Samburu: The Life of a Girl

Annamaria on Monday

I am writing today with my friend and sister warrior for girls's rights: Sarah Lesiamito.  Regular readers of this blog know that Sarah is the founder of the Sidai Resource Centre in Samburu in Northnern Kenya.  She is in New York with me now, and in our conversations I am learning more and more about the lives of the girls in whom I have taken a great interest for the past seven years. Here is what I now know.

When a girl is born in Samburu, her father – who may have as many as five wives – will see her, not as a person with many potential choices in life, but as a little animal to be prized because when she is around nine years old, he can trade her for cows, adding to his own personal wealth.

Unlike as in most places, that girl will most likely never be sent to school. Her culture has something else in mind. Here are the major steps in a girl's life:

BEADING

Men in the Sambu culture, when they are in their late teens, early 20s, join the warrior class. They do not marry until they are in their late 20s or early 30s. During those years, when their male libidos are very active, they might be trying to seduce an older man's wives.  To avoid this, the Samburu culture has invented a sexual outlet for those warriors. It is called beading.

In beading, a girl, who often is between six and eight years old, without any say in the matter, is assigned - by mother and her brothers - to a warrior who will then have the right to use her.  (This is very hard to talk about.  So much so, that I think you may feel that I should not be talking about.  Those who perpetrate it want us to keep it secret.  It is in fact a hidden part of the culture.) The fact of the matter is, whether we talk about it or not, that these girls are suffering. And what happens to them next is even worse.

FGM

If you think what I just said was horrifying, this part is almost impossible to state, but here is what happens to nine year olds,  I'm going to get through it quickly. Some of the readers of these words will already know that FGM stands for female genital mutilation. There are plenty of places where you can find out more details about it, but you probably don't want more details than I've already given you, and I don't really want to state them anyway. You get the point.  And the girl is nine.

Forced Marriage

Shortly after they are cut, the girls are sold into marriage.  The man is chosen by the family, or they sell her to the highest bidder.  Often, the man who gets her is three or four times her age, and as I have said above, she may be his third, fourth, or fifth wife. She will then be made to bear as many children as possible, because her sons will be prized as the warriors and elders of the future, and her daughters will be seen as more chattel to enrich her father.  Girls in this culture do not have a say in who that man will be.  Oh, and by the way, if she does not bear children or bears too few, she may be sent away.

It is important to know that in this culture, all the food comes from animals.  And all the animals are owned by men.  Therefore, a woman without a man- a father, a husband or a son - might starve. 

I've known all this pretty much for sometime, but in the past few days, working with Sarah to ready ourselves to speak in the New York Public Library, and at an upcoming reception, I have learned some more details about what happens to girls. 

I always thought that almost all the girls went to school, at least for a little while before they were involved in the horror story above. That turns out not to be the case.  Most of the girls don't go to school at all.  Only that girl who, by chance, lives near a school will ever learn to read and write.  And then, only if her parents will allow it.  And if they have the funds to buy her a uniform and transport her to school every day.

 

Sarah and I are working very hard to rescue girls. Our hope, of course, is that we will stop these practices before they happen to a girl at all. But since, almost always, these are the girl's experiences, Sarah is also taking into Sidai, girls who have already been subjected to these awful experiences.

For instance, she has taken in a girl, let's call her June, who, at age 9, was married off to a 68 year-old-man, who already had 4 wives.  Sarah learned that June was troubled.  After being married for seven years, she has not produced a child.  Her husband has been abusing her.  When Sarah went to meet with Jane, she found out that the girl was severely depressed, to the point where her depression was dangerous. June wanted Sarah to take her to Sidai, and Sarah wanted to give the now 16-year-old June a second chance in life

Sarah followed the law: She went to the police and the Children's Protection Office who authorized Sarah to take June to Sidai.  Sarah also involved June's parents and the local chief to get permission to take June into Sidai. As of now, June is learning to read and write.  Then, she will have the chance to take a vocational course.  She will be able to support herself, and she will be free to marry again if she chooses. 

www.sidairesourcecentre.org

Never Forget How Much the World has Changed for Us All

 

Jeff—Saturday

If you say "Nine Eleven" to an American, inevitably the mind leaps to thoughts of witnessing in real time the World Trade Center Twin Towers crashing to earth in New York City at the hands of foreign terrorists intent on undermining the American Way of Life,  There are other dates that summon up similar once unimaginable horrors, such as "December 7"–albeit not witnessed by the nation in real time those eighty-three years ago in 1941–and "January 6th" though not orchestrated in 2021 by foreign terrorists.  But none is burned as deeply into the psyche of our generation as Al Qaeda's murderous coordinated attacks on New York City and Washington DC on September 11, 2001.

 

Last Wednesday marked the 23rd Anniversary of that day. On its tenth anniversary, a New York City-based newspaper, The National Herald, asked that I be part of its 9/11 10^th year commemorative issue and write about where I was that Tuesday morning.  What I didn't mention in that article was the comaraderie among Americans that sprung up out of that horrendous event.  Divisions haunting the nation since its Vietnam era vanished that morning. Or so it seemed. 

But as we've learned, they had not disappeared, and are back today with a vengeance challenging the very roots of our democracy. I hope and pray it will not require another catastrophe for Americans to regain their common bond and purpose. 

 

I've republished this article before, and when I last did I thought there was no need to run it again. But a loyal MIE blog follower wrote to me after that posting saying, "You must continue to post this every year."

 

I'm not sure I'll do that, but as this year is shaping up to be a humdinger of "Americans at each other's throat," I felt now is a time to run it again. 

 

So here it is, my take on an event I shall never forget and which most definitely shaped my life. 

I like it over here by the United Nations.  Beekman Place is different from other New York City streets; it’s more like a quiet, residential private road in an elegant European city.  My walk to my office is down First Avenue overlooking the East River and alongside the gardens and flags of the UN.  It gives me a few daily moments of serenity and escape from the often out of control state of my life as a lawyer here.

I need this walk today.  The sky is so blue and clear, except for the few smoke-like clouds on the downtown horizon.  I’m up by the UN General Assembly Building when I call my friend Panos to find out how his date went last night.  He’s frantic and says he can’t talk.  He’s waiting for his mother to call him from Greece.  I ask if everything is OK.  He says she’ll be worried when she hears that his office was struck by a plane.  I must have misunderstood him.  He works in the World Trade Center.  He says his office building is burning and he has to get off the phone.

Those are not clouds on the horizon, it’s smoke.

I tell him to get out of the building.  He says it’s not necessary.  He’s okay.  His date kept him out late and he’s still at home.  He’ll go to work in the afternoon, after the fire is out.  He hangs up.

How could a plane have hit the World Trade Center on a day as clear as this one?  Something must have happened to the pilot.  I hear sirens everywhere and move a little faster toward my office.  By the time I get upstairs everyone is looking out the windows on the south side of our building.  It has an unobstructed view of the Towers.  Now they’re both burning.  I’m told a second plane hit the second Tower.  We all know what that means—even before learning about the Pentagon.  Someone tells me a plane hit Pittsburgh, my hometown.  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.  I call my daughter, she lives in Greenwich Village.  She’s frightened.  We all are.  I tell her to keep calm. My son is in Cincinnati, I’m sure he’s safe but I can’t reach him.

We’re all glued to the big screen TV in my law firm’s main conference room.  The first tower begins to fall and we turn en masse from the television to look out our windows as it crumbles to the ground before our eyes.  It’s surreal, it can’t be happening.  But it happens again.  Not a word is said while we watch the second tower fall.   We are at war.  But with whom?

My mind can’t fix on what all this means.  I focus on a rumor that there’s an imminent biological anthrax attack and race to the pharmacy for enough antibiotic for my daughter.  That’s something I can do.  Again, I think, my son is in Cincinnati.  He’s safe there.

When I moved to NYC in 1969 my first job was blocks away from the Trade Center site.  The Towers were in the midst of construction and I saw them every morning across the Brooklyn Bridge as I’d head to work.  In August 1974 I watched Philippe Petit do his high wire walk between them, and three years later glimpsed at mountain climber George Willig scale one in the wind.  Even after moving my office uptown they were always in view from my window.  They spanned my career as a lawyer in NYC.  I can’t believe they’re gone.

 

The City is in shock.  Lines of thousands of refugees from downtown are trekking up Third Avenue toward home or simply to somewhere other than where they were.  No one is talking.  The smell is everywhere, acrid and bitter.  There seems to be grey dust on the shoes of every cop and will be for days.

I stop at a restaurant halfway between my office and home.  It’s Greek and run by a friend.   It’s the only place I can think of to go.  There is no one at home and I can’t get downtown to my daughter.  She’s fine.  Panos comes in.   I try making a joke about his date from last night.  I say he should marry her, she saved his life.  It’s not that funny.

A half dozen or so young men and women of about the age I was when I started working in NYC are sitting quietly at a table along the front windows.  A cell phone rings—one of the few that must be working—and one of the women answers.  She’s a dark haired girl.  She listens, shuts her phone and starts sobbing.  She says something to the others; they hug each other and cry.

Damnit.

It’s after midnight by the time I head home.  My cell phone rings on the way.  It’s a friend from Capri in Italy.  He’s been trying to reach me all day to see if I’m okay.  I hang up and continue home.  I’m tearing.  Friendship like his is what life’s all about.  Family and friends are what matter.

A week later I drive to my farm, get in my pickup and head to Pittsburgh to visit my brother and sister-in-law.  I decide not to go back to NYC but drive south, toward the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  I’ve never been there before, but it just seems the place to be.  I have to drive by Washington, DC to get there.  It’s only when I see the first sign for DC that I realize I’ve made an unconscious pilgrimage past the three sites of the 9/11 massacre—NYC, Western PA, DC.

 

Duck, NC is chilly in the off-season and the ocean is wild.  I lock myself in a hotel room overlooking the sea and complete my first novel.  I’m driven to make something good come out of all of this bad.  A week later I drive back to NYC.  I’m on the Jersey Turnpike heading north and close to the City, but I can’t tell where it begins.  Its southern landmark is gone.  This world is insane.

A few years later I give up my life in NYC and move to the Aegean island of Mykonos to pursue my dream of writing mysteries exploring the heart and soul of Greece.   There is no reason to wait any longer.  Is there?

NEVER FORGET.

 

Jeff

The legend of the Physicians of Myddfai (pronounced: Muthviae)

 

This week I am honoured to welcome another guest blog from Gwenllian Williams, the best selling author of The Conjurer's Apprentice. For those of you who heard Mark Ellis at Bouchercon, try to read this in his accent!

The small town of Myddfai is in South Wales. Today it is just a pretty village with a bakery, shops, churches, chapels, and, of course, several good eating and drinking places. Walking the   streets and looking out at the rolling hills surrounding this hamlet, you would never know that this was the home of one of the most strange, mystical and skilled family in Welsh history – The Physicians of Myddfai.

The legend of the family is steeped in Welsh mythology and the story of a young man who fell in love with a beautiful woman who emerged from a magical local lake – Llyn y Fan Fach.

 

Gwyn, who was the son of a local widow, was walking by the lake looking after his cattle, when a beautiful woman emerged from the water. She appeared to be walking on the water and was combing her hair with a golden comb, using the water as a mirror. He knew she was not of this Earth, but fell hopelessly in love with her and called out to offer her bread. She came towards him, saw the bread, but shook her head saying it was, ‘too hard’ and dived below the surface.

Gwyn returned to his mother, spoke of his disappointment, and the old woman told him to return with soft dough. This he did and waited for hours. At last, the lady of the lake emerged above the surface and glided towards him, but on seeing the bread shook her head saying it was, ‘too moist.’

That night Gwyn thought again and, with his mother, made half-baked bread. The following day, he waited for hours and just as he thought all was lost, cows appeared on the surface of the lake and the lady followed. This time, she took his bread and allowed him to lead her out of the waters.

Gwyn was dazzled and asked her to be his wife. As he gazed at her, he noticed that she had one sandal, strangely tied onto her foot. At last, she agreed, but gave a condition - He was never to hit her and if he did so three times, she would walk back to the lake and back to her father. She then turned and dived below the waters.

Gwyn was devastated and stood on a rock ready to throw himself to a watery grave, when a shout came across the water. There were a group of majestic men beckoning to him, one of them was the father of the maid. With them were two maidens, exactly the same. But which was the one who had taken his bread? He was given the challenge to point out the maid who had stolen his heart. Only if he chose the right one could he have her as a bride. Gwyn was confused. But one of the maids moved her foot – it was fitted with a sandal strangely tied. He took her hand and the father consented. She would come to dwell above the waters and marry Gwyn, bringing with her a dowry of cattle, sheep and other animals which were to be kept at Dinefwr Castle in Llandeilo. There was one condition to her staying with him for the rest of his life. If he struck her three times, she would return to her father. Gwyn declared he would cut off his own arm before he did such a thing. He was told the woman’s name was Nelferch.

They married and were happy as they set up home-farm in a hamlet near Myddfai – a place called Esgair Llaethdy. The farm was successful and bountiful, being stocked with the magical animals from the lake. They were joyful and happy. Three sons were born – all healthy and strong. Life was good. Every day, Nelferch taught her sons about the herbs, the plants and the roots that would heal. They learned how to remedy all ailments using the bounty of the earth.

When their eldest son was seven years old, the family were invited to a wedding in a nearby village. Nelferch said it was too far to walk and demanded a horse. Gwyn agreed and went to get her gloves. When he returned to see she had not moved or called the horse, he playfully tapped the gloves on her arm and asked why she was so slow. She turned, eyes wide and whispered, ‘The first strike, husband.’

Years later, Gwyn and Nelferch were invited to a christening. But while all the guests revelled, Nelferch wailed. Gwyn took her shoulder and asked why she made such a noise. She turned crying louder, ‘because the babe will die and you have made your second strike.’

A few months later the baby died and the funeral was set. While all the mourners wept, Nelferch laughed. Gwyn was angry and took her arm asking why she behaved so badly. She started to weep and said, ‘because the babe is now safe in heaven, but you have made your third strike.’

That night, Nelferch walked to the pastures, called the cattle and the sheep and walked over the mountain to Llyn y Fan Fach. She walked beneath the waves and went back to her father.

Gwyn wept, mourned and never smiled again. It is said that one day, he could live no longer and threw himself into the cold waters of Llyn y Fan Fach. Her three sons went to the lake every day, calling for their mother. Sometime later, the eldest son, Rhiwallan, was searching alone when his mother emerged from the water. She told him that the destiny of her sons and their descendants were to be healers. She would return to teach them, but she would always go back below the water.

And so began the line of physicians that worked, healed and tended to the sick of Wales in Myddfai. Rhiwallon became a doctor to kings and his brothers and their sons followed. They were granted lands and titles and their fame continued for centuries. The family were still serving the community with healing in the late 1700’s

It would be easy to think this just a fairy tale, but no, The healing recipes of the Physicians of Myddfai were written down add exist to this day. The first recipes are written in down in The Red Book of Hengest, that is now owned by Jesus College, Oxford. The second manuscript is owned by the National Library of Wales.  So, are these the magical recipes of a fairy queen who came from beneath the waters of a magical lake and maybe still rises to the surface searching from her sons?

 Gwenllian

“Am I the Killer?” The art of staying true to your characters - Guest post by Karoline Anderson

 Karoline Anderson guest post for Michael on Thursday

Karoline Anderson is a pediatrician with a love of books. Born in Vancouver, Canada, she currently lives with her husband, golden retriever Jax, and cat Smoky on a lake in Nebraska. She runs whenever she can and has completed several triathlons and one marathon. 

Her debut novel, Killer Insight, is a thriller with a touch of the paranormal. It's the first in a series featuring Detective Kaitlin Kruse, a smart detective who also has dreams from past lives that give her clues and messages, a very intriguing premise.

Here Karoline tells us about her characters and where they come from.

“Am I in the book?”

 This became a familiar question when I announced to friends and family that I’d completed Killer Insight, a murder mystery, the first in a series. “Why yes, you’re the killer,” I always felt compelled to say wittily but didn’t.

Seattle skyline
where Killer Insight is set 

I suppose it’s perfectly natural to ask such a question. Conceivably, someone could be certain they possess the courage and insight to be cast as my protagonist, Seattle detective Kaitlyn Kruse. After all, who wouldn’t want to be someone’s muse? 

Alternatively, some may be concerned they would show up as a suspect. One friend even suggested another mutual friend they thought might be a good inspiration on which to base the killer. Perhaps I could exploit this? After all, what’s more threatening than being worried you may be featured in my next book as a murderer? “Oh, you have a scar on your left elbow too? I never knew. And just disregard that the character is from your hometown and has your eye color…and is, just maybe, a killer.” This could have some use in the way of leverage.

 But seriously, it seemed to come as a relief to some friends that although I couldn’t help but draw on my own life experience, no particular individual from my past is featured as a whole person in the series.

 The characters, as I view them, are not based on other people; rather, they’re, in some sense, people in their own right. They came to me as complete individuals. For me, developing characters is more like freeing an existing entity to walk the pages of the book.

 Michelangelo once said of his sculpting process: “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” My characters feel the same way to me. They’re already intact and I know right away how they will think and feel and react.

Hiking trail near Seattle
a similar trail leads to the crime scene in chap 1

 I’ve heard writers say things like this before. And I have to admit, previously I couldn’t comprehend this notion. I wondered, How did the characters “just come to you?” After all, you made them up. Didn’t you just piece together every detail until they became an individual? What do you mean that one day they just formed whole in your consciousness? Now I know. It’s an odd phenomenon. But nonetheless…true.

 And perhaps I enjoy my characters more because they came to me with loves and fears and neuroses that are unique to them. Frustratingly, I can’t always convince them to do my bidding. Sometimes they just refuse. Okay, what I really mean is that I might be going a particular direction with the story and realize that it just isn’t going to fit my character, so I have to change directions. I have to stay true to their nature, their true character.

 Kaitlyn, my protagonist, is exceptionally fun to write. She is honest and forthright but can’t always be as transparent as she wants to be. She has an ability that others might not understand; she can access memories of her past lives through her dreams. Thus, she often finds herself in situations where she is forced to gloss over or bend the truth, lest she have her sanity questioned. This makes for some tricky situations.

And can we blame her if she is overly cautious about her personal safety? She does hunt down serial killers after all. But maybe she takes her concerns a little far, and in a way that may eventually cause her some strain in her personal relationships.

 The fun thing about Kaitlyn is she comes with multiple sub-characters in the form of her past lives. Through her dreams, we get glimpses of these characters, and they help her to solve crimes in unexpected ways.

 

Mount Ranier peeking through the clouds

And you never know whose life she might dream of…we get to explore some interesting characters from the past. For Kaitlyn reliving a memory from a past incarnation often isn’t easy.  For example, in her previous life as a doctor she’s front and center in attempting to save a man’s life–very different from saving lives as a detective. And, if she’s to correctly interpret those dream memories, in addition to questioning the intentions of the suspects in the present, she also has to take into account the motivations of her past selves. It can get complicated.

 Kaitlyn’s partner Joe is a straight-shooter and he supports Kaitlyn as she embraces the role of homicide detective. His love for his family is a strength, but it may put him in a precarious position in the second installment of this series. While Joe tends to play things by the book he has a fun habit of changing his shoelace color to suit his mood, one little act of rebellion against dress code.

 Isabella is Kaitlyn’s boisterous best friend. She knows just when to step in to support her injured friend or maybe do some matchmaking. While Isabella is a source of strength for Kaitlyn, can she keep Kaitlyn from sabotaging a new relationship?

For me, the writing process comes in fits and bursts, the characters forming as complete individuals in my mind and the story materializing like a piece of yarn unravelling endlessly from the edge of a blanket. There’s no end to the string of ideas, no convenient stopping place. Sometimes I don’t eat. Sometimes I don’t sleep. I just have to get the novel in my head out onto the page. 

 Often, I need help out of my writing cave, and back into the real world. Thankfully, I have friends and family and another job which pull me back to reality regularly. But it’s never long until I drift back to thinking about my characters.

 When I started the second book in the series, I felt like I was revisiting old friends. The central characters have become dear to me, as I hope they might also become to you. They’re whole individuals, complete with quirks and habits and questionable decisions, as we all have. So, whether it’s Kaitlyn and her fears for her safety, or Joe with his unconditional love of his family, or Isabella with her matchmaking, I hope you identify with these characters and even find a little of yourselves in them.

 

Downtown Seattle

Just be careful, you might find yourself identifying with the killer…

 

 Sujata Massey

What does it take to bring an idea into book form--and then to take one book into a series?

My first mystery came out in 1997, and it turned into a series that lasted for eleven books. Then I went on to throw myself into a second series that I'm still writing. Doing a series is not only a writing choice; it's also a commitment to community, both real and fictional.

On the outset, the idea of a series is simple: a sequence of novels with the same protagonist. Yet there are some great permutations. The books could be spearheaded by a succession of linked protagonists, such as the women lawyers in Lisa Scottoline’s Philadelphia series, or the various detectives we meet in Tana French’s police procedurals set in Dublin. In romance series like Bridgerton, a family of brothers and sisters take turns getting romantic fulfillment. 

Series are popular because of readers’ deep desires to stay connected with characters they care about. Some critics say the business of writing a series is to essentially replicate the same reading experience for the readers each time--albeit with a novel plot and new supporting characters. 

 

For me, the ‘why’ of a book series is greater than a career formula. It's truly comforting to me to write novels that revisit the same houses and restaurants with characters that became my friends. I have so many thoughts about what makes series writing wonderful. Therefore, I’m going to make this a two-part blog post. Imagine we are having a cup of tea together and talking writing. You see--you are already a character in my series. 

 

How it All Started

 

Picture me at age 27, entering the 1990s as a young bride who had left what seemed like the greatest job ever at a daily newspaper. I didn’t want to stop writing—but I had a massive geographic move from Baltimore to Yokohama-area Japan, and my writing job opportunities were limited. So why not try writing fiction? The only other writing job I'd heard about was correspondence secretary for the Officers Wives Club!

 

 

I sat in my chilly house with gloved hands in front of a brand new PC, feeling liberated and optimistic. I had no illusions of writing a publishable book. The goal was experiencing what it felt like to write long fiction. I told myself writing time in Japan would be a step in a long climb. Yet that first book I dreamed up became the ‘first in series’ of the Rei Shimura books. I really didn’t know what I was doing; but somehow, it worked. 

 

That first protagonist I created, Rei Shimura, was a Japanese-American English teacher living in modern Tokyo. The position of being a foreign language teacher in Japan is a culturally iconic one that has lots of room for adventure. I myself worked part-time as an English teacher in Japan, not earning much money but gaining so much in terms of cultural connection, whether I was working with high schoolers, military service members or elderly people. Important memo: the more you know about the job your protagonist does, the more interesting and realistic your character will be. 

 

Yet for a teacher-character to continue being innocently drawn into suspicious deaths, year after year, doesn't feel true to life. I hadn’t thought about this fact when I started, because I expected I was writing a standalone novel. Now I had to twirl creativity and logic at the start of each new book to find a plausible reason for Rei’s abilities and involvement to surpass the Japanese police. 

 

As the series progressed, I became quite annoyed with the recurring problem. Ultimately, I had a spy agency recruit Rei, so she is forthrightly directed into covert investigation—and she has a prickly relationship with her agency supervisor, too. And what a hot relationship that would violate every HR guideline, but of course, this was a magical, fictional world! 

 

In the Rei Shimura series lifespan, the books went through three publishers: HarperCollins, followed by Severn House, and then myself. Perhaps it was because I wanted flexibility in the future that I never have outrightly declared the series is over.  I feel terrible disappointing people who have invested years and money in the series. Not only are they buying books for themselves, they ae gifting them to others and advocating for the books’ presence in the library system. Dear readers have not only written to me personally, they have nominated me for speaking gigs and awards—unexpected privileges and joys.

 

I actually was trying to wind things up, yet I still loved the series. Breakups are hard for writers and their characters. Ten books sounded like a complete number of Rei books, but I felt compelled toward writing just one more book.

 

The last series book, The Kizuna Coast, had Rei investigate a disappearance in the aftermath of the 2011 earthquake and tsunami. Once the mystery resolved, we see Rei boarding a train from Tohoku toward Tokyo. Feelings are upbeat, and I hint that she might be entering a new stage in life. And I think that's the positive feeling that helps a series end, whether or not it's planned out.

 

After The Kizuna Coast, I took a deep breath. I wanted a break from the treadmill of a book a year. Self-publishing worked, but it was a lot of extra jobs for someone who wasn't a trained web designer, marketer or publicist. A traditional publisher was interested, but I didn’t want a multi-book contract. I became a free agent and decided to pause. 

 

My Palate-Cleanser Book

I had a nagging sense that it was time to write about India, the place that was so central to my family history. I’d been spending more time in India as an adult than in childhood. In quite interesting ways, I was getting to spend time and learn from the families of my father, my stepmother, and my stepfather. An idea drifted my way, probably because I wasn’t pushing hard to think something up. And what also was clear is I wanted to take a break from mystery. I wanted to try something I loved reading, but wasn't sure I could pull off: a historical novel. 

 

This straightforward wish evolved into four restless years of writing and rewriting a standalone novel about a young Bengali woman coming of age in 1930's and ‘40s India. The Sleeping Dictionary was a book that transported me—not just because of the setting, but because of the wealth of details that true history provided. Unsurprisingly, the characters grew on me in the four years that I took to write and revise the book. As it was being readied for publication, I daydreamed about making it a series. Yet as I pondered the type of follow-up this book should have, the answer was a very sober story. I knew what difficult political events marked 1950's, '60s and '70s Bengal. I feared becoming emotionally depressed if I wrote about matters like the kidnapping of women post-partition and the war for Bangladesh's independence.  

 

This is why I ultimately decided that The Sleeping Dictionary would stay a standalone. At the same time, I realized how much I wanted to write series fiction again. The emotional ride in such books is more predictable and satisfying for me. In my approach to series mystery, the unrest and crime is on a smaller scale--and it's fictional. Order is always solved by page 400, and the protagonist has time to recoup before the next book.

 

The Next Series

Second time around with series writing, I vowed to remember as many of the things I struggled with for the Rei Shimura books. My goal was to follow a route that had fewer pitfalls--and to write about a setting that had lots of story ideas.

 

Firstly, I was intent on giving my new sleuth a natural reason to repeatedly encounter crime and suspicious death. No women were allowed into the police until the 1970s in India, so she couldn’t be a cop.  However, my years of research in 19^th and 20^th century India meant I had a big file cabinet, and a specific file that included the names and biographies of two early women lawyers working in British Raj India. I knew I could give my fictional heroine such a real job without bending reality. Still, writing about a female lawyer would be challenging since I was not a law school graduate--and you know how I feel about writing 'what you know.' I began looking for people who had studied law willing to answer my questions about the likelihood of a judge doing this, or that.

 I also pored over law books published during the British Raj to make sure I had facts rights about laws about crime and punishment, inheritance, and marriage and divorce. I made my heroine a Zoroastrian because the early women lawyers of India were more likely to come from this faith community than others.

 

I read up a storm to get an interesting and realistic legal dilemma for The Widows of Malabar Hill. And then I returned to the facts surrounding Perveen Mistry, my lady lawyer. A young woman in her twenties is of marriageable age—especially in a country like India. But would a woman be able to practice law actively while married? Given the social constraints of the time, and the likelihood that a female sleuth’s husband could restrict her activities, I decided to make her the equivalent of a spinster; yet with a unique status that would keep her from being able to marry anyone intriguing she met within the series. And this itself became an interesting plot point. 

There’s another, often subconscious, decision about protagonist power that writers make. I argue that you can roughly divide the sleuthing protagonists in two categories: superheroes, and ordinary, flawed people. The characters Sherlock Holmes and Jack Reacher are examples of the superheroes, though fans would probably argue they have flaws that make them interestingly human.

 

Rei, my first protagonist, was an accidental sleuth from the start and she escaped dangerous moments using different forms of soft power. Perveen is closer to a superhero; while she’s not physically powerful, she has  extreme courage and social skill that comes from always having to fight for her ability to work and go about in public. 

There are so many women I consider superheroes in my daily life in America and also in India. Among the Indian stars are women who have been the first: the first to finish high school in the village, the first to perform surgery at the hospital, the first to drive a taxi. More heroes: the middle-class housewives who make sure the poor kids living in shanties nearby get homework help and schoolbooks; and who don’t hesitate to find a doctor and pay the medical bills for a servant’s wife who needs surgery. These women change and often save lives.

Remembering all this beautiful strength helped me pull my ideas together. After a few months of deliberation and exploratory writing, the characteristics of my series heroine had fallen into place. Miss Perveen Mistry, Solicitor at Law, had both a personal status and practical job for a permanent series position. Yet even more decisions need to be made to build Perveen a successful series to return to, book after book. More about these ideas in the next post. 

The Three Harrys: Wizard Savers of Their Worlds

Ovidia--every other Tuesday
I'm pushing through reworking the (hopefully) final, submittable draft of the next book--already missed first deadline and it looks like I'm going to be missing the second…

but I want to work through all the new wonderful stuff that decided to come to me only now (always happens doesn’t it?)

And the Mid-Autumn Festival is round the corner, so as always in times of pressure I turn to words of wisdom to comfort me—not from Mother Mary but the three wizard Harrys who all impacted me while saving their worlds in their own unique ways: Harry Potter, the boy wizard; Harry Dresden, the professional wizard; and Harry Lee Kuan Yew, Singapore's socio-political wizard.
They are something I come back to whenever I need a charge up to keep on going. I discovered Harry Potter first.

I loved the magic and the message of Harry Potter for years! Yes, you can be a weird misfit but still the chosen one. You can find friends who become family. The monsters are real, and some of them are teachers and parent figures and in the government with power over you and you’re not imagining things, they really hate you and are out to get you…
But you can still make it through by not giving up.
I still love the Harry Potter world—even if the sad truth is that its creator seems to be turning into a Dolores Umbridge.
That helped me to leave Hogwarts behind along with my schooldays and come to Harry Dresden.

Harry Dresden: The Wizard Who Keeps Trying
Harry Dresden, a professional wizard in Chicago, is one of my favourite sleuths. Harry gets exhausted from overwork that pays poorly, doesn’t exercise enough, eats poorly, frequently has trouble with electronics and bills and his longest ongoing relationship is with Bob the talking skull…

This pretty much sums up a working writer’s life doesn’t it!

Harry Dresden has his personal issues, problems and (literal) demons, but he ends up trying to do his best despite feeling like the easiest thing would be to stay in bed. That’s where I am, much of the time—barely able to figure out what’s the right thing to do, let alone to summon up the energy to do it.

I also love Harry Dresden’s needing ‘energy’ to work his magic. This energy can be generated by lust, envy, rage or by joy, ecstasy and love—and the magic that emerges reflects the source of energy that fuelled it. I’ve found the same principle works when I’m trying to write or just live.
The material I absorb via reading, watching stuff online, interacting with people and dogs when I’m out or with my plants and human and animal companions at home all colour my thoughts and my writing.

Even though I feel more like Harry Dresden with his constant struggle to do good or just ‘do’, it’s Michael Carpenter, Dresden’s Knight friend who I envy. Michael, a true knight of faith who wields the holy sword Amoracchius, always acts with conviction. I have friends like that, and I envy them the same way… kind of.

Because Michael and his sword aren’t always right. And maybe a life lived without hesitation or doubt would be a little poorer. For what it’s worth, I’ll stick with Harry Dresden as a role model to keep me going. I don’t have a talking skull, but I do have these two munchkins that I discuss plot twists with.

And then there’s Harry Lee Kuan Yew, who wielded a different kind of magic—the magic of leadership.

Harry Lee Kuan Yew was, in many ways, the real-world wizard. He transformed Singapore from a small, struggling third world country into safe, stable first world nation. He made some tough, unpopular decisions with steely pragmatism, infamously saying, “Poetry is a luxury we cannot afford,” in the 60’s, when Singapore faced poverty, unemployment, racial tensions, and threats to our independence. Not the best role model for writers?

But once the slums were cleared, canals cleaned up and the people had safe drinking water he read poetry to his wife in her final years.

He did what needed to be done when it needed to be done. I owe it to the pioneering generation that I have access to my worlds of mystery and magic.

In the end, perhaps my biggest takeaway from all three is that the magic of creation often doesn’t look like magic when it’s in process. It looks like you’re plodding on hopelessly, endlessly, out of sheer stubbornness or stupidity. But then once you’ve brought all the right ingredients to the right place and infused it with the right energy, that’s when the magic happens. Good luck and Happy Mid-Autumn Festival everyone!

AI and the Homogenization of Humanity

Annamaria on Monday

Because I cannot bear all those possible

photos of robots, I am sharing pictures of

real flowers!

I'll will start with my initial concern. When I made up the title for this blog, I was thinking about the temptation I myself sometimes feel, especially as I type emails on my phone or iPad.  I am drawn to accept the suggested next word in the sentence I am typing.  That would be so much easier than forcing myself to think deeply about how I really feel or how I can more precisely express myself.

I imagine that, with such techniques, the creators of AI are trying to make our work easier, make us more efficient and productive.  They have many products now that they sell to businesses that are intended to accomplish this.  But... 

By virtue of providing AI "assistance" to employees (whom they will eventually replace with bots), I am afraid that they are taking way out on a myriad of tasks.  And homogenizing the level of thinking going into getting the work done.  And reducing the level of thinking to the lowest common denominator.  My college-age nephew, who worked part-time with me over his summer and talked to me about his college friends who were working in offices while they were off from school.  They were, he said, bored stiff because the were given tasks that were mostly done by AI, and that they their own capacity to think and be creative seemed superfluous.

So my question is, with all that "help" from AI, are we losing the benefit of each person's ability to think deeper to invent new way to solve problems.  At the very least, we are robbing workers of the sense of achievement. of making a real contribution.  Of the pleasure of having to struggle with a concept and then conquer it.  Of allowing a group real human beings to toss the question around and share different perspectives, and arrive at a conclusion, none of them could have gotten to alone.  Which is, of course, one of the most power ways to engage human intelligence. And it is fun!

This is pretty much as far as I imagined I would go today in my thinking about AI.  depth. But then..

Yesterday, afternoon and this morning, I tuned into two of my favorite podcasts, and they took up a broader version of these very questions.  And they scared me.  Really!

The first was the latest On the Media, which ordinarily critiques how the media is covering important current news.  But yesterday's episode - Shell Game, features a veteran journals who is launching his own podcast, the first of which reveals how, slowly over months he has created a voice bot of himself and began to test how far he could go in turning his own activities over to the bot.  He taught the bot a lot of facts about himself and put it work--conducting interviews, raising his children, and keeping in touch with his mother.

Some of what he reports is comical, but some of what he describes and what he predicts makes me fear - more than ever-what the future will bring.  In this case, it seems too easy to imagine that a large percentage of human beings in developed countries, especially in the USA will one day soon be leading virtual lives, including having fake phone calls with the aging parents.

Think I am an alarmist who is exaggerating the risk? You may want to check out the latest Short Wave: Body Electric: How AI is Changing Out Relationships.  (Take note that this title is in the present tense.)

Millions of people are already in psychotherapy, with a bot for a therapist.  Evidently, people know they are talking to a machine and some feel more comfortable revealing their problems to an artificial, rather than to a real person.  From these "relationships," they get empathy.  But not real empathy.  Pretend empathy. Automatic empathy from an app.  And advice.  But not from a person who might be conscientious.  Or who might care about having a good reputation. 

Worse, if you as me, is that millions of people are having intimate relationships with bots.  They are called Artificial Intimacy Avatars.  They express nonjudgmental love and understanding.  Listen to the story of the man who has a wife with whom the bloom is off the sexual rose.  His avatar is a sexy young woman, who is really a disembodied image.  The bot gives him continuous positive reinforcement.  This thing, that does not have a body, makes virtual love with him.  He finds it easier, the reporters say, than having to confront the realities of his life.  

My rejection of such "solutions," I admit, are coming from an old lady.  I can't help it. To me, the whole thing is a huge lie.  These AI bots present themselves as real people.  They are designed to convince the recipients that they are getting true understanding and support from people who really care about them.  But what they are getting is ALL FAKE.

But the corporations who are providing these "services" are raking in tons of REAL money.  How, you might say. Sometimes the apps are free.  But, as is the case with nearly all we do online, the providers are taking note of everything.  That virtual shrink does not have comply with laws about protecting your privacy.  In fact the owners of the companies have as many as 2600 other bots listening in.  And they offer the users no protection against revelation of they to tell to the bots.  Peoples' most intimate thoughtsIt might wind up in court, with the police, or with a prospective employer.  The companies are flooding the world with these bots, and the only thing they really care about is money.  

 All those young people who are just absorbing and beginning to understand how the world they live in works.  Instead of learning how to have real relationships with real human beings, are they going to accept the easy way and only have intimacy with machines?  And assuming some of them are going to make actual babies, are they going to delegate to their avatars the rising of their children?

Perhaps you see this whole post as the fearful nightmares of an old lady.  Most likely, I will not live long enough to see what actually comes to pass.  But I can still abhor the very thought of it.  And to urge people not to go too far down that path of creating a dehumanized world.