Between the Lines

Power comes and goes in Lebanon, both electrical and political. Almost every day I found myself doing something in the dark and promising yet again never to take electricity for granted. Political power is a little more complicated.

During my 10 days in Beirut I heard some extraordinary stories. Sometimes it was said in passing, other times it happened during a formal interview. One woman told me how when growing up during the 1975-1990 Lebanese civil war, she overheard her parents arguing about whether to kill her and her younger sister. “They wanted to save us from being captured. You don’t forget words like that.”

Invisible (to me) lines still carve up Beirut. Although I crisscrossed the city many times, I never could discern the border between West Beirut and East Beirut. The city stands united now, but I still heard people say they avoid “that part of Beirut.” During an interview with a peacebuilder who brings together the leaders of all the political parties’ youth movements, I heard how these men in their 20s from Hezbollah, Shi’ite, Sunni, Druze and Christian backgrounds spend regular time being with each other. “They learn that their enemy is human.”

You have to love a country that has a tree as its national symbol. The Cedars of Lebanon provided the wood for King Solomon to build the Temple in Jerusalem. Some of the trees (now protected in a national forest) are over a thousand years old. I come from the Redwood country of California. Redwoods grow tall and are only a few hundred years old. Cedars grow thick. Their branches stretch out like angel wings, all-embracing, a constant comfort.

If Lebanon works, it provides hope for the entire Middle East: a homegrown democracy with strong economy and multicultural tolerance. The Lebanese people can be found all over the world. They come from Phoenician stock, a business people who sailed the seas, not unlike the Dutch.

There is a longing for Lebanon which those who left during the wars (let’s not forget the summer-long one in 2006) exported. This poem, when read and translated into Arabic on the last day of the writers workshop I taught in Beirut, brought tears to some of the eyes of Sunni, Shi’ite and Christian participants. They represent those who stayed behind, and are the envy of their emigrated cousins. Yet their tortured souls manifest in death-wish driving as they careen across the city. Brain drain, a phrase I first heard in Ireland in the early eighties, is on everyone’s lips in Lebanon. Do I go, or do I stay? Who am I really? What does it mean to be . . . Lebanese?

Letters from Home
(To My Father)

Every time you weep, I feel the surface of a river
somewhere on Earth is breaking.
You wipe your eyes as you read
aloud a letter from the old country.
From the floor, I watch the curls of the words
through the sheer pages.
Your brother and sisters have gathered
around you. I don’t understand
the language but feel a single breath
of grief holding this room.

Your mother writes of her weakening body.
She walks to church but cannot leave
the village. When you sat with her,
You wanted her forgiveness for your absence
but did not ask. She took you to her closet
to show you the linens she had gathered
which have already yellowed. Her hands
seemed small through the lace. You kissed
her palms, smelling your own fragrance on her skin.

She tells you of the refuge people have found
in the village. Others have gone to Paris.
You have a niece who is a doctor,
a nephew, an architect. They sit in scattered apartments
where you can’t see your three daughters
gazing from their windows or your three sons
pacing the old wood of their rooms.
Yet you write to your mother,
they still pray.

You visit your mother now when you can.
Each summer you cross the Mediterranean;
each summer you stand behind her house
looking into the sea hoping she will not die,
this time. And when these letters come,
I run my finger across the pages.
I hope I can learn the languages
you have come to know.–Elmaz Abi-Nader

Babe in Beirut

So, no sooner was I over my jetlag from visiting NY and Boston, and off I flew to Beirut, Lebanon. In February we weren’t even sure if the trip would happen as extremists in southern Lebanon were firing missiles on the Gaza strip in Israel. Many feared Israel might retaliate, as it did in 2006. “Why are you going?” my friends and family kept asking me.

This is why: One woman’s vision to better equip the writers of her country through a writers workshop accessible to all, no matter the religious background or financial limitations. Colette Ghassan is a magazine publisher in Beirut and way back in 1993 she started dreaming of a workshop that would unite writers of different backgrounds in her country under the banner of creativity. That phrase “of different backgrounds” means something in a country like Lebanon. Shi’ite, Sunni, Druze, Christian, Armenian–these are the political, cultural and religious threads that make the tapestry of Lebanon so rich–and the backgrounds of my workshop participants. As one man told me in Beirut, the cultural diversity of Lebanon “is our strength and our curse.” Tolerance and respect is on everyone’s agenda. Women pride themselves in Beirut as living in the Paris of the Middle East. I often saw veiled women walking and laughing with girlfriends who wore the latest fashion and showed more decollete than I would see in Amsterdam. It is a city of contrasts, and at night the lights of Beirut sparkle like a diamond necklace along the dark shore of the Mediterranean.

Thanks to John Maust, president of MAI (Media Associates International), Colette’s dream came true two weeks ago. They kindly invited me to co-teach the workshop and I learned as much from the participants as I hope they did from me. Our son Daniel came with me and carried books, thoroughly enjoyed the Lebanese cuisine, and made new friends as we both practiced our Arabic and navigated the troubled waters of Lebanese politics.

I arrived in Beirut a babe in the woods, spent three days co-teaching writing and journalism techniques to students and journalists from radio, television and print publications, and I gave a lecture on child soldiers at the university. Then Daniel and I got to know the country even better, and now I have become one of those countless millions who long to return to Lebanon. Since coming home, I’ve struggled with finding a place for all I experienced in Beirut. So I’m back at the blog. Please check back regularly in the weeks to come, as I hope to rest on the page and share some of the unexpected gifts I received in this unexpected time and place.

Engaging in the issue

Yesterday I came home after a week in New York. My daughter came with me and I think we may have injected enough money into the U.S. economy to help Obama out a little. She snapped this surreal photo from Battery Park, and off to the right, you can see the Statue of Liberty. The inscription at its base was written by the Jewish-American poet, Emma Lazarus (1849-1887):

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

While in New York, I viewed a film about the torture going on in U.S.-ran prisons around the world, so-called “black sites” located in eight countries, including Thailand, Afghanistan and several democracies in Eastern Europe, as well as a small center at the Guantanamo Bay prison in Cuba. The Washington Post broke this story in 2005, and it was confirmed by current and former intelligence officials and diplomats from three continents. That was four years ago. Now films like the one I saw show footage of the torture involved, and include claims that 90 percent of the inmates are turned in by locals. I had been aware of this because of a British prisoner recently freed; I heard his lawyer in the UK at Greenbelt (a 4-day forum for issues of social injustice), describe his client’s ordeal. In this film, the interviews with U.S. military personnel repeatedly site orders from “higher-ups.” And yet the makers of this still ongoing policy have yet to be held responsible. It reflects poorly on the men and women who serve with courage in places of conflict.

Last week I spoke at the Harvard National Model United Nations (where 3,500 university students from 30 countries and all over the U.S. participated), and at West Point Military Academy. Two very different audiences: the one in suits and short skirts and heels, the other in uniform. But in crucial ways they resembled each other. Both groups engaged in the issue of child soldiers that I described for them. Both groups came up to me afterwards, voicing questions and concerns. Both groups impressed me no end with their integrity. Both groups contain America’s future leaders.

The students at West Point will graduate in the spring, and report for duty as officers in Afghanistan and Iraq. When I looked deep into their eyes, I saw respect and honor and a willingness to serve; I saw concern and compassion and quiet intelligence. And I saw humility.

Both groups of students asked me what it means to “engage in the issue.” We threw around ideas and settled on the answer, “doing the next right thing.” This might mean writing a check, or reading an article, or volunteering for a summer, or being willing, or changing a major, or babysitting for people we know who don’t speak English very well, or contacting our political representatives and urging them to take a stand. Or writing a book. Or making a film. Or fighting a war. Or watching a film. It is caring. To engage in the issue is to listen to our hearts.

The images of that film haunt me still.

Peace on earth

Times they are a-changin’

Doonesbury (4 and 5 November 2008) by Garry Trudeau

I’m still NaNoing (see previous posts or check out the NaNoWriMo website). One scene, then the next, then the next. Just write! And (to all geeks including the cool boyfriend of our daughter) please note my nifty widget that not only changes image every 5 minutes, but also shows my latest word count. See all this progress? This is proof that times they are a-changin’!

NaNoWriMo!

So, 13 days into the month I have 11,000 words of the 50,000 I’m shooting for. And they’re good words, too! And I didn’t even cannibalize past versions, so these really are new words. (We’re told the flying guilt-monkeys will swoop down upon us if we use pre-1/11 words (or for those of you in Obamaland, 11/1).

There are over 114,000 participants all over the world, people imprisoning their inner editors (not to be confused with the guilt-monkeys or plot bunnies) for the month of November and tapping out 50,000 words–whole novels or parts of novels (like me–who will be finishing my first draft). November is for writing! All the other months are for editing.

Here’s a cartoon from the Dutch forum. Well, actually, it’s the Holland&Belgium forum, those are all the people like me doing NaNoWriMo, and calling Holland&Belgium home. Loads of students on the forum, lots of “effes” in the posts flying back and forth. One of the forum leaders, HannahK, is a cartoonist. By the way, Holland&Belgium are in 4th place worldwide on the Word Count Scoreboard, with over 7.5 million words written so far. Out of 445 regions that’s not too shabby. (Germany is in 3rd place, USA Maryland is 2nd and USA Washington Seattle is in first place.)

What on earth am I talking about? Check out NaNoWriMo’s website and you’ll understand the creative energy whipping around the planet this month as people everywhere show up and write with literary abandon. (Or read my previous post.) So think of me, burning the midnight oil away . . .

Here’s a pep talk we all received from Philip Pullman, author of Northern Lights/Golden Compass and the rest of the His Dark Materials Trilogy: You need to remember that if you want to finish this journey you’ve begun, you have to keep going. One of the hardest things to do with a novel is to stop writing it for a while, do something else, fulfill this engagement or that commitment or whatever, and pick it up exactly where you left it and carry on as if nothing had happened. You will have changed; the story will have drifted off course, like a ship when the engines stop and there’s no anchor to keep it in place; when you get back on board, you have to warm the engines up, start the great bulk of the ship moving through the water again, work out your position, check the compass bearing, steer carefully to bring it back on track … all that energy wasted on doing something that wouldn’t have been necessary at all if you’d just kept going!

But once you’ve established a daily rhythm of work, you’ll find it energizing and sustaining in itself. Even when it’s not going well. This is a strange thing, but I’ve noticed it many times: a bad day’s work is a lot
better than no day’s work at all. At least if you’ve written 500 words, or 1000 words, or whatever you discover is your most comfortable daily rate of production, the words are there to work on later. And when you do visit them in a month’s time, or whenever it is, you often find that they’re not so bad after all.

The question authors get asked more than any other is “Where do you get your ideas from?” And we all find a way of answering which we hope isn’t arrogant or discouraging. What I usually say is “I don’t know where they come from, but I know where they come to: they come to my desk, and if I’m not there, they go away again.”

November is for writing!

Lots of things I wanted to write about since almost two months ago: 1) Greenbelt festival in the UK–amazing speakers on subjects from injustice to creativity, and thousands of people from all backgrounds and ages engaging with issues. 2) Spoke at a women’s conference in Montana, and also to teens there, and felt overwhelmed by the generosity and willingness to care. Also hiked in Glacier National Park after the first snowfall and LOVED being in the mountains. 3) Have signed up to join NaNoWriMo!!!!!!!

National Novel Writing Month was birthed in San Francisco (like me!). This is the 10th year that writers all around the world (over 100,00 participated last year) will be plunking down 50,000 words during the month of November, either adding to their swips (supposed works-in-progress)–like me, or starting (and for some, finishing) a  whole new book! Loads of positive and creative energy encircling the globe in November as authors from Australia to Alaska will be writing novels.

As the NaNoWriMo Team said in their welcoming email (with the subject line, “NaNoWriMo loves annedegraaf”–gotta love it!): 1) It’s okay to not know what you’re doing. Really. You’ve read a lot of novels, so you’re completely up to the challenge of writing one. If you feel more comfortable outlining your story ahead of time, do so. But it’s also fine to just wing it. Write every day, and a book-worthy story will appear, even if you’re not sure what that story might be right now.

2) Do not edit as you go. Editing is for December. Think of November as an experiment in pure output. Even if it’s hard at first, leave ugly prose and poorly written passages on the page to be cleaned up later. Your inner editor will be very grumpy about this, but your inner editor is a nitpicky jerk who foolishly believes that it is possible to write a brilliant first draft if you write it slowly enough. (Anne here: That’s me!) It isn’t. Every book you’ve ever loved started out as a beautifully flawed first draft. In November, embrace imperfection and see where it takes you.

3) Tell everyone you know that you’re writing a novel in November. This will pay big dividends in Week Two, when the only thing keeping you from quitting is the fear of looking pathetic in front of all the people who’ve had to hear about your novel for the past month. Seriously. Email them now about your awesome new book. The looming specter of personal humiliation is a very reliable muse.

So this is about all the things I love: Letting go to lay hold, trusting the process, knowing the creative Child inside each of us is really, really good at . . . creating, and writing for the sheer joy of it!

The creator of NaNo, Chris Baty, says there were 21 participants in 1999. He came up with the idea partially so he’d have a good pick-up line at parties: “Hey, did you know I just wrote a novel in a month?” Just what I need!!! Everyone’s on their honor that they won’t just download the U.S. Constitution into the word-counting space. Supposedly, flying monkeys will attack if we count words that were written before 1 November.

I have been writing well in October, but I plan to write like the wind in November and finish the first draft of my novel. There. I’m saying it in public so all of you can ask me about it. Check out the NaNoWriMo website. There are fantastic pep talks by famous authors and loads of tips and even ways to procrastinate, including instructions about tasting your desk. (Also something I really need.)

Breathing Underwater

Is this person drowning? Not according to the photographer. All a matter of perspective.

Have reached the point in my novel where I have all these scenes written in the voices of my main characters, and I’m starting to see the general directions (totally unexpected) this story is headed. I used to liken writing a novel to being a blind woman in a darkroom, bumping into furniture and feeling my way around until I could get my bearings. Then I used to think it was like a giant jigsaw puzzle as I slowly grouped certain pieces together until little puzzles fit into the bigger one. But forget being blind and puzzled, I have a new metaphor!

Thanks to Dutch author Tim Krabbé who wrote such classics as Het Gouden Ei, 1984 (The Golden Egg, 1987), which every Dutch teenager has to read at school, I now have a very wooden-shoe sort of way to describe the process of creativity.

All my scenes are so many sandbags, and although it may just look like some random pile, once I heave them into a row and group them in thicknesses of three or four, the dyke will be secure, [holding back the floodwaters of all that other stuff shrieking to be written and attended to, the ever-moaning TDLs (To-Do Lists), or as C.S. Lewis describes it: “It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in. And so on, all day. Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings: coming in out of the wind.”]

Krabbé says once you’ve built the dyke, you still need to lay a road on top of it, and then come the canals and houses.

So I’m taking all my sandbag scenes and stretching them out to see how far they’ll go, or if they circle back. Then I’ll fill in the gaps, and who knows what I’ll find down there, once the water drains away?

Writing Tip #7–Write as Rain
Write every day. Write what comes. Trust the process. At some point, summarize all the seemingly random-as-rain scenes onto individual post-its. Use different colors for the different characters. Then stick them onto your favorite wall or glass-covered painting. [I use Georges Braque’s “Lòiseau et son ombre” (The bird and its soul).] Re-arrange them, play with the silences, ask yourself, “What if?” Then jot down whatever bits of dialogue or action might fill the holes. Choose one and elaborate. Now you know what to write next!

(Photo by Andre Bernardo: “Rebirth”)

True-life story of aids survival

Fiction based on Fact. This is the cover of the teen novel I wrote for the Dutch market, Dance upon the Sea–A story of hope from South Africa. I am desperately seeking an English-language publisher for this book that has won an award in The Netherlands, and is being used by schools to raise aids awareness, and in classes addressing African studies, current events, issues of injustice, social studies and political science. I wrote a sports-hero story, and Dutch kids seem to be loving it. I get all sorts of interesting emails from them.

Anyway, my main character in the book, a boy named Promise, is based on several aids orphans I met in South Africa and Zimbabwe. I sort-of combined their voices into one. But there also really is a black South African surf champion, and his name is Kwezi Qika. Kwezi was my primary source of inspiration for Dance. I used his story as a foundation for mine: In an area of the world with 16 million aids orphans and groaning poverty, turned away from school and with little to hope for, 14-year-old Promise was a boy destined to fail. Yet Promise has a dream to become a surfer champion, and that dream will not let him go. Promise’s struggle to shoulder the responsibility of his little brother and sister—his father dead, his mother dying—is a story of aids survival from close up.

Here’s a video of Kwezi and Gary Kleynhans. Gary taught Kwezi to surf and swim when Kwezi was 12. In another life, Gary fought with the South African forces in Angola. Now he runs a surf school for street kids: aids orphans and kids whose parents are unemployed, so they can’t afford school fees and the children end up on the street.

What I love about this clip is the grin on Noble’s face when he says, “I see myself going far.” It’s what keeps me returning to places of conflict around the world: the children’s voices. Once these kids have a dream, there’s no stopping them. To check out Gary’s Extreme Surf School and how we can help, click here.

Patterns Restored by Dreams

“Memory lived not in initial possession but in the freed hands, pardoned and freed, and in the heart that can empty but fill again, in the patterns restored by dreams.”—Eudora Welty, The Optimist’s Daughter, pg. 179

These words bring me comfort. And hope. I repeat them and something settles.

I know I’m not the only one out there struggling with the schizophrenic life of loss. We smile. We forget. Then we remember. We nod. We try to make others feel comfortable. We long to go back to sleep.

Fun things happen around us: children squealing on the beach, boating picnics, young couples’ tender touches, a dog lapping the surf. I smile. But inside I’m angry and tired. The tsunami of emotion reminds me of when I ran from such a wave after I came home from Zimbabwe. Why run? What if . . . it catches up with me? What if it drowns me? What if I simply stand as it breaks over me? And rest.

We expect the lost one to walk through the door, send an email, call. An open drawer, a photo, a fragment of last year’s conversation, and they are back. But no, they are gone. And the cycle of denial and anger rev up again. Acceptance hovers, ready to land, but the terrain is too rocky. Meanwhile, everyone around us is waiting. For what? For me?

My heart feels like it fell off a cliff but forgot to die. I’m limping around down there, looking up, wondering if anyone saw me. If help is coming. How much longer? Who listens? A voice calls out, “Don’t give in to self-pity.”

“I’m not!” I call back into the nothingness.

“Get your act together.”

“I’m trying!”

And I limp on.

Writing Tip #6–Write the Wrong
The absolute best writing comes from the heart. So tap into your own passion by remembering an incident that affected you deeply, then describe the details within the context of whatever you’re writing. For example, when your character is betrayed (and every good story must have betrayal), be brave enough to unlock the door to that dark memory and re-live the sights, smells, emotions and tastes of when it happened to you, as you describe the same for your character.