revision exercise

for this story
first drafts here and here

If you feel like you need to work on focusing your story more, in terms of what it is really all about, write a letter from someone in the story to another character who is not in the story about what is happening in the story.


Dear Renee,

I don't miss you, but I am glad you brought Nila and me together. And by an odd extension, you brought Romana to us, too. Well. Romana and I met through our English class. But one of the main reasons she took that class was because she didn't want to take the one she'd originally planned to, which you were taking. So if it hadn't been for you and the way you treated her, maybe we'd never have met.

I don't miss you, but you did change my life. I remember what it was like at that party, seeing you and Nila dance like all hell on fire. And no, I still don't care much for parties. And that was a major reason why we left you, yes. But Nila misses you sometimes, I know. She gets that look in her eyes when Enrique Iglesias starts playing on Pandora. I know I can't ever be that slippery, slithering feeling down her back. I know I can't be the glitter that was you, that would still be you. Renee, do you have any idea how long it took me to get over that?

But when Romana told me about how you left her at that amusement park – how you fucking forgot about her – it cemented how little admiration I have left for you. I don't know, Renee. You've always been so self-centered. I don't even know why I write these letters to you. You're in my brain. Maybe it's because we've been together and because Nila loved you. I've spent so much time trying to forget about you, but now I remember you, over and over again.

I try to separate our polyamory from you, my polyamory from you. But you're so inextricably a part of it. Seems like possession all over again. Nila says it's okay, that it's just... hard. I keep wondering if we'd have been able to stay away from you if you were still here, if you hadn't graduated already.

What I really want to tell you is that you showed me how to begin, but not how to continue. But I'm finding out. I'm so scared, Renee. I'm so scared that this isn't going to work, that Nila's going to leave me for Romana. I'm so scared that Romana maybe doesn't love me as much as I love her. I'm so scared that I love her, I love them, and yet I'm so scared about them leaving me. But we talk about these things in ways I never could with you. Romana showed me her drawings, and I was so amazed that she put herself on the line like that, showed me how much she cared. Nila goes off on her rallies and speeches and events and everything, but she calls me to tell me that she's nervous. We make out in front of her mirror and I'm starting to love the way I look more and more.

I want to talk to you, Renee – I really do. I don't think you'd have much to say about any of this, because you run away from love, but I want to talk to you anyway.

Love,
Simran

Their Painting

warnings: ableism, race/racism, insecurity, violence, suicide, jealousy, teenage love XD, class, western liberalism

"At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love."
– Ernesto Che Guevara

( read )

One day when Nila is surreptitiously visiting Romana, she finally asks, "Do you really even know who Che Guevara is?" She pauses, considering. Is she just another liberal yuppie or does she actually admire him? "I mean, what he did, what he stood for? Have you read any of his work?" Nila focuses her eyes on Romana's, holding her gaze steadily.

Romana breathes in a little sharply at Nila's skepticism. She says, "I don't know very much about him, no. And I haven't read his work. But I love that quote. I don't know that he was as crazy as my history books in high school liked to paint him, either!" She moves towards the postcard collage, running her fingers over the crepe paper patterns that snake around the various cards. She turns towards Nila again, and tucks her legs underneath her. "It makes sense that to be a revolutionary, you do need to be guided by love. It isn't foolish at all. You can't be hard and cold..."

Nila smiles. Her heart lifts a bit to hear Romana speak so simply – it's been a while since she's heard anyone say anything that raw. She decides to abandon her suspicion for a moment.
"No. I read this article for my philosophy class where the author took parts of something written by Bakunin -- this guide to revolutionary behavior. I think she probably took the parts out of context, but it was very strange how in those parts Bakunin seemed to be saying that revolutionaries have to be cold and hard, divorced from emotional attachment, divorced from people." She feels the emotion seep into her voice, and checks herself. "You can't want change if you don't love," She says, quietly.

Romana is gazing at Nila curiously. She wonders why Nila suddenly quieted down like that. "I agree," She says, softly. She moves towards Nila some more. Nila looks up, and Romana's not sure what to make of her expression.

At that moment, Simran barges into Romana's room. She sees Romana on the verge of kissing Nila, their foreheads bent towards each other, noses almost touching. She feels left out, lost. Well, they did leave the door halfway open. Nila sees Simran and almost leaps apart guiltily. Nila and Romana both try to compose themselves. There is a moment in which none of them are brave enough to say anything, and then Nila laughs shrilly and says she'll see them later. Simran marches after her, demanding to know what's going on.

"Well, you like her too," Nila reminds Simran, still racing down the corridor.
"Yes, but I haven't done anything yet!" Simran catches Nila and pulls her before she can get to the stairs. Nila bristles and turns around. Simran is surprised by how angry she looks, and lets go of her arm.
"Neither have I," Nila says ominously.
Simran is quiet for a moment. Then, "But you almost did. You would have kissed her if I hadn't come in just then."

Nila stares at Simran. Simran is terrified. Nila sighs. "Simran, I love you. You know that." She softens on the word love. She sways a bit, trying to catch herself, trying not to cry. Simran is flabbergasted. She pulls Nila into her arms. Nila resists but then she submits. Nila hasn't ever cried in front of Simran before, and she's not going to do it now. She gnaws her bottom lip viciously and clutches onto Simran, digging her nails into her back. Simran tries not to wince, hugging Nila tighter.

After Christmas break, Simran is surprised by how much she can't wait to see Romana. When Romana hugs her, she holds her tightly for an extra moment or two. Romana kisses her very lightly then. Simran is even more surprised when, as Romana draws away, she sees Nila walk up to them, half-smiling. She kisses both of them, and says she's glad to see them. Simran feels a bit uneasy, but she lets Nila link arms with her and Romana as they set off across the snow-laden green.

That night they get together in Romana's room. Simran starts playing with Romana's cuddly stuffed animals. Nila is taking pictures of Romana while she dresses up in all the wacky clothes Nila bought from a thrift store that was going out of business. Simran sneaks covert glances as Romana pulls fishnets up her thighs. Nila catches her doing this and points it out, at which they all burst out laughing – Romana blushing, Simran protesting, Nila teasing. Romana prances seductively a bit, and then flops back in an inviting position on her bed. Nila takes up the offer, crawling on top of Romana. She wonders if she ought to be more careful, and Romana senses her hesitation and tenses. Then she pulls Nila down on top of her. There's another moment of hesitation when Romana looks at Simran briefly, but then Simran smiles. And then her smile widens wickedly! She gets out the camera and Romana squeals. After some haggling and chasing around the room, Simran puts the camera away. She then drags Romana and Nila towards the bed, giggling. She flounces down between them.

Nila kisses Simran. "I love you," Romana whispers, as she crawls up and over Simran. They draw apart to let her in. Romana's fingers slide over Nila's wrist, Simran's elbow. They tease apart the knots in Simran's hair, and weave around the curls in Nila's. Nila sits up a little, cupping Romana's face. Simran tucks a bit of Romana's hair behind her ear, then leans forward, laughing slightly as she bites Romana's earlobe.

first drafts here and here
second draft here
revision exercise here

PostSecret Notes

I.
When are they going to stop
making faceless African statues?

Is my pink hair band really so cheap
or is my mind split by class gaps?

Did my Frida Kahlo poster scare her
because of the flags or the skulls?

Why didn't I like ghungroos before
it became fashionable to be Indian?

II.
Am I taking these pills
because I'm afraid of myself?

Is it safer to be silent
or perform in clichés?

Why do they act like
it's so easy to break mirrors?

What if all my thoughts
are stored in dandruff cells?

III.
Why do they want money so much
when it's covered with germs?

Will I suddenly love cooking
if I marry and have children?

How did I go from pretty necklaces
to despising her safe world?

Is it obscene to make paintings
out of our sex?

IV.
Why do the worst books
always have the prettiest fonts?

Do you think I'd grow down
if you sent me more stickers?

Why are you supposed to say sorry
if nobody believes it?

What about the pieces
left scattered on the floor?


first draft

mourning

one hundred and thirty three days ago,
independence day in pakistan.
i see orange and green, not moon and star.

air smells dusty,
snakeskin floor. a year has passed since
man brings pretty girl to mansion,
chokes her with diamonds. honey, isn't that the most fantastic
swimming pool you've ever seen?

It's all yours.

the flavored coconut water gurgled in my mouth,
and i was hungry. i swallowed it,
and called the police.

they asked me when i found him. if i had
just come home.
i was writing, i said, in the tower room.

i saw him. he saw me
and waved before diving in. i smiled and didn't see
the blood on his hands.

once upon a time
ophelia slit her wrists,
downed stones big as marbles in her pockets,
and dived right on in.

no, it's not all mine.

this pool has been empty for
one hundred and thirty three days.
there are too many leaves.

what better way to own something
than to die in it?

the pool guys are laughing,
orange spreading in splotches on their faces.
i hear the air and the floor
in their laughter. their squeaky feet
stomp right on in.

the water is turquoise and full of his diamonds
that i haven't worn for
one hundred and thirty three days.

the water gurgles and hits,
clean. what a photograph he made! there is nothing more
sophisticated than the slow motion of
red fanning out in butterflies.

you forget the slap of paper on paint,
the slop of pin on butterfly.

i dive to the bottom
and lick it clean.


assignment + first draft

body police

those days summer stuck to you like leaves and
it was sunny the day i left you.

sat on your bed cross-legged and lied
as though we could be simplified.
your pose your tilted head your batted eyes
slammed into my skin. you came closer
held my hand consolingly and i
wanted to scream. instead i told you

to move away, but i did not fling out
my arms in fun. you leapt away and the room
was maybe brighter than it's been since.
you always flutter like broken bones;
these days i look at you and see a
body that pretends to be a woman.


first draft

Our Cloud Tanay

When we were little, Jahnavi and I would fly up to our favorite cloud and soar around the world, looking down on everyone from above. It was just like in the Betsy-Tacy books. We weren't too interested in getting anywhere, like we are now – we just liked talking on our cloud and noticing little things, like how the birds were always a little too shy to come and perch with us. Sometimes Jahnavi brought her kittens with us. I begged Ma to let me have a kitten, but she wouldn't let me because she was scared they'd run over all her artwork. She would admonish me, brandishing a paintbrush erratically: "Art and cats do not mix!"

Ma always told me not to fly too high because it got colder the higher up you went. I scorned her advice. What's a little cold now and then going to do, anyway? Thankfully, at least I didn't have to sneak away like Jahnavi did whenever we wanted to go to the market. Her parents were always much, much stricter than my mother. My mother is just a bit too crazy to be strict, and, besides, I think she realized she had to let me go free a little. Grandma tried her hardest to control my mother – did everything short of locking her up like Rapunzel – and then Ma had me when she was fifteen.

Jahnavi was my special cloudmate. We chose our favorite cloud the day Jahnavi's sister Tanay ran away from home. We named it after her. Tanay never came back, but at least we always had our cloud to remember her by. Back when she was still at home, she used to play with us a lot. Then she got too old and didn't want to spend all her time doing silly things. I always absolutely adored Tanay. She was glorious and glamorous, with rainbow hair and the most glittering voice you ever heard. Jahnavi and I had the same birthday, and Tanay always gave both of us the most beautiful dolls. She ran away around the time she got too old for us. Jahnavi always swore after that that she'd never do that. I was never quite sure whether she meant getting too old for dolls and cloudsoaring and kittens, or running away.

Things always change. I'm not good at dealing with it, though. I can't handle the way Jahnavi's eyes have become mulled over like dull wine, or the way she has rainbow hair and a glittery voice now too, just like Tanay did. She has her hot boyfriend, and I have my stories. Jahnavi's glamorous like her sister. She hasn't run away from home yet, but she broke at least half of her promise. Who knows, maybe she'll get pregnant and cause a scandal that way.

I hate Jahnavi's boyfriend. He holds her too tightly, like she's his diamond-studded purse or something. She seems to like this – and that he beat up that other guy for hitting on her – but I'm just horrified by the whole thing. I especially hate it when Jahnavi asks me for sex tips. She knows I'm not exactly the most experienced. She protests every time I say this, though. "But you know everything!" And it's true I do have a penchant for knowing things, but things never happen the way they do in stories. They just don't. Jahnavi should know this by now. Goodness knows we made up enough Barbie sex stories when we were little.

Sometimes Jahnavi and I laugh about the Barbie sex stories. She tells me sex isn't like that at all. I hate that she has the nerve to act patronizing when she does come to me for tips. And I do have some experience. And yes, I know it's not really like the Barbie sex stories at all. I've always known that. How could it ever be? The Barbie dolls were so hard and plastic, and their bodies just collided, never melded.

Ma hated that I played with Barbie dolls and marveled at the fact that her daughter could like such things as high heels and makeup and dolls and corsets. Ma wanted to raise me to be her perfect feminist, but I ended up being rather blurry instead.

These days when I fly around I'm always cold. I go up to our cloud Tanay sometimes, but it seems like the cloud's disintegrating. There are patches of thin cloud here and there, and sometimes outright holes. And now cloud-Tanay is always grey, not pink like she used to be when we were little. That's why we chose her. She was the pinkest cloud in the whole wide sky. And sometimes we found bits of glitter in her crevices, just like in Jahnavi's sister's eyes. Maybe Tanay's cloud just missed her too much and could only stand it so long. If she keeps disintegrating, though, I won't be able to fly on her anymore.

Ma tells me to go flying with other people more often. She says I've turned into a moody teenager and I need to socialize more. She's worried I'm becoming a goth or a loner. Sometimes I do go out with some of the girls from school, but it doesn't work. I end up talking too much, and they either fly too fast or too slow for me. Anyway, I'm going off to college soon. I really wish Jahnavi and I were going to the same college like we always planned to, but that was years ago and things have changed.

Sometimes when I go up to cloud-Tanay these days I make paper clip necklaces. I find a spot that isn't worn too thin yet, and I spread out all the paper clips Jahnavi and I collected when we were little. I link them together and attach little drawings to them. Then I send them flying on their way. Maybe Jahnavi will catch them someday, and come up and join me again.


first draft