Diaspora Dialogues

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On Paper

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Sometimes, all you can do is write. “Put your shit on the paper,” as Gloria Anzaldua wrote. From young, I did—mostly rants, streams of confusion, lust, and disillusion. My Aunt Marina’s gift of a spiral-bound Anne of Green Gables diary to me at age 11 got things going.

I was driven to write as a kid because I didn’t get the world, and I wanted to. (I still don’t get the world, but sometimes now I wonder if I don’t prefer it this way.) Things seemed a little clearer after writing them down and even when they didn’t, I’d still feel better afterwards. The clarity that writing allowed also gave me the confidence to speak my truth.

As I got older, I became a social justice activist and would often speak at events. This later turned into spoken word and storytelling. No matter what the medium, I wanted my work to be accessible—I was always focused on the clarity of the message, the moral of the story. I had something to say, and this was the best way I knew how to say it. Of course the words had to flow as I spoke them, but this was always secondary to the message.

Working with award-winning poet Margaret Christakos through the Diaspora Dialogues mentoring program, I was able to reflect on my poems as they lived, and as they struggled to, on the page. Margaret identified and respected my focus on the concrete. At the same time, she challenged me to go beyond the literal, to push boundaries, to play with the visual, the sound, the syntax, the form, the medium itself. I could still have my moral of the story, but she encouraged me to explore and confront the possibilities of the medium itself: to have fun with it.

Fun?

Put your shit on the paper, and have fun doing it.

Thank you, Margaret.

Thank you, Diaspora Dialogues.

The Little Things

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It’s the little things that inspire me: a pause between each breath, the syncopated moments of life. I try to stay present because life unfolds in moments, revealing the most beautiful and tragic things in ways that often get overlooked. My passion is to capture those unnoticed moments in words. But doing that is not easy. There are times when I stare at the computer screen for hours with little to show for it. I might feel inspired but can’t get anything out in writing. The challenges are plenty. I have a full-time job and personal responsibilities that take up my time and energy, leaving little room for writing. Then there are my internal fears of failure, of not being good enough, which often block my creative flow.

So why have I stayed committed to writing despite all the distress and frustration it, at times, puts me through? It’s more than just my love for words and for storytelling; writing brings meaning into my life. It brings a deep sense of fulfillment. And so I accept my challenges. I find ways to move through the blocks, no matter how difficult. I set goals, create schedules, organize myself to make time to write. Because if I want writing to be more than just a hobby, if I want to share my words, tell my stories, I have to do whatever it takes to hold myself accountable to writing. It’s the only way I can do what I love in a consistent way.

It’s important to know yourself as a writer. Know your writing habits, your challenges and your strengths. Know that writing is often a lonely process where it’s just you, your thoughts and the computer screen in front of you for hours on end. Know never to fall in love with your first draft, that even your greatest piece of writing has room for improvement. But also know when to be content with what you have. More importantly, know what your needs are as a writer in order to get your words out to the world.

Mentorships, as well as reading a lot and taking writing workshops, have been key in shaping my journey to becoming a writer. Mentorship programs, such as the one with Diaspora Dialogues, have allowed for experienced writers to engage with my work. Their valuable feedback has helped strengthen my writing voice and pushed me towards becoming the writer I want to be.

Birds in Flight

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As an emerging and aspiring writer, I was thrilled to be accepted to the Diaspora Dialogues Mentorship Program in 2011. Although, at the heart of it, I’ve always been a writer, it’s only in the past few years that I’ve been making more active efforts to turn my writing into a professional endeavour. Being paired with author and poet, Moez Surani, offered me valuable one-to-one attention on my short story, “Birds of Sorrow.” The piece is about a young couple living in Toronto, facing the death of a parent, learning about themselves and the inevitable life cycles no one can escape.

In my writing, I aim to capture the complicated moments that drive us in any particular direction. I focus on the feelings and experiences that force us to make hard choices, more so than the choices themselves. My mentor helped me to not only maintain that emphasis, but to do so with greater clarity about the depth and dimensions of my characters, and the contexts in which these moments occurred. Doing so added layers of complexity to my work. In writing, this is a skill I will carry with me beyond “Birds of Sorrow.”

Working with Diaspora Dialogues has been a great experience, challenging me to propel my writing to a new level and introducing me to a talented community of writers right here in the bustling city of Toronto.

My Boogieman

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Writing was my Boogieman, it was that blissful anxiety of doing something you weren’t supposed to. After all, I was the son of immigrants and there were no De Sousa’s or Ferreira’s or even Vieira’s on the cover of books deemed required reading. It seemed those names were reserved for the sides of battle-bruised pick-up trucks, with steely tool boxes that rattled like Jacob Marley’s chains. No big loss, not like I was a good speller and atrocious my grammar was. Anyway, no one would be interested in the yarns of a blue-collar city boy, no matter how well spun. So, I locked my scribbles away in a shoebox under the bed, guarded by my Boogieman.

I turned my focus on more culturally sanctioned endeavours, dressing up my square peg body to fit into the circular hole. But it soon became clear that practicality is boredom’s petri-dish. The need to tell a story still bubbled up inside me. It often climbed up my throat, leaped past my sharp tongue. It was a release of pressure that spattered conversations with hyperbole and satire. It seemed the Boogieman was more faithful to his nature than I was. I experimented with writing in college, where that sort of behaviour is tolerated. The Boogieman still lurked in the shadows of my room, as each pen stroke pushed me closer to a decision. Saying “I write,” was one thing, to call myself “A Writer” required embracing the commitment, the sacrifice and the vow of poverty. I had counted on all that, but what took me by surprise was the support from other writers, established writers. There was a willingness to share not only their craft, but their struggles as well. They were writers who had broken the chains that stereotyped them, in turn elevating their true culture. Immigrants who blazed a trail and scaled higher obstacles than I will ever face.

They taught me that writing gives permission to explore. It allows me to ask questions, obliterate the answers and figure out new ones for myself. Writing brought my environment into sharp focus and I could see a city of immigrants who aspired to more than what their birthlands’ allowed. I understood, that with sweat and mortar, the De Sousa’s and Ferreira’s and even Vieira’s had left their mark on Toronto’s skyline, giving their children the messy luxury of carving out a place for themselves. The Boogieman still lingers, only now he encourages me so that perhaps one day I could be called a “Good Writer.”

Read, Write, and Repeat

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Talent has no place in the toolbox for an emerging writer. When people say, “You have a gift with words”—smile, be polite while aware of the struggle of all those hours you spent weighing every single word. Recall the rules of writing. Measure the depth of character. Remember elements like story opening and closing, voice, language selection, plot, theme, pace. How do you balance it all while still keeping the concept intact? Without seeming author intrusive? How do you create a world that seduces the reader with such delicate artistry? How do you weave strands from your subconscious into something powerful, meaningful, authentic to the reader?

And what happens when you finish your masterpiece? Re-read it and think: Holy hats, this has to be the most tiring, pointless piece of meandering I’ve ever created.

Enter Diaspora Dialogues. Enter your mentor, a master in the art of writing. This person will undoubtedly tell you that from a professional and artistic standpoint, your work isn’t that bad. In fact, there are sections that move, phrases that evoke and they’ll mean it because the piece you’ve locked yourself into can’t be seen at such close range. You’ve lost your objectivity. But your mentor is equipped with a set of fresh eyeballs that survey what you deem as old territory. Their position—their hard-earned abilities to write yet not think about writing—enables them to intrinsically offer suggestions on how to make the piece more? More. And all you have to do is listen. Forget ego, and understand that writing isn’t about talent—at least not at the start. Hear what they have to say, question, converse and learn. Read, write and repeat every day.

Diaspora Dialogues also enables you to get away from yourself. If you’re anything like me, there are moments, after days and days spent in solitude, writing yourself into circles, maybe boxes, where the last person you want to hear from is you. Diaspora offers a community of writers who volunteer insight; fortify you with support, and this, you take home.

Plus the image that all over Toronto are writers that join you in the solitary ritual of creating: alone but altogether.

Writing Is Believing

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I am one of Diaspora Dialogues’ 2011 emerging writers. My piece “Dear Professor L,” is a creative non-fiction and will be published in TOK: Book 7. As you can tell by its title, it is written in a form of epistolary, an extended Thank-You letter to a professor who helped me understand my identity and my place as an immigrant child. She was an English professor and my first mentor who believed, “Stories are universal. They are bridges that help people connect together.” Through our relationship, I had learned an invaluable lesson and felt that it was my obligation to share this message with a bigger audience—that you are not alone. My intention was to share my personal experience and somehow show you, the reader, that stories and poetry have the power to heal the emotional wounds we carry deep within ourselves, sometimes for a very long time.

When I began writing this memoir, I made many mistakes. One of them was trying to flatter the reader by powdering my diction, trying to incorporate philosophical ideas, trying to sound professional and artsy. But soon I realized that it was never going to work. I had to admit that this was my first real attempt to write a short story, and I had to realize that the more I tried, the more I was diverging from my initial intention. So, I made a rule: honesty will be the foundation in my writing. However, because this story was purely based on recollection of memories and experiences from my past, it was difficult for me to articulate what I really meant. How can I write about memories and be completely honest at the same time?

To answer this question, I found old diaries I had written and picked several entries that were reflective and detailed. Naturally, those became the heart of my story and rendered my writing process a lot easier. Next, I went through our family photo album from the past. I picked a few photos that caught my eye, which I felt represented significant moments of our journey to Canada. Lastly, I talked to my family about this story. It was interesting how we all had different versions of the story, and it helped me figure out what part of my story was real and what was imagination. The process helped me build a real character I wanted to depict, and to find a voice that was genuine. This was the most truthful way I could think of to tell my story.

However, I was—and still am—a shy writer. I was not confident with my story at first. Quite frankly, I did not think that “Dear Professor L” was a “good story.” I overcame this insecurity while working with Olive Senior, my designated mentor at Diaspora Dialogues. She provided detailed review of my story with editorial suggestions, focused mainly on tightening the language, expression, and the flow of my story. We had many deep conversations about what it means to be a writer and what drives us to write. I remember her saying, “Nothing will happen until you start writing,” and that I should finish my story. Getting to know Olive and listening to her inspiring words were the best part of this program. She gave me the courage to take my next step—from someone who simply wanted to write, to becoming an emerging writer. I thank Diaspora Dialogues and Olive for believing in my story, and imparting that it is a story worth being heard.

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