Sick Day

I’m sick. I have been for several days, but because I’ve continued to ignore it and push myself, I’m now feeling like utter crap and being completely useless.

Don’t ask me why I’m sitting here staring at the computer screen. I’m compulsive and can’t help myself.

Nothing much to share from my world of writing today, but here’s a video that made me laugh.

Ta Da!

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a finished first draft. 100,000 ugly horrendous words that I would rather burn than have anyone look at in this moment, but they are words on the page that can be edited, deleted and added to. (I’m aiming for a 60-70,000 word finished manuscript.)

The first round of rewriting begins in December. But for now, it’s time for a much-needed celebratory drink. Cheers!

Tears, Festivals and Eggs on Toast

So I cried last night. I posted the blog entry yesterday, logged off my computer and because I had plans for the evening, didn’t check my e-mail for a bit. When I did, the first e-mail I got was hateful and hurtful, telling me that the publications I had written for were crappy Indian versions of their American counterparts and that I had no credits and hence should not be talking about an industry of which I know little.

And because I have a mouth that shoots off without consulting the brain, but a skin that is as thin as Apple’s latest iPod, I believed this person and let the comment get to me. I forgot for a minute that I write for oh, two Indian publications, and have credits to die for, but even more than that, Indian publications now have very high standards and can be as hard to break into as publications anywhere in the world. This nasty woman went on to say that she’d worked with Indian writers and they were all horrible, lacked quality and standards, and that I should stick to writing for my $2 an article markets. (Yeah, I know, she probably didn’t read a word I wrote, saw the words “outsourcing” and “India” and went on a rant and sucker that I am, I cried over it.)

I’ve always believed in letting my credits speak for themselves, but sometimes people choose not to listen.

Anyway, so I shut down the computer and just felt bad for a bit, and then I decided that damn it, I stand by what I say, and that I need to grow a pair if I want to remain in this business. When I logged back on to my e-mail, there were a dozen positive messages (on this blog and on a writers’ forum where I’d posted a link to the entry), showing me that everyone has a different outlook on life and that I do have a right to my opinion just as the haters have a right to theirs. If they don’t agree with me, they can tell me in a civil fashion why not. But also, that I really appreciate it when you guys do share my outlook!

And thus concludes the sucker part of the blog entry.

Now, on to some personal matters and I should tell you that I’ve realized that I’m perfectly suited to be a writer because conflict lives deep within me.

See, today is Karva Chauth, which I have dubbed the “married lady” festival, in which many Hindu women keep a full-day fast (no food, no water) for their husband’s long life and only eat once in the morning (around 4 a.m.) and then after they’ve looked at and worshipped the moon in the evening (around 8 p.m.)

Now feminists, please cover your ears because you’re not going to like this, but I think it’s terribly terribly romantic. The whole wearing a sari and getting henna-ed hands and looking sexy, the looking at the moon through a sieve, eating the first morsel of food and drinking the first sip of water after the long fast from your husband’s hand, all while praying for his long life.

I am, of course, sitting here in my jeans and t-shirt having just had a very nice breakfast of eggs on toast, because while it’s terribly romantic, it’s also a bit too much effort (getting up and cooking at 4 a.m.?!) I haven’t worn a sari since my own engagement over a year ago, and while I really would like my husband to have a long prosperous life, it can’t possibly be that happy if I cut mine short by starving myself each year, can it?

The good thing is that I have friends and family who fuss over the festival, which means I can participate without really needing to participate. And because it’s my first year as a married woman, my mother gives me money. Can’t find anything wrong with that.

Anyone here keeping the fast today?

Challenging the Clichés About Indian Freelancers

Because I am a woman, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. If I fail, no one will say, “She doesn’t have what it takes.” They will say, “Women don’t have what it takes.” – Clare Boothe Luce

If I had to choose one quote to sum up my freelance career, this might have to be the one. Lately, I’ve been feeling what the quote suggests, not because of my gender, but because of my race and nationality. Substitute “woman” with “Indian” in the quote above, and you have an accurate picture of what it means to be a freelance journalist from the developing world.

It’s tiring, this constant buzz of outsourcing, this constant clichéd notion of writers in India slaving away for $2 an article. When engineers complain about their jobs being outsourced to India, I sort of understand where they’re coming from. I don’t particularly sympathize because the world has felt the effects of globalization for almost a century, but it’s certain nations that bore the brunt of it before and it’s different nations that are bearing the brunt of it now and people tend to forget that. I’m all for globalization and see it as a necessity in the Internet age. But I do understand why some people don’t see it that way.

But when freelance writers complain about “writers in India bidding for $2 an article jobs,” I’m baffled. Firstly, because these writers are mostly accomplished and shouldn’t be worried about who is bidding for these low-paying jobs. Frankly, who cares? It’s not your market, it’s not something you choose to do and it’s not your competition. Should chefs at five star hotels be worried about the Indian teenager serving up fries at McDonald’s? Secondly, somebody please tell me: where are these writers and more importantly, WHO are they? Because see, anyone with a good grasp of English in India, anyone who can confidently write essays and articles, enough to be published regularly, most likely has a university education, lives in the city, and either makes or aspires to make a good income. NOT $2 per article. That’s less than Rs 100. (To give you an idea of what that means, a bag of potato chips costs Rs 20.) When these writers complain about their freelance work being outsourced to India, it speaks of ignorance, because I know the quality that comes out of India, and people who provide national magazine quality work expect to be paid for that skill set that they provide. In fact, media in India is booming right now, so there’s no desperation at all and absolutely no need to look for low-paying jobs. Not to mention that Western companies that offer such low wages either have very low standards or ask for “native English speakers” in the first place. Most people writing for Demand Studios, for instance, are not Indian but American.

If you’re renting an office in Mumbai, you’re paying more than what you’d pay to rent the same office in New York City. Fact. And Mumbai is also one of the top ten most expensive real estate markets in the world, so renting homes isn’t cheap either. Yes, India is still a developing nation with large pockets of poor people who live on less than $2 a day, but they’re not connected to the Internet bidding on these jobs. The poor in India cannot afford laptops and 24-hour Internet. The rich who can will not be bidding for $2 jobs because that wouldn’t even cover the costs of their connection. Are some copyediting and proofreading jobs being outsourced to India? Yes, of course. Are they coming in at these ridiculous rates? Of course not.

I know people are ignorant about India, I see it every day in my e-mail. Every so often I get a message from someone clueless saying something along the lines of “I know a guy here in New Jersey who’s called [Name] Khullar. Thought you might know him,” and I want to reply, “I know a John Smith here in Delhi, maybe you know HIM?” (I don’t though, because I’m trying to be a good person.) Or someone will interview a semi-famous person from a remote region of the country and expect that I would know who they’re talking about because we belong to the same country. It’s a population of over a billion, but because it occupies a tiny space in some people’s minds, these people think that it’s a tiny country. Obviously, that’s not the case. And of course, my favorite is the e-mail I receive in many variations repeatedly: “I heard the story of this Canadian woman in an arranged marriage who was forced to return to Punjab and was then killed there by her relatives. Does that really happen in India?!” And I want to reply, “Well, gee, I heard the story of a gay teenager who was bullied and videotaped by his college roommates and committed suicide. Does that really happen in America?!” (But I don’t, because I’m trying, really trying, to be a good person.)

These all make funny stories and I love telling them repeatedly, but unfortunately for me and people like me, we encounter these situations on a regular basis. It’s also difficult to be constantly seen as an Indian and nothing but. But where I would get upset before, I’ve learned to keep my sense of humor about these things and try to explain them instead of be offended by them. (Not saying I always succeed.)

The saving grace, for me, is that with the exception of a couple of people, no editor has ever offered me less money for being Indian. In fact, I’m now offered more money than most American writers because of my experience and credits and that says a lot about my editors (most of whom I absolutely adore) and their focus on talent and professionalism, not nationality. But I also know from experience that like in the quote above, when people in the developed world mess up, they’re penalized individually. However, when a writer from the developing world, especially India (now that we’ve developed a reputation) messes up, it’s always, “Yeah, that’s what happens when you hire non-native speakers from India.” How many times have I heard, “The last time we hired an Indian writer…” and then had to work extra hard to undo the effects of that writer’s inability?

I know that in a certain way, I’m seen as a representation of what India has to offer, and I’m very glad (and proud) that it’s a positive, and not a negative, image. What I do does challenge the “Indians can’t write as well as we do” story, especially since I know I’m nowhere near an exception. But in the future when I mess up, as we all inevitably do, it isn’t going to be just about me but everything I represent. It won’t be that I can’t be trusted to get it right, but that Indians can’t be trusted to get it right.

We do have a reputation, maybe even with good reason, but increasingly, I struggle to put that lazy perception to rest.

Some Days…

… this is fairly accurate.

Writing Fantasies

Sometimes when I’ll watch a movie about a journalist or read someone’s blog, I’ll want to be like the image I’ve created in my mind of them. I’ll want to pick up the phone, smoke a cigarette, wait impatiently for my coffee, swear a lot, and sit down eventually and knock out perfect prose.

But I’m not that person. During periods of intense writing, I’m usually sitting in bed (or curled up on the sofa or hunched over my computer on the floor), wearing pajamas, gulping down cold cups of tea, and completely unaware of how I look or what I may seem like to an imaginary camera that may be capturing the moment. Because when I’m writing, I’m not outside of myself. I’m on the page. I’m completely focused on what I’m writing and I’m oblivious to anything concerning my appearance.

When I’m writing, it doesn’t feel all that romantic, even if I sometimes want it to. Even if I sometimes know it was.

Too many people, I think, are in love with the fantasy of the working writer they’ve created. When they sit down to write, they don’t experience that fantasy. And the gap between their expectations and the reality of the writing life can be a huge disappointment. I know, because it was for me.

Luckily, most of us find that we love the writing process even more than we love the fantasy life. And today I’m wondering if maybe that is why some of us end up sticking with it and many of us don’t.