeys.

That is the magic of stories. They help us improve our ability to identify and understand other people’s emotions. They equip us to negotiate complex social relationships in the real world with greater skill.

“Fiction’s about what it is to be a fucking human being…I just think that fiction that isn’t exploring what it means to be human today isn’t good art.” — David Foster Wallace

Fiction helps us connect to our humanity.

Research shows that reading fiction makes us more empathetic. Psychologists at the New School for Social Research, New York, say that reading literary fiction makes us better people.

Fiction is essential to the survival of the human race because it helps us to slip into “the other’s” skin. It builds tolerance because it gives us an opportunity to see the world from different perspectives. It is a shining beacon of hope in an increasingly intolerant world.

Fiction also has the power to instill a sense of wonder in us. Stories can take us to magical places. They jolt us awake when we slip into the rut of the mundane. They liberate us by giving free rein to our imagination. This is not to discount fiction as an escape hatch from reality. — Vineetha Mokkil 

A good story gives us a better understanding of ourselves, others, and our society by drawing us into the world created by the writer.

I don’t think there is a better way for a writer to serve humanity than to write fiction.

I have started publishing short stories.

Writing fiction is much harder than writing non-fiction for the obvious reason. You need to imagine a lot — the characters, the plot, the structure, the dialogue, the emotions. But that makes fiction more attractive to me. I love the challenge of it. The ability to create a story that feels true. As if the characters are real people and live next door to you. 

I also think fiction writing is the ultimate form of storytelling. Even though (according to Georges Polti) there are only 36 plots, every story even with the same plot is different and original in its own right. 

Although the ultimate goal for every fiction writer is to write a full-length novel, short stories are an excellent point to start. I have started writing and publishing short stories so that by the time I reach my eighties I have learned the craft.

I have already published two — The Flight, and Aunt Olivia. Have a read and let me know what you think.

I intend to post one every week.

Photo by George Pagan III on Unsplash

I Posted On Social Media For 100 Consecutive Days (And Now I Am Addicted)

Neera 1 Comment

“You never read my poems.” complained my sister-in-law.

She published her poems on Facebook and hated social media.

I had opened an account on Facebook eight years ago, during a trip to Vietnam, posted some travel photos from a couple of trips, and then forgot all about it.

Then last year, I did a cartooning course. The main requirement of the course was to post a sketch every day on Facebook.

No way! I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself on Facebook, where half of my family and most of my friends were always active.

So I opened an account on Instagram and started posting my sketches there.

The encouragement I got from a small number of people who started following me blew my mind. 

I was addicted.

To social media.

But not in the way you might think.

I got addicted to social media because of three things.

  1. Learning in public
  2. Becoming a part of a scenius
  3. Self-promoting without self-promoting

Learning in public.

Social media opened for me a new way of operating. Almost all the people I learn and get inspiration from share their work and processes on social media. They are not running courses or doing seminars. They are too busy for that. Instead, they are sharing directly from their studios or home, where they are toiling away. Rather than being secretive about their work, they consistently post their work even if it is incomplete, faulty, and far from perfect. They are learning online, in public.

I discovered the best way to learn anything is to commit to learning in front of others. Figure out what you want to learn, follow people who are sharing their work, learn from them and share as you go, doesn’t matter how bad it is.

At this point, don’t worry about how you’ll make money or a career off it.

Be on the lookout for voices that you can fill with your efforts. With time you will find out your uniqueness.

On the spectrum of creative work, the difference between mediocre and good is vast. However, mediocrity is still in the range. You can still move from mediocre to good in increments. The real gap is between doing nothing and doing something. Amateurs know that contributing something is better than contributing nothing. — Austin Kleon

Becoming a part of a scenius.

A musician, record producer, and visual artist Brian Eno, introduced a new model for learning and contributing. He called it “scenius.”

Under this model, great ideas are often given birth by a group of creative individuals — artists, curators, thinkers, theorists, and other tastemakers — who make up an “ecology of talent.”

If we look closely, many people we think of as genius were part of “a whole scene of people who were looking at each other’s work, supporting each other, copying from each other, sharing and contributing ideas to each other.

Scenius acknowledge that good work isn’t created in a vacuum and that creativity is always, in some sense, a collaboration. A result of a mind connected to other minds.

Internet is basically a bunch of “sceniuses” connected together. Blogs, social media, discussion boards, forums, newsletters — are all the same thing; virtual scenes where people hand out and talk about the things they care about.

There is no bouncer, no gatekeeper, and no barrier to entering these scenes.

Medium is a scenius. Writers get together here, learning from each other, collaborating, growing, and enhancing the ideas. Within Medium, there are many scenius — separated by categories, interests, subjects.

You don’t have to be talented to be part of a scenius. You don’t have to have any particular qualifications or be a master of specific skills to be part of these scenes. You need to be willing to learn and contribute. Online, everyone — the artist, the expert, the amateur, the master, and the apprentice — contributes.

Sketch by author

Self-promoting without self-promoting.

I hate self-promotion. I am a subscriber to Comedian Steve Marin’s philosophy, “Be so good they can’t ignore you.” 

I just want to focus on getting better and believe people who like my work will find me. Just like Austin Kleon says, “You don’t really find an audience for your work; they will find you. You just need to be findable.”

By sharing my work on social media I am making sure I am findable. I attract people who are interested in what I do. Not only my work but my ups and downs, failures and successes, hopes and aspirations all make me a person very much like my readers. As they get to know me better, they get invested in my success. That is better promotion than any PR company can do for me.

I had no idea something as simple as posting an amateurish sketch a day could connect me to my readers. So many people wrote to me saying they look forward to my sketches. Others root me for the improvements. They even give me suggestions for what I should sketch next time. My self-esteem had a real boost when one follower asked me to design the cover of his novel.

To sum up.

Now you know why I am addicted. 

Social media has made the world smaller. It has made it possible to connect with people who share your interests and form “scenius.”

Rather than learning in isolation, learn in public. Forget about being an expert or a professional. Wear your amateurism with pride and share what you love. and people who love the same thing will find you.

Aunt Olivia ( SHORT STORY)

Neera 1 Comment

Aunt Olivia looks forward to the arrival of the community carer Lara who comes three times a week to help her with the shower and other little things she can’t do herself after her hip operation.

Twenty-three years old Lara is the only human connection Aunt Olivia has left with anyone other than her two nieces who take turns in dropping food. Their trips are short, conversation to the point and often loaded with instructions on how long to heat the food and what to do in case there is an emergency. It is Lara with whom Aunt Olivia gets to have a chat she so much needs.

‘While you are here would you mind rubbing some cream on my legs? They are prickly like cactus.’ Lara, a second-year nursing student, who works as a carer on the side, obliges.

‘Tell me how that boyfriend of yours is going?’ Olivia asks enjoying Lara’s young finger massage her wrinkly skin.

‘He is doing fine. These days he is helping his dad repair their house in Braidwood. I hardly see him.’

‘Not good dear, not good. You two ought to get married by now.’

Lara smiles. Each week, at least once, the conversation goes in the direction of marriage. It seems that when old people have nothing left in their own lives, they start meddling with others.

But Lara doesn’t mind Aunt Olivia prying. She has a way about her that was nudging but not intruding. That is perhaps the reason why she is an aunt to everyone.

‘We have talked about this before, Aunt Olivia. We are too young to get married. Besides both, Alex and I do not have regular income yet.’

‘Too young,’ scolds Aunt Olivia, ‘how old you want to be when you have children. Thirty-five. Goodness golly! You two have been living together for five years. Didn’t you say that to me?’

‘Yes.’ Lara wipes the extra oil from Olivia’s legs with a towel and pulls the pyjama down. ‘But none of my friends is married yet. Neither is his. Besides what marriage has to do with having children?’

It takes Olivia a few moments to comprehend that piece of information. Then she responds with a sigh ‘You might be right dear. What marriage has to do with having children?’

Then in a lower tone adds, ‘In my days — everything. Having children outside of marriage was enough to ruin not only mother’s life but that of the child’s as well.’

She walks slowly with the help of a walking frame to the living room where Lara helps her to settle in her favorite couch.

Olivia asks Lara to hand her a decorated brown wooden box from the dresser. It has a pile of old photographs. Slowly she reaches to the bottom of the box to pull out an envelope with a black and white photo of a young man. She looks at the photo with affection before handing it to Lara. A tall young man in casual pants and checker jumper is staring at the camera half leaning against a wall. He has an air of carefreeness about him.

‘I left marrying to him too late. I wasn’t sure. I thought we were too young. He went to war. Before leaving he came one last time. He wanted to go to the war as a married man. But I wasn’t so sure. He never came back.’

The photo has turned pale with time. Its edges have worn out with constant handling. Lara stares at the photo for a while. The young man in it looks very familiar. As if she has met him somewhere but couldn’t recall where.

‘Did he die in the war?’ she asks knowing Aunt Olivia was not married.

‘He went missing. I kept waiting that one day, he will come back.’

‘You didn’t find anyone else?’

‘I got too old.’ Aunt Olivia lets out a laugh. ‘First I was too young and then I was too old. Some came forward, but I was looking for him in them. Obviously, there was no one like him.’

Lara looks up and Aunt Olivia holds her gaze. ‘There is an age to get married. My mother used to say and I didn’t listen to her. She said that if you miss that age, marriage has no charm.’

Lara nods and gets up to leave, the photo still in her hand. She asks Aunt Olivia if she can borrow it.

Aunt Olivia gives her consent with her eyes closed. Suddenly she is too tired, either from all the effort she has put in this morning or from the flood of memories.

Two days later Aunt Olivia hears a knock at the door. It is not her day for a shower and her younger niece has brought the food for the week already. Who can it be?Before she can shuffle to the door, the key turns and the door opens. Lara walks in followed by a young man.

‘Aunt Olivia, I would like you to meet my boyfriend, Alex.’

There is no mistake in the resemblance. The face, the eyes, the shape of the jaw, even the color of the hair is the same. Only that her John was a bit fairer. This young man is darker, perhaps from working in the sun. Aunt Olivia runs her hand on his face with tears clouding her eyes. While Olivia is inspecting Alex, Lara goes out to help someone else come through the door.

‘Aunt Olivia, this is Alex’s father.’ I drove to Braidwood yesterday to bring him here.’

Stands before her, a man slightly older than her. He is still tall. His shoulders still broad. His skin still fair. The face which is forever young in her memory in fact has aged. But it is still the same face. They don’t know how long they stand there looking at each other, not believing what they were seeing, unaware of the presence of others. Then Aunt Olivia breaks the silence.

‘I waited for you.’ She says.

‘Do you think you are ready now?’ John asks.

That week minister performs two weddings, one in the church and one in Aunt Olivia’s living room.

© Neera Mahajan July 2014

Photo by Damir Bosnjak on Unsplash

The Path of Least Resistance

Neera

Last month I announced my first course and launched it on social media (if you can call sending out one post on social media a launch).

I have been blogging for two and half years now, have a decent number of followers on Medium, Substack, and LinkedIn; I should write and sell courses and make money by now. That’s what I was thinking.

That thinking came from all the stuff I am reading from the Internet gurus. Almost everyone writing on the big platform seems to teach that you should establish yourself on a platform, build an email list, and start selling courses.

But what if you don’t want to. What if making money online is not your objective. It wasn’t mine when I started blogging two and a half years ago. Then I got sucked in by all the free advice available on the internet.

Until about last week, when I sat down to figure out why I felt uncomfortable with running the course due next week.

That is when I wrote down the reason I started writing in the first place. Here they are:

  1. To get better at expressing myself.
  2. To share my insights.
  3. To overcome my fear of publishing. 
  4. To tell my story.
  5. To leave a legacy.

It was not my intention to launch another career. Rather I want to devote my remaining life learning to write better, making friends with like-minded people, and have something to feel excited about.

Online writing is providing me all that. Then why am I getting into the rat race of running courses? 

Enough people are doing that, and some of them are much more experienced than me. 

I need to keep doing what I am doing and enjoy the journey. I have nothing to prove, either to myself or to anybody else.

As soon as I realized that, a ton of weight lifted from my chest.

It is not the first time I have chosen the wrong path. 

And it is not the last. 

What is important at times like these is to watch out for cues. 

I have a quote that sits on my pinboard to guide me whenever I feel uncomfortable with a decision. 

I must have decided wrongly because I am not at peace, I made the decision myself but I can also decide otherwise because I want to feel at peace. I do not feel guilty because the Universe will undo all the consequences of my wrong decision if I will let it. I chose to tell it and allow it to decide for me. — Anonymous

Following the Path of Least Resistance

I have discovered that we have always pushing ourselves to do more.

We think it must be the right thing because everybody is doing it. Keeping with the Johns has become our way of life whether we need it or not. 

What I am finding is, if we leave the things to follow their natural course, we will reach the right decision in due time.

This is something that Robert Fritz tried to describe in his 1984 book The Path Of Least Resistance.

You are like a river. You go through life taking the path of least resistance. We all do — all human beings and all of nature. It is important to know that. You may try to change the direction of your own flow in certain areas of your life — your eating habits, the way you work, the way you relate to others, the way you treat yourself, the attitudes you have about life. And you may even succeed for a time. But eventually, you will find you return to your original behavior and attitudes. This is because your life is determined, insofar as it is a law of nature for you to take the path of least resistance. — Robert Fritz, The Path of Least Resistance.

That is true for all of us. 

Although self-improvement literature has been telling us, “The path of least resistance is the path of the losers” (H. G. Wells) and “The path of least resistance leads to crooked rivers and crooked men,” (Henry David Thoreau), it is the path of nature. 

Besides, who wants the rivers to run straight anyway.

I have spared myself a lot of grief by following my nature and have opened myself to a lot more possibilities. 

“If you limit your choice only to what seems possible or reasonable, you disconnect yourself from what you truly want, and all that is left is a compromise.” ― Robert Fritz, The Path of Least Resistance.

I might run courses one day. I might do online webinars, seminars, and summits one day. But at the moment, they are not the right thing for me to devote my energy to. 

That decision gives me peace.

If you, too, are not at peace with anything in your life right now, use your right to change that decision and let the universe make it right for you. Follow the path of least resistance and trust it will lead you to the right decision.

Photo by NeONBRAND on Unsplash

What I Learned About Being Vulnerable Online This Week

Neera

I read four articles this week that touched on the theme of vulnerability. I want to summarise them here and the lesson learned from them.

The first one was, This Tip Will Revolutionize Your Online Writing, by Vishnu*s Virtues, who wrote if your articles are not connecting with your audience, they are missing one important ingredient — your personal experiences.

Vishnu discovered, quite accidentally, that when he started talking about his most difficult and painful life experiences (including a breakup that eventually led to divorce), he started getting more engagement from readers.

His message is that if you are not comfortable sharing your life, your writing won’t stand out.

Your unique life story and personal experiences are the differentiators when it comes to writing online. — Vishnu’s Virtues

Talking about difficult things can not only be therapeutic but also helps other people on the same journey.

But exposing yourself online is not an easy thing to do. We don’t know who will be reading our work and how they will use the information. Will we be judged?

Many writers on Medium go deep into their personal lives, talking about their difficult upbringing, dysfunctional families, relationships, and mental health challenges. But all of us can’t do it.

Yet, if we want to write, we will have to learn to intertwine our stories with our writing.

How can we do that?

How can we be vulnerable in front of complete strangers?

The answer came in the next article. Allie Volpe explained vulnerability in The Next Time Someone Asks How You Are, Be A Little Vulnerable.

She referred to social researcher and writer Brene Brown’s work on studying connections, where she found that in order to bond, we must allow ourselves to be vulnerable.

Vulnerability can range from asking for what you really need in a relationship, being in a position where you could be rejected or criticized professionally or personally, or exposing yourself emotionally.

Being vulnerable is hard. Brown found that people often shift to numbness, blame, and perfection in order to shelve those feelings of discomfort. We put up a tough exterior.

But studies show we actually perceive acts of vulnerability — such as admitting a mistake or revealing romantic feelings — as strength in others but weakness within ourselves.

We typically don’t confide our deepest thoughts with those closest to us.

Allie refers to Harvard professor Mario Luis Small’s research. He found that people regularly disclose to those they don’t feel emotionally attached to, such as doctors or co-workers, mostly because they’re experts in a particular area or are physically there when something important comes up.

If have no problem being vulnerable to strangers then why can’t we open up to those we are close to.

Tom Kuegler shed light on that in his article — Afraid Friends Will Read Your Writing? Here’s Why That’s Ridiculous.

The biggest fear we have is that if we expose ourselves (or our friends and family) in our writing, they might read it and not like what they read.

Tom’s argument is that 99.99% of the time our family will not read what we write.

Why?

Because we are not the center of their universe. Nobody from our personal life cares about what we type into our laptop late at night and post on Medium the next day.

People can barely keep their own lives straight. They don’t have time to sit down and read whenever we publish something new.

If they do, and don’t like what they read Tom has just the quote for them:

“If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.” — Anne Lamott

Then I read the article that showed how to be vulnerable in your writing.

Donnette Anglin wrote a story, Never Be Afraid to Re-introduce Yourself, which probably would have taken all the courage she had to put herself out there. Yet she did it gracefully and tenderly.

Not only did she put herself out there and shared her darkest secret, but the valuable lesson it taught her. Her story could be a true inspiration for many. That’s what sharing your vulnerability does. It makes you a hero and helps others to learn from your experiences.

Photo by Ava Sol on Unsplash

The Flight – A Short Story

Neera 1 Comment

[This is the first of a series of short stories I am going to share on my site]

I picked up my book and picnic basket from the car and headed for a quiet corner of the park where I could sit and read. I have been doing that often lately.

My days have more hours in them than the chores, and I have been trying to pass the time by reading books I have been putting aside to read for a long time. But even reading doesn’t help me take away my mind from what I have been trying to forget.

I spread the checkered rug on a green patch of grass under a gum tree. Sun rays were filtering down through the canopy of leaves. I placed the picnic basket on the side and poured myself a cup of tea from the thermos. Fumbling with one hand, I opened the book and started reading from where I had left it before.

I read for some time but realized nothing had gone in. Closing the book, I lay down on the rug looking at the sky. Occasional clouds were drifting aimlessly against the light blue horizon. A row of pine trees edging the park boundary looked dejected. What has got into me! I need to get out of this miserable state! I knew that, but I didn’t know-how.

I got startled by someone’s cough and sat down. A book lying on my chest fell on the rug when I turned around to face the intruder.

“I am sorry,” an old, hunched man with a walking stick got embarrassed, “I didn’t mean to scare you like this.”

“It is all right.” I sat up on the rug facing him. He was a medium height man, seemed to be in his eighties, and dressed in brown trousers and a loose jumper. He probably came to this park often, and I was perhaps the one invading his territory.

“I wonder if you have some water. I forgot to have my blood pressure medicine this morning.” He reached into his shirt pocket from the neck of his jumper and produced a leaf of tablets.

“Yes. Sure.” I took out the water bottle and plastic cup from the basket and poured him some water.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the glass from my hand. He swallowed the tablet with the water and handed the cup back to me, asking, “Do you mind if I sit down here for a while. My blood pressure drops after taking the medication.

“Sure,” I made some space on the rug for him, and he sat on it with the help of his stick.

“You might need to help me get up.” He muttered, “It is easier to sit than to get up at my age.”

“No problem.” Any other time I would have regretted his presence, but today I was craving for human company.

We started chatting. He lived nearby. His wife had passed away a couple of years ago. Both his kids, a son, and a daughter, were married and lived at the opposite ends of Australia, one in Perth other in Cairns. Each year he visited them–one trip to the east coast and the other to the west coast. This way crossed the whole breadth of the country each year.

“Imagine how many frequent flyers points I earn.”

I smiled.

“My wife and I used to come to this park each evening for a walk. I can still feel her presence in the air when I come here. This was her favorite spot. We would bring our checkered rug, same as yours, and have breakfast here some mornings. When I saw you today sitting here, I had to talk to you.”

“I am glad you did.”

“My name is John.” He extended his hand.

“I am Jaya,” I said and shook his hand. He was pretty formal in his mannerism.

We chatted for some time afterward. I helped John get up, and he went for a walk around the park. He waved me goodbye before walking to his house. I started coming to the park often. As if watching from his window, John would also come soon after. We starting taking walks together, just like he and his wife used to. He was a sweet old man, and I didn’t mind his company. He told me stories from his past. His passion for his wife was clear from the way he described the things they did together.

***

One such day, after the walk, when we were resting on a bench, he suddenly said, “Enough.”

“Enough what, John?” I asked, wondering what was bothering him.

“Enough of your silence. You are a young woman who has plenty of life in front of you. What is bothering you? I can tell it is a lost love.”

I looked at him, surprised at the transparency of my demeanor. Was I still an open book. He was right. I have spent too long running from reality. I have to face it one day. Somehow it felt right to face it with John.

“I had everything a woman of my age and culture could desire,” I began looking at the white line that an airplane was creating across the horizon, “A husband, a son, a daughter, and a job in the publishing world.”

John followed my gaze and discovered the airplane just before it disappeared behind the pine trees. “What happened,” he asked.

“Last year, we went to India for a holiday.”

He listened without interrupting.

“On the way back, the plane was overbooked. They asked if we wanted to have a stopover at the airline’s expense.”

John turned so that he can see my face better.

“We were delighted at the opportunity, but then I remembered that I needed to be at the launch of a new book my company was publishing. I asked if there was one seat available.”

John said nothing.

“Next day, when I was launching the book, they put my children and husband were on Flight MH370.”

John put his arm around me.

Another airplane passed across the sky. This time we didn’t look up.

© Neera Mahajan Aug 2015

Photo by Philip Myrtorp on Unsplash