Poornima Manco

Author

Poornima Manco

Writer’s Block

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There it is. I’ve come up against it once more. This feeling of ennui, a sense of “is any of it worth it”, questions like “who wants to read me anyway?” and there you have it. Writer’s Block. The inability to proceed with any kind of worthwhile writing.

You could ask me “you are writing this blog, aren’t you?” I would have to answer honestly and say yes. Equally honestly, I’d have to own up and say that this isn’t my true métier. Blogging, to me, is like having a conversation with my readers. It’s sometimes topical, sometimes thought provoking and nearly always stream of consciousness. It’s also fairly easy. I have a thought and I try and pin it down on screen.

Writing fiction is a whole other ball game. To write the stories I write, I have to reach inside of me and pull my innards out. As you can imagine, that is not an easy process.

So, why this debilitating pause in the proceedings?

I have ascribed various reasons to it. Firstly, it’s been an unusually hectic time. Christmas, New Year, work, vacations and multiple social do’s. Secondly, I’ve got the dreaded flu, so naturally, I am unable to concentrate with the fever, hacking and general listlessness. But really, underneath it all, lies another, more corrosive thought. The joy has gone out of my writing.

Why would such a thing happen? For an inveterate story teller, there is no greater pleasure than spinning a yarn that is swallowed whole by avid readers. Yet, doubts about marketability, about readership, about my own abilities, are swamping whatever amount of happiness I derived from my writing.

The easy thing to do would be to carry on writing as I did before. For myself. For my need to tell the stories that I needed to. Yet, having become aware that there is another side to this ‘business’ of writing, I am unable to ignore it altogether. Every word has to be weighed, every outcome analysed and suddenly, I feel I am back to studying accountancy and my balance sheet is refusing to balance.

It is said that true writers show up to the table and write. If that is the case, then I am a fraudulent one because the mere act of showing up at the table exhausts me.

Will I be able to punch a hole through that block? Only time will tell.

 

Hmmm

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Hmmm

That single word

That could mean anything

Or nothing

Hmmm

You say

After days of silence

Your refuge

Your escape

Your armour

Hmmm

You say

To tease me

To beckon

To see if

I am still around

Hmmm

You say

To acknowledge

To agree

To tell me you’ve heard

Hmmm

You say

In contemplation

As your mind

Wanders

And reminds you

Of something

Hmmm

You say

Too tired to argue

To dismiss politely

The inane

The unnecessary

Hmmm

That single word

That makes me smile

That creases my forehead

Into a frown

Hmmm

Surfacing from your shell

Retreating into your self

An expression of boredom

Or

A sign against trespassing your world

Hmmm

Because it could mean anything

Or nothing

 

This poem is by a friend who wishes to remain anonymous.

 

 

 

The privacy conundrum

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There has been a steep learning curve in my journey as an indie writer, and everyday I find new and marvellous things to imbibe. There is one aspect though that has left me with a bit of a dilemma. Unlike trad publishing where the marketing was taken on by the publishing house and the author remained a remote entity, revealed only through the author bio in the book or via any interviews they may give, indie publishing works on a different premise.

You are not just the writer, but you are also the publisher, marketeer, blower-of-your-own-horn and general dogsbody. In this strange new world, you can only garner readers and followers if you build relationships with them. How do you do that?  By being authentic and coming across as a human being with a life (and without the sole agenda of profiteering by targeting your readers’ wallets). That is all well and good. After all, as a consumer, even I like investing in companies that have people I can relate to, behind them.

The problem lies in just how much of oneself does one reveal? I am a regular user of Facebook and Instagram, and am not shy about posting things. But my audience, in this case, are my friends, my family and my colleagues. Birthday pics, holiday plans and all other trivia of my life that I choose to share is with people I actually know. Do I really want strangers having access to all of me? Where do I draw the line?

My Facebook author page has information about my books, any new launches and a link to my latest blog post. My Insta business page displays pics of interesting destinations, funny quotes, inspiring people and the occasional photo of myself grinning vapidly into the camera. Is this not enough? Apparently not. As I delve deeper into the murky waters of social media, I am exhorted to reveal my ‘process’, my likes and dislikes, that ugly photo from when I was four etc. etc. Really! Must I?

In that sense, I almost envy the trad writer who can focus on the business of writing, and let all other shenanigans be taken care of by other parties. Yet, as I also know in my gut, in indie publishing lies the future.

I was watching a popular talk show the other day. It was quite amusing to note how these celebrities on the couch gave out snippets of information to the host, without giving too much of themselves away. The more he tried to extract, the more they dodged and deflected. Aside of a few sound bites, he came away with precious little. My heroes!

A friend complained the other day about a famous celebrity wedding where only a few pictures and scant details were revealed to the press. Why, she bemoaned, wasn’t the public given more access? After all, they were public figures, and had signed up to be scrutinised for an eternity. I nodded sympathetically while mentally high fiving the couple for doing the impossible: holding on to their privacy amidst the chaos and madness of public living.

Gone are the days of Greta Garbo, the reclusive film actress whose mystique was only enhanced by her need to ‘be alone’. These days, either you play the game, or consign yourself to being ignored. In such a scenario, what is an indie writer to do?

I would love to hear your ideas or suggestions. Drop me a line in the comments & don’t forget to have a look at my books!

mybook.to/PWell

getbook.at/Damage

 

Taking stock

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It’s easy to get maudlin at the end of the year. After all, it signifies the end of another rotation of our planet around the sun, and a reduction of the number of years we have left on it. But it is also a good time to take stock and assess whether our year has gone according to plan or completely off piste. In the spirit of that sentiment, here’s my little review of 2018.

Family: My daughter turned 18. She is now, officially, an adult. An adult who is wise in so many ways and naive in so many others. ‘Adulting’ as she is finding out, is not as much fun as it’s made out to be. Exam pressures, University applications and a sudden responsibility to act or behave in a certain manner because of a ‘certain number’ are taking their toll on her. To me, bittersweet as this transition may be, it gladdens my heart to get glimpses of the adult she will one day become. I see that the foundations are strong and the lessons have taken root, which is all and more than I could have hoped for.

The rest of us are caught up in our own daily dramas of school, friends and work. For my second daughter, it has been a year of discovery. One that has shown her that people are not always what they portray themselves as. Friends aren’t always for life, and sometimes, in your deepest, darkest moments, it is the unexpected person that reaches out to you. It is a lesson she would do well to imbibe. It is one that I have been learning steadily over the last few years. People and circumstances change. Do not invest more than necessary in them. Invest in what is important- yourself and your loved ones. Even then, as they say, pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.

Career: My husband’s has gone swimmingly. I am grateful to see him happy and busy. Even though, at times, it cuts into family time, but when a person is fulfilled in what they do, they bring so much more to the table. My career, on the other hand, has been a graph of highs and lows. I’ve dabbled in various aspects at work, including teaching, which never in a million years would I have thought I’d enjoy or be good at. I did/was both. Sadly, that tenure has ended. Somewhere within me though, I feel I will return to it in the future, when other commitments are not as binding.

My job has seen so many changes because the company itself is changing and morphing into another identity. At times, I’ve felt lost and at sea. At times, I’ve not enjoyed going to work. However, these are petty annoyances. In the grand scheme of things, I still appreciate what I do and take great pleasure in being able to interact with such a variety of people because of the nature of my job. More fodder for my writing…

Writing: What a year it has been! Two books out. The first one, an unexpected success. The second one, a slow burner. I’ve learnt so much in the publication of these books. The most important lesson being that no matter your blood, sweat and tears (second book), the outcome is not in your hands. Despite having poured hours of hard graft into ‘Damage’, the reception has been lukewarm. There could be many reasons for this, and I have examined them most, but I have learnt that dwelling on the non-success of a project is only stalling me from further creative output. Move on!

I have also learnt that being an Indie-publisher doesn’t end with publishing. Marketing is a significant part of getting the word out and getting fresh eyes on your books. At my ripe age, I am taking a course in marketing. If nothing else, it will give these grey cells a good workout. 🙂

Travel: South Africa, Gibraltar, South Korea, Thailand, India and Switzerland. We have racked up the miles this year. The more I travel, the more the world shrinks. The more I travel, the more I discover that people are the same the world over. Forget about language, culture, skin colour or any other man made barriers, we are all flesh and blood creatures, sentient and complex, capable of great evil and even greater good! Travel broadens minds and horizons in ways that nothing else can. It also erodes the capacity to hate and divide. In the wise words of Miguel de Unamuno- “Fascism is cured by reading, and racism is cured by travelling.” (Attributed).

Reading: I aimed to read 24 books this year, 2 a month. I thought that was a lofty enough goal. I’ve surpassed that by 5 books already, and hope to have finished 30 by the end of the year. The books have been mostly fiction, and in such a variety of genres that I am unable to explain just where my inclination lies. Suffice to say, if it’s good, I’ll read it.

I think my reading has trickled into my writing, as it was bound to do. A friend commented on how varied the stories in my second book were. It’s almost as though I’ve subconsciously wanted to explore many voices, just as I’ve consciously explored many lives.

Reading is and always has been, my first love. How else could this innocent, unsophisticated girl living in a South Delhi house, have explored the world without actually travelling it? Reading was my window to so many cultures, so many histories, so much laughter and love and pain. It still is, and I hope generation after generation will discover the undiluted pleasure of losing oneself in the world of words.

Finally: Taking stock means relegating all that is useless to the past and going forward with lessons learnt and a desire to do better in the year ahead. To that end, I banish hurt, disappointment, anger, frustration and negativity to the past. I take with me a love for my family, my few good friends and gratitude that I am able to traverse this journey called life, in the company of those who matter, doing what I love.

Goodbye 2018. Hello 2019!

 

Why so dark?

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“For such a lovely girl, you have a twisted imagination!”

True comment. An accusation levelled in jest. But one that got me thinking nevertheless.

Why are my stories so dark? Where does all this angst, grief and disillusionment come from? I’ve had a perfectly normal and happy upbringing. I am in a good marriage with a supportive partner and lovely children. So, why do I insist on exploring such bleak scenarios and such murky characters?

I think, all writers are, first and foremost, observers. They observe life, people, situations, personalities and intentions. Then, in their own unique way, they try and make sense of the world around them through their writing.

For me, my stories are a form of catharsis. I live every single character’s life. I feel every single character’s pain. Then I bleed my heart out on paper, in the hope that I am able to lend credence to the compulsions that drive people to do what they do.

In ‘Damage’, my latest book of short stories I examine, amongst other things, the themes of infidelity, neglect, abandonment, abuse, corruption and unrequited love. These are all normal, everyday people who, for a variety of reasons, find their lives sliding off the beaten track. They either inflict damage, are the victims of damage, or both.

In life, our decisions are determined by a variety of factors. Birth, circumstances, upbringing, the presence/absence of love shape us into the people that we are. What we make of our lives are a combination of all this, and of conscious thought.

My characters are not evil. They are human. They combine within them light and dark, good and bad. Sometimes, their actions are determined by their constraints, sometimes by pressures outside of their control. Yet, none of the actions or the consequences unleashed, ever arise out of a vacuum.

So, the purpose of my walking on the dark side is simply this: to be able to confront the darkness within and without us. To acknowledge its existence and then, armed with that knowledge, try and combat it the best that we can.

Are you willing and able to peer into that dark abyss?

Damage available worldwide on Amazon. Links below:

US

UK

IN

 

 

Why HOC collapses under its own weight

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*Spoiler alert!* If you haven’t yet seen the 6th season of House of Cards and intend to, DO NOT PROCEED!!

Machiavelli married to Lady Macbeth is how I always viewed House of Cards. The machinations, the manipulations, the sheer genius and evil of this power couple was enough to keep me hooked, season after season. Yes, some of the plot lines were absurd, some so far fetched that it took a huge suspension of disbelief to swallow them, but despite all that, it was a riveting and fascinating insight into politics and power play in the U.S. Capitol.

Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright were the hugely talented duo on which the series revolved. Him, the dark, scheming, scrabbler from the wrong side of the tracks. Her, the icy cool, rich and privileged blonde with ambition and fire to match his. Both unscrupulous, both with their eyes on the ultimate prize: the presidency. Their internal rivalry, their disposal of their external rivals, their scheming, their successes and failures, their attempts to outdo one another, their unpredictability, their compulsions and their respective and combined journeys to the White House, was a thrilling roller coaster ride that allowed the viewer to be hypnotised and scandalised in equal measure.

Spacey’s untimely departure from the series due to the surfacing of past sexual misdemeanours must have come as a massive blow to Netflix. Although season 6 was always meant to be the last season of the show, how could they possibly fill the very large space vacated by one of the principal characters of the show?

Before I go any further with my analysis of what went wrong with the last season, let me address two things. One: Kevin Spacey got what was coming. In dropping him from the show, Netflix did the right and honourable thing. Second: Robin Wright is an incredible actress in her own right, and there was never any doubt in my mind that she would be able to carry the show on her very slim shoulders, very capably.

So, what did go wrong?

The writing is what went horribly wrong. The ghost of Frank Underwood/Kevin Spacey lingered for far too long. His death under suspicious circumstances seemed to take centre stage, then retreat, then return and basically never allowed the series to progress. One step forward, two steps back, seemed to be the subconscious mantra. Claire Underwood had her own share of challenges, none more so than the team of writers who couldn’t make up their minds on how to portray her. No longer the perfect foil to her patently ambitious husband, what was she now? A pseudo feminist, a power grabber, a war mongerer, an earth mother or a cold blooded killer?

Worse still were the new power couple who were meant to be her adversaries. A brother/sister pair that were suddenly presented to us as the ones who had been pulling the strings behind the scenes all along. Not convincing at all. When that meandering storyline seemed to flounder, Underwood’s old buddy, his Chief of Staff, Doug Stamper, was resurrected. Still suffering from slavish devotion to his deceased employer, was he the man that would ultimately bring Claire down?

The eight episodes of the last season were confusing, convoluted and contrived. None of the characters, Claire Underwood included, seemed to be able to hold the audience’s attention or sympathy. Working with material such as this, Robin Wright showed flashes of brilliance, but ultimately the series sank into a morass of its own making, and there was little she could do to rescue it.

A fresher slant, a newer perspective and a team of writers who could have dispensed with the long shadow cast by Spacey over the last season, might have created a fitting end to a series that gave meaning to the old adage, ‘power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely’. Instead, all it showed was that ultimately, a house of cards has to collapse, and this one does under the weight of its own pretensions.