Khalid Mukhtar

Word, like wind, cuts through you / Withers all but true you

Announcements

Classical Poetry Lives

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I was at the Rivulets 2015 Launch event earlier this afternoon. The Chicago Tribune covered it:
http://www.chicagotribune.com/suburbs/naperville-sun/community/chi-ugc-article-naperville-writers-group-rivulets-27-launch-2015-10-01-story.html

I was asked to recite one of my submissions – On Riverside Walks, and that I did.

I also learned I was one of the four runners-up to the Founder’s Prize for Poetry for my submission, On Forgetting To Remember. And that was cool.

Given the above were both sonnets, I am happy to say <insert post title here>.

A good day overall.

Published in the Society of Classical Poets Annual Journal 2014, Volume 2

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Earlier this year, I learned that my entries were selected for publication in the 2014 Annual Journal of the Society of Classical Poets, Volume 2.

In this latest issue, the journal features the works of the top fifteen poets judged in the last competition held by the society. So this is an honor for me, having been published in the previous issue of the journal as well. I recently got my copy and was very impressed with the quality of all the poetic works. I feel honored to be counted among those who were recognized.

Get your copy on Amazon, and please support the society for the good work it does in reviving and promoting classical poetry. My thanks and admiration go to Evan Mantyk, President of the society, for his efforts to this end.

-KM

Finished My Second Book

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This story took me a little over a year to finally get done. It is called Kindred. It is about 55,000 words. I have it out to three first readers at this time. I hope to open it up to a group of second readers in the coming weeks. I am yet to work on a query letter for it. I also hope to start on my third work of fiction drama shortly. I have included a small chapter below by way of an excerpt.

5. The Third of July 

    Ray sat on the steps of the porch watching Blain Travers assist a neighbor whose home had suffered significant damage from the quake. He didn’t particularly care for the cup of heavily sugared chamomile tea his grandfather had forced into his hands, but he couldn’t deny the calming effect it had on his nerves. He thought about how the bitterness in the strong brew seemed to overtake the sweetness in it as the warm liquid gently swirled up into his palette with each sip.

    It reminded him of the events from two days ago, bitter-sweet in so many ways: his impulsive decision to run, against all odds, into the cave, the upbeat mood of the group as it followed his lead, the shock of realizing one of them was left behind, the relief at finding Nabeel alive and well, the frantic pace that he and Nabeel worked at as they moved the fallen rocks in the hopes of finding Cory. All of it played back in his head. He thought back to when Tom Leary and a fireman named Bert, emerged from the side path and joined them in their efforts. He recalled how all four of them worked incessantly until 11 PM at which point Nabeel’s knees buckled and he fell down on to his fours, breaking out into sobs. The next three hours went by quietly as Ray and Nabeel sat back against the cold walls of the cave watching Tom and Bert move like machines. At 2:15 PM, the rescue workers from the other side broke through. With each passing minute, their hopes of finding Cory dwindled, until every rock had been moved off to the side and the floor at the site of the collapse had become even with the rest of the surrounding floor. It was as if Cory had just disappeared.

    Ray blinked as the next wave of recollection came upon him, of when he and Nabeel exited the mouth of the cave with Tom ahead of them. It was almost 5 AM. He remembered seeing a couple massive cranes, and rescue workers lining the narrow path that led to the mouth of the cave. He remembered how the floodlights almost blinded him, how pockets of onlookers gathered high above began a cheer that Tom quickly arrested with a slow and deliberate shake of his head preventing its growth into a roar. He remembered how his grandfather took a step forward and covered him up completely in an affectionate bear hug. He remembered how, from the corner of his eye, he, along with everybody else gathered there in the dawn, watched as Nabeel slowly made his way to his friends standing beside the sitting figure of Joshua with an arm around a fast-asleep Drew Fedson. He remembered how Drew opened his eyes with the slightest squeeze from Joshua, and looked up at Nabeel, and how Nabeel looked down at Drew, his face an image of resignation. He remembered how the tears welled up in Drew’s eyes instantly as he sprang up and into the arms of the man who had been closest to his father, as if the act alone would somehow bring him closer to his own father.

    And the tears streamed from Ray’s own eyes and down his cheeks into the bitter sweet cup of tea he held close to his lips. So lost was he in thought and so hazy was his vision on account of the tears, that Ray did not see the towering figure of his grandfather standing above him. Blaine Travers placed a comforting hand on Ray’s shoulders that brought him out of his dreamy state. Ray lowered the cup and wiped his face on his sleeve as Blaine sat next to him with a deep sigh, placing his walking cane on the steps next to him.

    The older man cleared his throat and spoke as he nodded his head. “It isn’t easy, Ray. But you’ll get over it.”

Ray said nothing. He was glad for his grandfather. He wished his parents were with him too, but took strength in knowing that they would be with him soon. He had talked with them the night before for an entire hour. All roadways into and out of Memphis had been closed the previous night due to the quake. Flight cancellations abounded as almost every airport in a three-hundred mile radius of Evansville had to be shut down. Ray’s father had called at noon to say that the roadways had opened up again, and that they were planning to drive up later that night. Ray took solace in the fact that his parents were both safe and had survived the quake without injury or major losses of any kind. Families in Evansville and surrounding areas weren’t that lucky, with one fatality reported in Evansville. Hospitals were teeming with outpatient cases. And Cory Fedson was still considered missing as his body had not yet been recovered.

    The cuckoo clock in the living room behind them chimed 6 PM when they saw two cars pull into their street and park in front of their house. Ray recognized the Grand Prix as Nabeel’s, and assumed the Infiniti next to it to be a rental.

    “Now that is a fancy set of wheels.” Blaine said in his raspy voice as he stood up with his cane and began to make his way towards the sidewalk.

    Ray watched silently as Nabeel Hassan and Jason Banner exited the Grand Prix. Joshua Sanders got out of the other car. Each shook Blaine’s hand with a courteous nod. They spoke with him for some time before Joshua and Jason broke off from the conversation and made their way towards Ray. Nabeel continued chatting with Blaine and sent a wan smile in Ray’s direction which Ray reciprocated with a nod.

    The two others shook Ray’s hand and thanked him profusely, patting him on his back, recalling his handling of the crisis. Ray asked where Drew was and learned that his mother had
rushed down that morning and was with him at this time. They were going to stay in Still Mountain a few more days.

    Jason Banner frowned and shook his head . “I still can’t believe Cory’s just disappeared.”

    Everyone nodded but they couldn’t think of anything else to say. The rescue workers had dug into all the other parts of cave three where rock had fallen during the shock waves, and they had gone an extra six inches deep, twelve in some places. But there had been no trace of Cory.

    Nabeel left Blaine and walked towards the others assembled near the porch. The skinny man made straight for Ray and threw his arms around him in a tight embrace, then motioned with his fingers to the others to join him in a group hug. They obliged closing in on the forms of Ray Pritchard and Nabeel Hassan.

    Blaine watched them huddle as the afternoon sun cast a long shadow of the group. He could hear the soft murmur of Nabeel’s voice. The group hug extended into its fourth minute, and when
it finally broke, all four men wiped their faces with their hands. No other words were said. The men got into their respective cars, waved quickly and disappeared down the hill.

    Blaine and Ray finished a meal of macaroni and cheese after which Ray helped his grandfather clean up. Blaine made no secret of his fatigue and ambled into his room to call it an early night. Ray, on the other hand, decided he wanted to watch some television. He stretched himself out on the couch and clicked the tuner to an old Seinfeld rerun. Watching a George Costanza meltdown was one of Ray’s favorite television experiences. But this night, even George’s antics couldn’t bring a smile to his face. It only took fifteen minutes for him to fall asleep on the couch. He hadn’t the slightest inkling as to what awaited him.

Won the “Lighting of the Fire” Poetry Contest

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Good news for me. I recently learned that my entry was placed first in the “Lighting of the Fire” Poetry Contest sponsored by Highland Park Poetry and the Ravinia Neighbors Association.
I have been invited to read it at the November 22nd Centennial Celebration of the Ravinia Village House (that’s Friday night).

Here’s an article talking about the upcoming celebration.
http://www.ravinianeighbors.org/ravinia-neighbors-association-blog/your-invitation-to-a-once-in-a-century-event

And here’s the winning poem.
http://www.highlandparkpoetry.org/home.html

My sincere thanks to the Ravinia Neighbors Association and Highland Park Poetry for this recognition. I’ve pasted the poem below in case the above link expires :-).

A Spark and a Fire

I often set to wonder why
We take the stands we take;
What makes us rise from where we lie,
And stirs our hearts to wake

When forth, the ever silent, speak
To light a tiny spark
That burns a flame by which we seek
To drive away the dark;

Like planters of the olive tree,
They never taste its fruit,
Which, like the one who eats from it,
Knows nothing of its root.

I think the answer might well be
The courage of a few
Whose grit, resolve, tenacity,
And other virtues too

Deliver us to light again
This fire that will burn
In honor of their service then,
An honor we return.

Wrote My First Book

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There! I said it. And I said it with all the mediocrity I could summon into my fingertips.

Now, don’t get me wrong. It is a big deal, or rather it was when I finished the manuscript. But I am trying to make a point in this post, and to get to it, I must dwell on the title line a bit. So I’ll say it again.

I wrote my first book.

Yes. I wrote it in January of 2012. It all happened quite suddenly, and very unexpectedly.

I was with my family one Saturday morning brunching at the Egg Harbor Cafe in downtown Naperville. We were just making small talk when my wife brought up the topic of schooling in India. Before we knew it, somewhere between the belgian waffle and the cheese grits (if you haven’t, you’ve got to try their cheese grits), the conversation whittled itself into a long and slender bamboo cane – one that graced the hand of our high school headmaster. No, we’re not that old, but we did go to school in India, and back when we were in school, about twenty-five years ago, getting your daily stripes courtesy said bamboo cane could easily become an everyday ritual, albeit a painful one.

So as we whittled the proverbial cane of our conversation into dust, I said to my wife (and I paraphrase):

“Hey, maybe I could write a book on this. You know, about oppression at two entirely different levels. There’s the headmaster figure, and… and maybe a tyrannical ruler, like the pharaoh. Right? You know, to show how oppression is ugly, however small or large the scale of it. Right?”

My wife looked at me, and said, “Why don’t you do it?”

My then-nine-year-old daughter looked at me and said, “Do what?”

My then-six-year-old daughter looked at me and said, “I can’t finish my eggs.”

So, I finished them for her.

I spent the rest of the weekend thinking about our conversation, and a plot began to emerge in my head. The following Monday, my commute to work helped me finish chapter 1. I decided I would call the book “Tyrants”. The return commute knocked out chapters 2, 3 and 4 (maybe even 5). Anyway, by Wednesday of that same week, I had a fully thought-out story in my head, divvied up into thirteen chapters. I told myself the plot had to be tight and engaging, and the characters interesting and believable. I even decided I would be as minimal in my writing as possible, with everything distilled down to only what was needed to carry a story and keep it interesting. I read somewhere that it was easy to add pages, but not so easy to remove, and feeling insecure as a first-time writer, I embraced the advice fully.

I wrote the first chapter the very next night. And then I kept at it for the next three weeks, working weeknights and Saturdays. And when I finally finished the manuscript of “Tyrants” in three weeks flat, it felt good. I had a 53,000 word manuscript on my computer. I put it on a flash drive and drove down to a copy shop where I printed it out. It felt so good.

My wife had been reading the chapters as I was writing them, so she finished reading the book about the time I finished writing it. She liked it, but her feedback was a bit tainted as she knew the plot from the outset.

So then I gave it to my Dad. He had no idea I had written a novel, so when he liked it, I was encouraged a bit.

I began to read up on the querying scene that all writers ought to get familiar with. I became a frequenter of queryshark.com (great resource for new fiction writers by the way). After several iterations of “writing my query letter and letting it sit”, I felt my query letter was ready for the world of literary agents.

I mustered the courage to send out a few. I started with the most popular agents on the east coast, sending them email queries, and in some cases, snail mail.

One in three got back to me and politely declined saying the work “was not a good fit for them”. After about five queries, my interest began to wane. I began to wonder if my two-hundred-page manuscript was a colossal waste of time. In the days and weeks and months that followed, I shared out the manuscript with a close circle of family and friends. Some liked it a lot, a few had mixed but good feedback, while some (actually many) never got back to me.

Then someone said, “Friends and family will never tell you your book is garbage.”

So I approached the founder of the poetry club I had been a member of. She was not family. She was not a friend. She was… an acquaintance. She seemed unbiased. And she taught creative writing too. She agreed to read my manuscript. It took her three weeks to get back to me. We met up right after an open mic. Her feedback was very good. She liked the story a lot, she liked the writing, she liked the characters and the twists in the plot. She pointed out a few inconsistencies and I fixed them.

And that’s when I told myself there was something here. I redoubled my querying efforts.

Fast-forward from then to six months ago: I had altogether sent out just under twenty queries, twenty if you count one pathetically half-hearted attempt. That’s really not a lot at all. There are happy souls out there who celebrate one-hundred query rejections by throwing their friends a party – it is the sort of grit you need to keep your head up in this industry.

Nevertheless, one bright and sunny day in May, I stopped querying. I had grown tired of it, but that wasn’t why I stopped. I stopped because I had started to think. You see, my father-in-law visited with us some time back and he had given me some advice. It was simple advice: keep writing; churn out the books; when you finish one, stuff it under your bed, and start on the next one. He told me not to worry about getting published, but rather to be preoccupied with the craft of writing.

When this advice finally sank in (and it took a few months), the realization was quite liberating for me as a writer. And that is really the simple point I am trying to make in this post.

You see, I was getting better. My writing had improved. I could tell. My ability to spin yarn from word-pulp, and weave an intricate tapestry of fiction drama had increased. Cheesy imagery, but you get the point. My writing had improved just with stepping into my second book. I felt like I had crossed a bridge after dodging the one-novel-publisher troll who dwelt beneath it, a beast that ceaselessly spat the word “Publish”.

Now, if you ever comes across such a bridge by happenstance and encounter a troll beneath it spitting the word “Publish”, do take my advice and risk your everything to get to the other side where the grass is greener. I know, I’m chewing on it right now. And guess what, there will be more bridges that I, and you, will have to span in our respective journeys as writers, and you don’t want to not cross any of them. Now, don’t get me wrong. You can lean on the railing, chat with that troll, you know, query an agent every now and then with the work you have accomplished – just make sure you continually sharpen your query letters. But then once you’ve done that, flash that troll a smile and keep walking. The grass will keep getting greener and greener with every bridge you cross.

So I’ve decided that on my journey as a writer, I will not allow myself to be preoccupied with my destination. Besides, the journey is far too beautiful. And if you’ve been stuck on that query-your-nth-novel-like-there’s-no-tomorrow bridge (especially if n = 1), I hope this gives you a push to keep walking.

I close this post with the opening verses of an old Cat Stevens number.

Miles from nowhere, 
I guess I’ll take my time,
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Look up at the mountain 
I have to climb,
Oh yeah, to reach there.

Published in The Society of Classical Poets 2013 Annual Journal

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Four of my five submissions were published in the 2013 Annual Journal of the Society of Classical Poets. The works included are:

Children of the Year
Jameel and Jameelah
On Cancer, Guns and Hit ‘n Runs
The Ever Rising Tide

This is a real honor for me considering only forty poets were selected from over 600 participants, and the journal has about seventy-five poems in it. Very heartening for me and my work.

Thanks to Evan Mantyk for his consideration, and for his zeal in keeping the tradition of classical English poetry alive and thriving.

-KM

My first message

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Welcome to my blog. 
Over the next few days, I plan to post poems I have written in the past. Once I’ve done that, I will continue posting my new works as they come to be.

And I welcome all kinds of feedback, of course :-).