Dreams vs. Reality

When I was a kid, I used to dream about silly things...things out of fairytale books. Every time I closed my eyes, I'd envision unicorns, rainbows and I'd be a princess in my own little land.

Then I hit the teenage years when I dreamed about things more 'real.' What do I want to be when I grow up? What University should I go to? I saw myself sitting in cafes and libraries, hanging out with faceless friends.

Then I hit University and studied English. When I closed my eyes, I saw a faceless stranger, a man with whom I would fall in love and marry, my 'dream' guy so-to-speak. I dreamed about a future with this stranger, marriage.



Then I hit the career world, got married to a wonderful man, had my first novel published and thought I'm thankful for all of this, every time I go to bed and close my eyes, I now see fog...mist. I see myself stranded in the middle of an open field, filled with grass, no beginning...no end and no roads. I'm not sure if that's a bad thing or a good thing. I'm still striving for things so I'm not sure why that is.

Then it hit me...reality hit me...REAL life. The most difficult thing for us is to live in the present because we're all dreamers. The reality is that living in the present would protect us from expectations, thereby possible disappointment.

Apologies if my tone is morbid and if any of these comments offend anyone. I'm not saying dreaming is bad nor reality; I'm just exploring my own thoughts and venting them to you. I welcome your comments on dreaming vs. reality.

I made a video blog about this and wanted to post it for you. But for some reason the file was too big, but only 3 minutes long : /...strange. So I posted it on facebook.

A Cure to Writer's Block?

Writer’s block is not a fly; you can’t shoo it away with a whisk of your hands. Sure, it can be personified in writing, but that’s about it.

Ideas, the ultimate tool for ending writer’s block. But where is their secret lair? Where do
you get them from? Are they solid things that you can just grab anytime you need them from some box somewhere? Are they like blurbs in a comic book which you can just reach out to and snatch the moment you want them?

There is one thing for sure, nobody just naturally sits down at a keyboard or grabs a pen and starts typing or scribbling things down. There is no natural flair through which ideas just simply flow down from a storeroom in your head to your finger tips. I WISH.

That leads us back to square one. Ideas come from inspiration. That doesn’t answer the question, does it? Where on earth do you get this inspiration? William Faulkner (1897-1962), author, said, ‘I only write when I am inspired. Fortunately, I get inspired at 9 o’clock every morning.’ Don’t you wish you could say the same? We can’t all be Falkners. Believe it or not, writers have to actually look for inspiration or try to get inspired. How? It takes exploration. There are many ways to explore. You can have fun with this.

For example, you can walk up to a complete stranger and start a conversation with him or her. Too bold and awkward for you? My professor once suggested that I walk around the University and eavesdrop on some conversations and then, base a story around what I’ve heard. This is a great way to get ideas and it often works! You, as a writer, are creative so even upon hearing the most mundane conversation, you can manipulate it; you can twist and turn it any way you like.

Movies, dreams, nightmares, books, certain locations, other peoples’ experiences and/or your personal experiences lead to an inspiration. Then and only then, the ideas will flow to the finger tips. Sometimes it’s a short process; other times, it’s a tediously long one. This is when your diligence is tested. The patient writer will always develop great stories. Those who rush their writing will only make the readers go, ‘Eh…that was okay.’ Mary Garden, Author and Journalist said, ‘My block was due to two overlapping factors: laziness and lack of discipline.'

I will share with you my exploration for inspiration.


I saw a Bollywood film, ‘I Hate Luv Storys.’ Yes, the misspelling of ‘stories' did bother me, but I watched it anyway. The moment I saw it, I thought that it was cheesy, yet humorous and sort of…different. The movie is about a hopeless romantic art director teamed up with an assistant who doesn’t believe in love. It’s a romcom satire, poking fun at clichés.

It made me think; how could I write a unique romance? I scrimmaged through my wardrobe, found a pink blouse and wore it. Not to mention the fact that I already had on pink-heart-spotted pyjama pants. Just wearing it did nothing for me. No inspiration…no ideas. I wondered if I should rub my stomach (ahem…abs) and pat my head like I’m some bottle from which a genie would pop out and grant me three ideas. The sudden thought of Christina Aguilera made me realise that I was losing it; it was time to move on.

Walking up to my beach-toned bookshelf, I picked out three poetry books: ‘Love Poems: Every Library Pocket Poets,’ ‘Timeless Thoughts on Love: An Anthology of Quotations,’ and ‘Indian Love Poems: Every Library Pocket Poets.’ Flipping through the pages, I hoped that some word or phrase would strike me. I learned that love is powerful, could be destructive, illogical, involve eroticism and…a whirlwind of madness. I was headed toward the right direction, but felt that perhaps I should try one more technique just to see if something more could be developed. I analysed my personal experiences with love.

My brother and my husband hold my heart strings, pulling me in two different directions. I only have one brother who is struggling with a disorder. I always said that I would never leave him and even if I moved out, that I would stay nearby. Perhaps in that case, I would be a ‘villain’ in the story.

I moved across an ocean, from New Jersey to London. My brother gave me his blessings because he understood that men like my husband are very difficult to come across. I was destined to be in London.

Unfortunately, that part of my life is too sensitive to write a film or novel about. I’m just not brave enough. I will, however, write an article about my struggle soon.

After this intense exploration, I have a few ideas, but I cannot share them with you JUST YET. However, I hope that this guides you to inspiration and ideas, brushing away the writer’s block. Remember that writing takes dedication, diligence and sometimes, a bit of struggle. Also, one must be confident in his or her work because ALL stories are worth telling.

My Brother's Story

Will God be angry with me for NOT asking for anything for MYSELF?

When I see my brother on that hospital bed, I think to myself that I am very content with how my life is-marriage, a house, a job. It’s the life I know my brother wishes every single day that he had, but all I see is NOT a hint of envy in him; rather, his blessings.

It’s been 14 days since 21-year-old Robin was admitted into the hospital for a collapsed lung due to his already weakening muscles as a result of a Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. For three days straight, he was unconscious; for a few days following, he was half-awake. For the past four days, he’s been fully awake and there are times when he smiles and laughs. There are times when he gets emotional (he would kill me if he knew I wrote that). There are times when he gazes off behind the wall in front of him as if joy is hidden behind them. When asking him if he's thinking about something or worried, he denies it.

The day before my arrival to the USA, after over a year of living abroad, not only did my brother and I make plans on family outings together, but also, I had lost my USB disk. Within that disk is the saved edited version of my psychological complex thriller novel. It was meant to be that I lose it. It was meant to be that my brother become unexpectedly MORE ill than he already was while I'm still in the USA. AND…it was meant to be that I finally think about what he had said to me the second day of my visit, “In the future, you’re going to write my story, right?”

Those words are familiar to me because at least once a year, that question rings in my ear. In response, I hesitantly say, ‘If God wills me to write it.' What I don’t say is, ‘I’m afraid…I’m afraid of writing your story, of writing it from my point-of-view, of dwelling upon the emotions that I try so hard to suppress, and most of all, of revealing them to the world.’

I don't like to cry in front of my parents and my brother. I don’t want them to see me helpless when THEY are; I want to be strong FOR them. Even more, I want to keep pretending that everything is going to be okay, that life is more normal than it really is for us. I want to be blissfully ignorant, while still being somewhat aware of what's happening.

I can’t pretend anymore; it’s time to write my brother’s story.

Selling point? He has no super powers (I just lost hundreds of dollars/pounds?); he hasn’t built the world’s tallest building (I just lost thousands?) or brainstormed some brilliant invention (I lost millions already?).

Invaluable-He graduated from high school, was part of the high school choir with his opera-like voice (no longer the same after surgery), has the most amazing collection of model cars, is a sociable person, and once having met you, he will always remember the way you looked and exactly how the conversation went. Basically, Robin is living LIFE.

National Newspaper Out

The Ramadan Issue of THE MUSLIM PAPER (www.themuslimpaper.com) is finally being released this week. This is an EXCITING issue, at 20 pages, bigger than the previous ones.

Our front cover was designed by Teakster, an artist whose creativity evidently thrives from the realm of his faith. This cover is different, it captures the eye and most of all, it shows something that most Muslim newspapers do not show as much-an appreciation for art.

The Editor-in-Chief, Khalid Sharif and designer, Emran Mohammed, have worked day and night, their fingers tap-dancing away at the keys, creating a harmonious tune from the 'T' 'H' and 'E' to the 'P' 'A' 'P' 'E' 'R,' all musical notes that complete the name of the orchestra, the Muslims of Today.

It has been one tough, yet rewarding year for this media resource. There were times when I nearly gave up hope in my abilities as Deputy Editor, not because I had no faith in The Muslim Paper's (already rising) popularity, but because, being a wife, a daughter-in-law, a sister-in-law, an employee, time constraints and priorities had cascaded over my head and down to my shoulders-necessitating severe massage sessions or acupuncture (though I had none). I appreciate the strain, still there, but alleviated somewhat; it reminds me of how rewarding the end result has become and insh'Allah, will continue to become.

Khalid is a very patient, hardworking and hopeful man. He makes you WANT to work harder and reach higher; that is why I am still with The Muslim Paper.

Grab your copy of this national newspaper at YOUR local mosque.

Zayed & the Dream

Just went, on behalf of THE MUSLIM PAPER, to review a musical called, 'Zayed & The Dream'at The Coliseum in Covent Garden, last night. How do I rate this? I began by making a list of what a production like this would entail: acting, costume, set design, choreography, direction, production, music, props, costume design, lighting, composition, script writing. I'm not sure if I missed any other aspect(s), but I can say that 'Zayed & The Dream,' which turned the biography of the founder of the UAE, Sheikh Zayed Bin Sultan Al Nahyan, into an epic story, is NOT to be missed. The next performance is on 3 August.

The review will be printed in September's issue of The Muslim Paper in more detail so I will only say here that I recommend anyone to see it. It's only here until the 3rd of August, then they are off to another major city to perform. The Caracalla Theatre, stationed in Lebanon and funded by the Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture and Heritage, is so famous for their performances that they are invited all over the world to showcase the works, from China and USA, to France and England. So...basically...they're good.

A few weeks ago, I had an incredible phone interview with the Director of 'Zayed & The Dream,' Ivan Caracalla and let me tell you that it never ceases to shock me how HUMBLE and FRIENDLY people like him are. Of course, not everyone is humble (ahem...Kanye West), but most who work extremely hard, day and night, to get to where they are, whose backgrounds are not exactly up-to-riches-par, tend to be approachable. This interview will also accompany my review in The Muslim Paper's September 2010 issue.

How can you be a ‘Cinderella?’

An article I wrote for London Bangla in May 2010

Most young girls, if not, all girls, have that ‘Cinderella dream’: Meet a handsome prince, get married, and live happily-ever-after,’ not really thinking of what that ‘ever-after’ consists of. Of course, once these girls become women, they will realise and perhaps will be unprepared for, REALITY.

Many women are single, divorced, or unhappily married. But some of us, like moi, have fortunately reached that ‘Cinderella dream.’ So, what is wrong with today’s society? Society-such a general term; in fact, one of my University English Professors from the USA, told me that when I say ‘society,’ I should state what sort of society I mean.

The fact is that there is no categorisation in this case; ‘Western,’ ‘Asian,’ ‘African,’ ‘Caribbean,’ and ‘Latino’ societies all face the previously-mentioned unhappiness of experiencing or realising that not everyone can reach that ‘Cinderella dream.’ It’s all circumstantial.

Take ‘Sex and the City,’ for example-the movie, not the series. Carrie and Mr. Big are happily living together, but Carrie wants to bind this relationship with a legal contract called, marriage. However, Mr. Big, who wants to live with Carrie forever, suddenly gets nervous about marriage. I thought he wanted to be with her. It’s only a contract and he said that if it makes Carrie happy, then he’ll do it. Anyway, he stands her up at the altar and Carrie loses faith, yet again, in ALL men.

Faith is such a beautiful word, yet so difficult to obtain and maintain these days. Could lack of faith be the core of all relationship issues and by relationship, for those who are single, I mean, the relationship within one’s self, faith in one’s self?

I don’t’ mean to brag, but no matter how many men I am acquainted with for business purposes or how many times I’m late coming home (late for me is 9ish), the hubster does not complain or interrogate me. He trusts me wholeheartedly and that is the core of our relationship. One must have faith within one’s self and within others. Of course, if one’s trust has been broken many times, as was the case with Carrie, it is difficult to stand up again.

So, what should one look for in a potential husband?

1.Sensitivity, however, if he cries during ‘The Titanic,’ I’d question his sexual preference.

2.Understanding: He lets you punch him to release your anger, but his silence might only make you more angry. He takes it anyway.

3.Family Values: This doesn’t mean that you have to live with his family (though I do, but that might not be everybody’s cup-of-tea). When a man is family-oriented, it means he loves spending time with them and he wants you to share those moments with him. He also, in turn, will get along with your family. Chances are, in this case, there will be no ‘monster-in-law.’ Remember that it was that family who shaped the man you love so much.

4.Faithfulness: ‘How can I tell?’ you ask. The most innocent-SEEMING man might be a ‘Tiger Wood.’ You can tell he is faithful when he rushes home to you, when he doesn’t get jealous if you talk to other men, when he praises your beauty and your intelligence, when he looks into your eyes and tells you that he loves you (a factual cliché), and when he comes closer to you every time you push him away.

5.Flaw-ful: He’s not flawless. He has bad habits as in cutting toe nails on top of the bed or leaving the toilet seat up. He might have had a horrible past. He is not perfect and that makes him REAL. We all need REAL men, who have flaws that we can learn to love because we have flaws too.

I’m no psychologist or therapist, but I’m a married woman and I was in search of a life partner once too. Fortunately, I’ve bloomed into a ‘Cinderella’ and I hope that the five qualities I’ve outlined above help you to become one too. One more thing, if the guy is a ‘Fonsie’ (character in ‘Happy Days’), he’s not husband-material.

The Tree

I've moved more than ten times in my life.

When I was no taller than a pinky finger...exaggeration...I lived in a dainty Bronx flat and outside of the sitting room window, there resided a rather grand tree, the web of branches through which I grew acquainted with my neighbours.

I was a spy. The girl, within whom I would find myself a peer in an all-girls private Catholic high school, used to hang out with her friends outside of our building. I was not sure where she lived or any of my neighbours at that; however, I knew them. I did not know what they liked to eat or where they shopped, but I kind of, sort of, knew them. This was MY neighbourhood. I did not own it, but I felt some sort of attachment to it.

That girl was Michelle. She was a Spanish girl, whose dirty blonde hair ran all the down to her buttocks. Her hair was beautiful; it reminded me of the medieval Lady of Shallot who boated down the lake to her death. Michelle is two years older than I am and we used to take the bus together to school. I never told her that I had seen her before...I guess I didn't want to freak her out. Imagine being told that you were observed through someone's window many times....

Then, there was the dancer. She lived across the building from us. By now, you probably find me a little creepy, but every writer is inspired by his or her surroundings and I will never forget how much I wanted to be a dancer because of this unknown individual. I did not discover her name nor did I ask; the only reason why I knew Michelle was because of a formal acquaintance via school.

The ballerina had brunette hair, always tied up in a ponytail. Her window was directly across from my bedroom window and I could see her prancing grace. I was about 9-years-old, thinking how cool it would be to be a dancer. I pretended to be one. I played the music in my head and danced, hoping that someone, somewhere, would notice me dancing and be inspired by me.

There were many others who I recognised, chatting away at the corner of our block. Every time I went outside and saw them, I wanted to say 'Hey, I know you.' But that never happened because I was conscious about looking foolish.

When it rained and there were heavy thunderstorms accompanied by crackling lightening flashes, I left the sitting room window open and watched the drops pound against the emerald and trickling down until it falls off the point, the point of the leaves of that tree, the tree that made me feel at home...the one that introduced me to my neighbours.

I'm now in London; there is a tree across the street from me which reminds me of what a home is. I look at its proud appearance through my large rectangular window and it just makes me want to paint it. However, that rectangular window and that tree is already like a live canvas. Why paint something that is already real, a rare portrait?

Our neighbourhood is quiet and none of our neighbours appear to like the outdoors.... How will I get to know them? Knock at the door? But, then again, what's the fun in that? There will be no mystery behind each person. So, in a way, knowing Michelle, who her boyfriend was, what her favourite boy band was...disappointed me. No enigma meant that I really did not know my neighbours.... I liked imagining what each one's life was like; was he her brother? Was she married? Did they have loving families or troubled ones? I did not want to KNOW.... I do these things even today, on the train on my way to work, when I look at the people gliding along beside me or sitting across from me.

The tree is still there and when I visit the Bronx once a year, I see it there and I see my old window. I grow so sad looking at it.... I grow sad thinking about how many people the tree has gotten to know and how many have moved away. I grow sad knowing that life is a one-way journey; there are no round trips and what remains in reminiscence gradually fades away, becomes a fog and then...no more.

When I saw the tree in front of my current house, I smiled as if saying, 'Hello Watson' to it.