Writing for a Living- 2

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Money is evil, isn't it? Anything touched by money immediately becomes cheap. Because what you can buy, including mail order brides, is what you can control and replace. And so money makes things expendable and we're right to hate it for what it does to the human soul.

But it feels darned good to make money. And there's no denying that.

A lot of people say things like 'I do it because it's my passion. I don't do it for the money.' As if not-earning is somehow ennobling. As if passion somehow becomes B-grade because you earned something through it. But without money, where would we be? Because all the good things in life are not free. And very often, they are quite expensive. This is why most of us work. This is why we trudge to office day after day and sit on chairs for 8 hours, often doing work that's uninspiring, uninteresting and pointless.

And if you are a woman, especially, making money can free your mind in more ways than the law of the land can. I watch this Muhurta Neram show on and off just to know how terrible and comical our society really is (I lie...I also watch it to know what I've escaped). So many people want a bride who doesn't work and who hasn't studied much- because an educated woman who makes money is a scary entity who will not put up with your nonsense. And yes, I know a lot of you blazing young men do want working women and blah blah, but what I'm saying is- for men, there's no question of two categories like this emerging. Everyone wants a mapillai who is educated and earning. Nobody ever deems a man's superior degrees and money-making abilities to be a disadvantage. Yes, this is pressurizing for men too; men are forced to support the family and abracadabra [this line is just for the types who are part of Baadhikapatta Aangal Sangam and such likes] but at least, your achievements aren't subverted the way it is for women. So in conclusion, what do we take away from Muhurta Neram, children? We understand that making money is super-important for men and women. Men- because nobody will respect you otherwise. Women- because if the polladha Vadivukarasi maamiyaar types on TV don't want you to earn, it obviously means that you'd better.

A few people, a few blessed people, manage to combine their passion with money-making and if that happens to you, I suggest you woot with joy. If your passion happens to be writing, the following might be relevant. If it's irrelevant also, it doesn't mattah- read it and absorb it. A good writer is an observer of all sorts of trash. Then, s/he inserts the observation intelligently in the text to stun you with the originality (see, I watch Muhurta Neram because my taste in TV is really bad; I even watch Arukaani to Azhagurani).

Most people take BA English without knowing what the hell it is about. I, for one, didn't know what my course would be like. I didn't do any syllabus research or talk to seniors, professors, well-meaning aunty-uncles in the family before I made my decision. I took BA English because I loved reading and writing and I liked English classes the most in school. Some people in my class took it because they were Engineering-fail. Some because they were BSc-fail. And some others took it because they wanted to learn English [like VETA, beta]. So anyway, when the three years were almost over, all these campus hiring thingies began. The type of profiles that these companies were looking for in the English department were:

1. Air hostess
2. Tech writers
3. Call center
4. Ad Words rep (Google)

Chotu kya banega, eh? I'd already decided to do my MA, but I still went and sat through all those sessions just to find out what I could do after this degree (yes, this never bothered me much till this point). In the meantime, all my school-mates who were in their 3rd year of Engineering were already ready with their CTS-Infosys Plan of Action. I was getting increasingly disgruntled. The job profiles listed above, with the exception of air hostess, did not pay much. Not anything close to the budding, blooming Engineers anyway. Besides, they seemed to be tremendously boring to me. I did not want to do any of these. What I wanted to do was to write stories and get paid...like a lot...because being important is rich, but being rich is more important.

So what did I do? I went to the UK and did MA Gender Studies and made myself more unemployable than before. I've been a very difficult child, I realize now. I did a course that most people hadn't heard of. I did the course without worrying about who'd employ me after that [although, the UN figured prominently in my plans...I could then sight adichufy Sashi Tharoor, no?].

I was writing all along, though. The best thing that I did in college that helped me become a writer was to start a blog. Before college, I couldn't write prose at all. I wrote a lot of poetry (sentiment-high, angst-ridden, sincere and unoriginal) though. I started my blog because everyone seemed to have one and I thought some of my friends might read it and comment on the writing. The tediousness that I experienced when trying to narrate a story otherwise disappeared, as if by magic, when I was blogging. Because, here at last, I was telling my story. A story I knew really well. I was writing without worrying about whether people would understand my style. If my brand of humour would appeal to them or even make sense. I stripped away the layers of self-consciousness that had trapped my words before this. I was finally writing as me. With a candour that was so liberating. I discovered what worked for me. And I was overjoyed. Because most of my readers were people I didn't know in real life and they got what I was saying. It made me feel like a champ, it did.

I'm still amazed by the unknown IP addresses on my statcounter- people who've never met me but still understand or are at least amused by what I'm saying. I obsess over my statcounter. I even click on all the links that you have clicked to see what all you read. I re-read everything that got a click. Then I imagine what your reaction would have been. And I like to think you got all the jokes and the wisdom. I know I don't diligently respond to comments on my blog (mainly because I'm the phone-on-silent-mode type) but my cup brimmeth over every time somebody says they liked what they read. It doesn't take much to make me happy, see? I'm a nice low-maintenance ladies.


So, at this point, I could finally write. I had the confidence that if employed, I could deliver. But...but...who would employ me? I came back to India after my MA and two career paths were open to me: a. Do something with BA English b. Do something with MA Gender Studies. I also wanted money for whatever I was doing. All this would have happened if I'd been a citizen of Utopia. But I wasn't. So then, I conveniently became depressed. Which is the world's best solution when you have parents who will put up with your bullshit despite knowing it's bullshit. I'm blessed that way.

-to be continued-

Writing for a Living-1

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I was reading A Room of One's Own the other day and I was struck newly by the truth in what Woolf says about writers, especially female writers. For those who haven't read the book, A Room of One's Own is a practical and unsentimental look at writing as a profession. The tediousness of it. The poverty of it. The sentence that can't be written because there are meals to be cooked. The silliness of doing something so undependable when there are bills to be paid. It was one of the texts that convinced me in college that if I wanted to be a serious writer, I couldn't get married. If I wanted to keep my mind fresh and hungry, if I wanted the words to come when I called, if I wanted to make a living out of writing, then I simply couldn't afford to allow myself to get distracted. It's also one of the few texts I've read that don't romanticize writers as demi-gods whose genius comes as a given and not through hard work.

Because writing is hard work. It's difficult to convince people about this because writing doesn't look active. You don't have to run around when doing it, you don't have to shout over your cell phone to get it done, you don't need a blackberry to do it. And it does seem like a very romantic profession, doesn't it? The act of creation. The writer in her own world creating new worlds. And like all things romantic, it seems flimsy. Because how hard is it for someone to write when they have the talent for it?

But writing is not about talent. It is about hard work. And I say this at the risk of stripping away perhaps the only factor that makes other people respect my profession. Anyone can write if they want to. That is the simple truth. We wouldn't have so many bloggers of all colours otherwise. But the emphasis is on the 'want'. How badly do you want to do it? How much time are you willing to invest in doing it? How hard will you work to plough through a language that has come to you from the tongues of so many people? A language that you wield clumsily at first because it's not your own? How many drafts will you write before the words become yours and ring true? How serious will you be about writing compositions in English class when nobody else cares? Will you give up because Young World didn't accept any of the poems you sent them when you were in Middle School? Will you stop because you have to go for IIT classes and there's no time? Will you stop because writing is a hobby and not a profession? Will you stop because nobody takes you seriously?

Will you stop because you read your own writing and knew it to be mediocre?

The hard work put in to become a writer is hardly acknowledged because most of it happens inside your head. The workshops you attend or the creative writing classes you take will find a place in the extra-curriculars on your CV. To show that apart from being a B.E or an MBA, you also indulge in the arts once in a while. But the real work is in the freeing of your mind. To break loose from your self consciousness. To be brave enough to will yourself into writing something that will be judged, or worse still, ignored. To feel the shame that rushes into you when you show something you wrote to someone and they say 'It's nice' without reading till the end. It's easy to get demoralized and give up because nobody's going to notice or miss your work. The hard work is to miss it for yourself.

When I used to work for the magazine, a lot of people would tell me that they'd like to write for it. I'd say, ok, could you first read it and get an idea about what to write? In 9 out of 10 cases, the person wouldn't read it. I'd get a rehashed mythological story, the kind that's been around for centuries. I'd respond asking the person to read the magazine first, understand what sort of writing we're looking at and then send me something. I'd almost never get a story back. And this is because people get very possessive about what they write. They feel mortally wounded because it is their creativity that you've questioned. But this is a sort of possessiveness that is disguised laziness. The unwillingness to examine your work; the goldfish attention you are willing to spare to something that you claim is very dear to you.

Writing doesn't 'just come'. It evolves. It becomes a part of you only if you let it. It can grow only if you understand that it has to. It can pay your bills only if you have the courage to let go. It won't matter then that nobody understands your hard work. That they think it's all too easy. Because you'd know and inside your mind, the walls have crashed. And the words are coming. They are coming so fast and so easy. Because they are your own.

Sociopathy

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So do any of you live in Pune? Sorry if I sound like a Yahoo chat person, but what's your a/s/l? Are you a bore? If you are not, do you want to be my friend? In real life, children.

I've begun to realize that all my conversations that are actually conversations and not "Nahi, patha nahi" are held online. Excepting the ones with M, of course. M and I have very deep and profound discussions. Just last week, we were watching Alibabavum Naarpadhu Thirudargalum. I said it was so funny that they were pronouncing 'sesame' as 'see-same'. M (to whom this had never occurred) said I was being a Stella Peteru and that it wasn't 'sesame' but 'see-same' because the whole thing happens in Arabia (where people speak Tamil and Hindi, apparently). Also, if MGR said it, it must be right. Wah, kya budhimaan hai mera pati.

So anyway, the Stella Sisterhood is in different-different cities these days. Most of us are the type who will keep the phone on silent and never answer it. We also don't return missed calls though we get a pang of affection when we see the missed call. Most of us are also on Invisible mode on Gtalk, so we don't really know when the other person is online. Such, is, life.

I'm a virtual employee, so I talk to my team online or over the phone. I hardly meet them either. I'm not very social, so if I meet new people, I will never remember their names or their faces for that matter. Also, I don't care much for family-bonding kind of conversations. What my husband did, what your husband did, what your kid did and what they all like to eat and so on. It's okay if that sort of bonding happens in the background of a friendship that's got more than just that. But I will get very bored if it's going to be only about the mosquitoes biting your kid, I'm sorry. I get bugged sometimes when I don't get to hang out with friends in this city. I rant about it and M sensibly says that this means I have to make new friends. Then I spectacularly say I have a bunch of brilliant friends and I don't want new ones. Very mature, I agree.

But I'm going to put in some effort into this because I really don't want to end up becoming a non-Hindi knowing Dadima watching cookery shows in her old age. So if you are a Pune person, say hi and tell me your intentions. If they are all aboveboard, we can start frannship. Okayvaa?

Tiramisu

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The whole of last week, I had nightmares. Yes, really. All sorts of nightmares. My favourite though was the one in which I'm required to make beet coffee for Sonia Gandhi and I'm trying to make it fast-fast but things keep going wrong and then...Sonia Gandhi is coming closer and closer and I'm still standing stupidly with the jar in my hand, looking defeated. She was wearing a dark green saree with a maroon border, by the way. Same pony-tail and everything. It really was Sonia Gandhi. She sat on one chair and looked very pissed by the fact that I hadn't made beet coffee for her. I woke up feeling thoroughly exhausted and miserable. Then I discussed it in great detail with M and he said, "Hmm." Wah, the man of few words I married.

I usually enjoy my nightmares. I've been having this nightmare about some big cat (mostly tiger, sometimes lion or leopard) chasing me all over the place (once in Jantar Mantar!) ever since I was a kid. Though I get super scared during the dream and my heart threatens to go kaboom, I still never want to wake up and end it! But beet coffee nightmare is a new one. And not one that I'd want again- are you lijjening Madam Soniaji?

So anyway, the whole of last week, I was a bit of a zombie person. Yesterday, I was bathing and then I started thinking about what all I had to do at work and I forgot I was bathing. I was still bathing though (I know it's hard to understand. Watch Inception if you want help). When I remembered I was bathing, it came as a shock. I think I'm getting some advanced Alzheimer.

So since I had such a nightmarish week, M and I went to La Pizzeria and I ate a humongous wedge of Tiramisu. I'm telling you, it's the good stuff. If these Shiv Sena people ate some of it, they'll stop being so ants-in-pants. We also watched Salt and I really enjoyed it. Jump on the lorries, ladies. Truly, I approve of the fact that Angelina sensibly kicks off her high heels, wears running shoes and then does all the dishoom-dishoom.

And by the way, I DID NOT have a nightmare last night. Which goes to prove that Tiramisu can cure all your problems, children.

Good News

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I sometimes feel biblical. So many people are interested in knowing if I'm pregnant or when I'll become pregnant that it makes me think that the world is waiting for a Son of God that only I'm capable of producing. Then my many relatives (including the estranged ones- we're a very decent family- we have the requisite number of estranged relatives on either side just as all other decent families do) and long-nosed neighbours can troop in like the Magi and give the baby all the gifts that my parents had given the babies in their families when they were born. It's like that Univercell ad- yexchange, yexchange!

I went to Chennai for two weeks to meet my new team in my new workplace. M did not come with me because he had to go to Mussoorie on work. The fact that I'd arrived in Chennai all alone and was in my parents' house was very puzzling to several neighbours who independently arrived at two conclusions a. I'm on the brink of divorce b. I'm pregnant. I went to my old office to collect my documents and my ex-colleagues wanted to know if I had any 'good news'. When I said no, some ventured that I must be the type who plans for a baby. All this discussion occurred right in the middle of the office floor by the way, in case you were imagining a cosy one-on-one chat in a cubicle tucked away in Tanzania. Some others asked me if M would come to Chennai to travel with me back to Pune. Never mind that I headed the team for 2 years, I still need an adult to accompany me in an airline.

Earlier, people were interested in advising me to get married. Now they are interested in advising me to give birth. Why this baby fever, children? Is it so you can next comment on the fact that the baby doesn't look so fair? That it hasn't started talking like your own grandchild did in 3 weeks? I know the biological clock is ticking away and people have spent lakhs and lakhs and lakhs and lakhs trying to get a baby in their old age of 25+ but my question is this: why are you so interested? Were you so interested when I won the gold medal for my BA class or published my first book? Didn't all that seem like 'Good News' to you?

Babies are good. I'm not an anti-baby person. I'm not going to say that giving birth is like shitting out a pumpkin. I'm not saying that I'll never do it. I'm just saying- why don't you butt out? There's plenty of reading to be done in the obituary column in today's Hindu. You could underline all the grammatical errors and mail it to the editor. India has lost wickets against Sri Lanka. Why don't you write a nice essay about that? The world is full of work that needs to get done. I've delivered all these years without your help. I think I can manage this time too.

Yes Boss

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I'm the type who doesn't like being told what to do. At the age of two, I sat on my brother's carom board while he was playing carom with his friends. I was not very happy with my assigned role of oppukuchappa, so I climbed on to the board and sat on it. My brother told me to get off. I peed on the board instead. You now know what you are dealing with.

So when I started working and all and discovered that there are worse things in life than professors and rubbery paneer, I was mildly disappointed with the flimsy mental sketch of a god that communist families permit one to have. What, I asked the flimsy mental sketch, was the point of it all? Everyone at a desk, growing old, growing grey, growing crops on Farmville. Why go for Srimathi tuition and pass 10th standard and 12th standard for this? However, I believe that my vast work experience that stretches to a grand 2.5 years has made me a better human being. I would like to be generous (because I'm a very charming person) and share my knowledge with you.

The following feature is a piece on office etiquette and how to do what you want to do and yet make it seem like you are doing what they want you to do. Doesn't that sound like one of those self-help tongue-in-cheek books you'd buy yourself? Gone are the days when I used to title my grandiose works 'As You Like It'.

How to make a request: The most important person in office is the one at whose jokes you have to laugh compulsorily. This needn't necessarily be your boss. Also, this is not a constant, it is a variable. It depends on who is telling the joke and what work you need to get done through them at that point. For instance, if you desperately need tea at a time when tea is not served and call the pantry, the teaboy could ask you 'What is Kofi Annan's brother's name?' At this point, you should introduce a note of curiosity in your voice though you know the answer is 'Tea Thambi' and ask, 'What is it?' Laugh at the joke and commend the tea boy on his quality taste in SMS jokes and then gently place a request for tea.

How to disagree: When you want to disagree in a meeting with whatever your dustbin-head colleague is saying, start with, "That's a good point. Here's something that occurred to me while you were saying this..." and then proceed to disagree. You could end it with a "What do you think?" to make yourself seem like an open-minded person who is open to other people's ideas, opinions and values though you know they are bullshit. This is how you appear as a team player.

How to agree: When you are in a meeting and you want to agree with something that's being said, don't do it immediately. That will make it seem like you did no hard work and are therefore not worthy for appraisal. Argue against the point. Say that you are trying to 'look at the deliverables from the angle of unforeseen factors'. Finally, when you have nearly convinced everyone that this is a waste no.1 idea, say you were only playing 'devil's advocate' to see if we, as a team, have considered everything before taking the decision. Everyone will forget that it was your smartass colleague who made the point in the first place and applaud you instead. Fat eats fat in the corporate world, children. It is the kaliyuga.

How to boast: So there's something exciting that happened to you and you are dying to boast about it to your colleagues. It could be that you saw Visu at the airport or got elected as All India Mumaith Khan Rasigar Mandram President (yes, there is one). You want to disseminate this information somehow but you want to seem humble about it. I mean, not everybody gets to see Visu or become President in their lifetime, so you don't want to seem like you are rubbing it on their face though that's precisely what you want to do. It's nice to be important but it's more important to be nice and all that. So let's look at the two approaches you can take to do this.

Case A: Spotting Visu at the airport: Talk about how bad the flight you took was. The air hostesses were hairy. The pilot was a turniphead and can you believe it, the food was so bad it nearly gave you food poisoning? And to make matters worse, you saw Visu at the airport as soon as you got down. Can you believe that? Visu! What kinda name is that anyway? At this point, your colleague will become interested and ask you what Visu looked like. Like Visu, what else, you say distractedly. Has he put on weight? Oh, I wasn't looking...I was heading towards the bookshop to buy the latest....Was he wearing make-up? He certainly was pink but the lady with him was....LADY? Wow. Visu is dating someone? Confirm this even if the lady who was accompanying him was just Kamala Kamesh. In no time at all, the news will spread and you will be a celebrity.

Case B: Becoming President: This is the sophisticated way of doing things. Write an email, preferably with the subject line: Good Thoughts to Start the Morning. In the email, mention that yesterday was a very special day for you and you realized how many blessings you really had in life. How God smiled on you (you could insert the picture of a fat, smiling baby or random puppies here) and you understood you were one of His special people. That's why you got elected as President of All India Mumaith Khan Rasigar Mandram. Tell everyone that the mail is a prayer and that if they want to see your pictures with Mumaith Khan, they have to forward the mail to at least 10 colleagues. In no time at all, you will be an Obama person.

How to be cheap: You went for an official meeting with a client. You spent 30 rupees on auto. You are wondering how you can ask Accounts to reimburse this. How will it look if you go and ask them for 30 bucks? Cheap. What you should do in this situation is to buy something for the office- books are usually good because nobody says a book is useless even if they think so. Buy a nice fat management book with diagrams and go straight to the boss. Tell him/her you saw it and just had to buy it for the office library. Present it with flair. Then go to Accounts with the bill and add 30 bucks along with it. Nobody minds a bill that's 1030 bucks. They just mind it if it's 30. That's the way of the world.

How to be liked by the Top: Being short helps. If you can't work on your height and reduce it, at least try to make yourself seem smaller. Appear small and bright. Youthful. Bubbly. A short person makes the Top feel reassured and unthreatened. And since you are short, anything you do will make you seem super-smart. Like pre-kg kids who win such praise for singing ABCD correctly. I used to worry about being short when I was growing up. Not now. Na-da. I wish I were only three feet. What a miracle I would be!

How to be liked by the Middle: Colleagues who are on par with you are a pain to deal with. You can't tell them how to do their job though it's obvious they could do with the advice. Tell them that you 'heard' that the Top was not happy with such and such thing and that you quickly wanted to tell them this before anything untoward happened. Bitch about the Top shamelessly. They are all rich people with no heart. You would do anything to help out. For instance, tell them how to do their job.

How to be liked by the Bottom: Be bohemian. Slap the backs of people and let them in on the gossip- what's happening at the Top and at the Middle? Did you know that so and so is actually the boss's niece? Yup. That's why she comes to office in a Honda City. They are trying to keep it a secret but hey, this is a free country! It's Bohemia.

If you follow these tips based on grassroots-level research, you will soon emerge the Employee of the Month without seeming like a prat. Be popular, make more money. God bless you.