Death to radio buttons

Let’s get the logistics out of the way. If you’re subscribed to this newsletter and happen to be in London next Friday (16th August), drop me a line in the comments for an invite to the book launch for Her Golden Coast. It will be held at the Authors Club, a space that counts a bunch of writers I love as members, including Vikram Seth, H. G. Wells, Oscar Wilde, Arthur Conan Doyle and Graham Greene. (Not many women in that list, but that’s why I joined the club).  

Speaking of Graham Greene, I’ve just finished reading The Quiet American. Written from the perspective of Fowler, a cynical, opium-smoking British journalist, it describes the impact of the arrival of an idealistic American CIA agent in Vietnam. There’s a quality to Graham Greene’s writing that I’ve noticed in a few other (mostly British, always male) writers that’s hard to describe; the closest I can come is to call it self-assurance. The protagonist wrestles with the great political quandaries of his (always his) time, but he is able to do so because he isn’t mired in the little things. The chatter of self-doubt is always at the macro-level: Do I do this action that might change the fate of a country? It is rarely at the micro-level: If I do this thing, will I lose my family or my place in society? There is never a question whether one’s point of view is respected, even if it isn’t welcomed. 

These writers do question important things–their patriotism, their faith, their capacity for love and forgiveness and even their own humanity, but certain other things that would otherwise be markers of identity are never questioned. They are considered a stable point. Race and gender, always. Sexuality, often, although Wilde and Forster do peek over the walls. They are able to do this, of course, because they have racialized these things. Manhood, to them, is white, and so they aren’t so threatened by other masculinities. 

Which is why the global meltdown around Imane Khelif’s gender is essentially the last gasp of Empire, protecting a point of identity that has remained stable for centuries. The best discussion of the issue is in Al-Jazeera, an article which also coincidentally has one of the few images of Khelif looking fucking gorgeous, instead of pandering to the alt-right narrative. Over and over, the attacks on women of color are that they are not feminine enough, too angry, too submissive and doll-like, too flat-chested, whatever might preserve a narrow ideal of femininity that serves literally no one. A long time ago, I wrote an article on this, “Why do you believe you’re a woman?” that went viral on Medium. 

Beyond the breakdown of conventional notions of gender, it is also binary thinking that is being dismantled, slowly and painfully. These oppositional notions, good and evil, male and female, have only ever been presented to us as high-stakes radio-buttons, not as the Venn diagrams they are (I’m really glad Kamala Harris likes Venn diagrams, because she is one). Binary thinking is why her detractors can’t comprehend that someone can be Black AND Indian AND American AND other things too.

So why is binary thinking so hard to dismantle? Because it’s simple. To break down the binary is to present a world that is complex and incomprehensible. Easier to sort people into houses based on a single defining trait. It is this simplistic thinking that Graham Greene can’t stand, when the naive and idealistic Alden Pyle comes to Vietnam. To the American Pyle, communists are bad and women are to be protected and God is good and America has a duty to educate the natives. Suffice to say, it doesn’t go well for him.

Greene was an MI6 agent. In many ways he lived the life I would have lived, and told the stories I would have loved to tell. He makes the political come alive through the personal, something I aspire to do, because that’s what makes a book last the ravages of time. If you haven’t read the book yet, I recommend the Penguin Vintage Classics edition with the introduction by Zadie Smith. 

Writing Roundup

I’ve been extra-productive lately, knowing that my leave is about to end. Every writer knows the feeling of having a gazillion unfinished writing projects. Many have posted some version of the meme below, and this one is mine:.

In the vein of avoiding A OR B choices, I decided to have a bit of a fling with the new story, to see if it would allow me to return to the fantasy with fresh eyes. But it would be a timed affair. I would get the first draft done and then go back to the fantasy. Thus began my attempt to see how long it actually took me to write a first draft. Answer: 19 days, 75,000 words. Average: 3000 words / day (roughly 2 hours). 

Is it any good? Who knows? It might be great. It might be garbage. But writing a first draft is like crossing the street. You look left and right, but you don’t stop in the middle of the road to look back. That’s how you get hit by trucks. 

Seriously, though, that’s been the biggest key to my productivity as a writer–avoiding the second-guessing and self-doubt and the fears about how it will be received and whether I have the right to be able to tell this story. The authors at the top of this post never had such concerns. As one of my writing teachers once said, you have to write as if everyone you know is dead. 

The plot of this story really did come to me in a dream. It’s ridiculous both as premise and execution: five people decide to destroy the AI that ruined their lives. But creative work is about submitting to the ridiculous, to the subconscious’ intelligence. Director Baz Luhrmann says: “We must have a sense of play. I’m not saying actors are children, but if I play—letting go of my fears and my fear of embarrassment—then everyone else has the license to play.” (quote from an article in Vogue that collides several of my interests, with Pulitzer-Prize winning author Andrew Sean Greer writing about Blake Lively in a photo shoot directed by Luhrmann).

If I’ve learned nothing else as an author, it is that I want my books to move people; that is more important than whether they are good. You can’t move others unless you are willing to move yourself. You have to believe in your story, at least enough to write through to the end once.