Category: personal

It was a busy week here at Casa Moorishgirl, while I put the finishing touches on The Things That Death Will Buy. Many thanks to Jim Ruland and Randa Jarrar, who took over for me while I was away.

There was something about knowing that this was my last chance to make any change that made me want to question every line, check every word, and sound out every line of dialogue. I did all that, and more, but now, at last, it’s all done. The final manuscript is a tad longer (and, I think, better) than the original one that was sent to the publisher.

I’m exhausted. My back hurts, my wrists ache, and I can barely keep my eyes open, but every time I look at that stack of pages, I feel a sense of pride and accomplishment. Now all I have to do is send it out and let things be.

A writer friend of mine read the manuscript a few weeks ago and said, much to my surprise, that this was a ‘political book.’ I didn’t intend to write a political book at all. I was interested in four characters, and how they ended up making the choice to risk their lives to emigrate to Europe. But I suppose that, as I begun to discover more about their lives, it was inevitable that questions of class and gender would arise, and, since this was a book set at the turn of the last century in Morocco, that questions of religion and politics would also come up.

You’ll have a chance to find out for yourself, dear reader. Algonquin has decided to move the release of The Things That Death Will Buy to the fall, so it should be in bookstores in early October.

I’m on my way to bed. I hope to finally have time to catch up on email and blog very soon, so look for more posts in the early afternoon.

If you have weakness for bad puns like I do, you will find this poor mans mash-up of an ambivalent country western hit humorous. (With thanks to Alicia of Burbank and apologies to no one.)

Well, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother knockin
Yeah, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother knockin
If the house is Moroccan, don’t bother, come on in
Kick off your shoes start losin the blues
This old house ain’t got nothin to lose
Seen it all for years, start spreadin the news
We got room on the floor, come on baby shake sumpin loose
Well, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother knockin
Yeah, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother knockin
Yeah, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother come on in
Well, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother knockin
Yeah, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother knockin
Yeah, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother come on in
Walkin up the street you can hear the sound
Of some bad honky tonkers really layin it down
They’ve seen it all for years and ave got nothin to lose
So get out on the floor shimmy til you shake sumpin loose
Well, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother knockin
Yeah, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother knockin
Yeah, the house is Moroccan, don’t bother come on in
I said the house is Moroccan, don’t bother come on in

Okay, so maybe Cafe Boogalo is not the best place to celebrate Mardi Gras after all. I don’t know which was sadder: the ancient udders on display or the Wilfred Brimley on acid bluesman calling for some nip. Sir, it may be Mardi Gras, but it is still the 21st century. This lame holiday is officially over but the 6th Street crew still rules.

I haven’t often talked about my writing on this blog because I’ve always meant for Moorishgirl to be a window for me onto the outside world, not the other way around. And I also had the sentiment that writing is a solitary activity, something I do every day for and by myself. Sometimes, when a piece gets a prize or is published somewhere, I share the news here, even though the recognition makes me simultaneously grateful and uncomfortable. Today is another one of those occasions when my work has received some attention that might interest you, dear reader. My agent sent out my manuscript, The Things That Death Will Buy, to publishers a few weeks ago, and I’m happy to report that I’ve accepted an offer for a two-book deal from Algonquin Books.

Wait, what manuscript? I hear you ask.

Three years ago, I started working on a short story about a group of people who were stranded on a lifeboat, in the middle of the Mediterranean. They were illegal immigrants who were attempting to cross the short distance–a mere twelve miles–between the coast of Morocco and Spain. No lights were allowed on the boat for fear of the coast guards, and the boat reeked of vomit–several people had become seasick. My narrator, Murad, was a gentle man, but he was very determined not to have to turn back. His struggle with his decision to immigrate was told through flashbacks. The story was titled “El Dorado,” which seemed fitting because of the riches that so many of the passengers believed were waiting for them on the other side.

I am an immigrant myself, and although I came to America under more privileged circumstances than these characters, I was deeply engaged by their journey to the fortress that is Europe. I grew increasingly interested in the passengers as individuals and so I wanted to know about their personal stories. I wanted to know and feel what it’s like to pay ridiculous amounts of money in order to risk one’s life for the sake of what would very likely be a third-rate job.

As I started to research this subject, I learned a lot about illegal immigration, how it worked, who benefited from it, the hypocrisy of governments on either side of the equation, the ordeals that people- some of them coming from places as far flung as Niger and Senegal- had to go through just to get to Tangier, which is where the trip (and my story) started. Risking their life in that way was itself a privilege for many of them.

So I took all the flashbacks about Murad and fleshed them out into a separate story. Murad was an innocent man–a man who believed that having a degree was somehow a guarantee of finding a job. His innocence had turned into bitterness and even feelings of emasculation when, upon his father’s death, his sister had become the sole provider for the family. (This story, titled “Better Luck Tomorrow,” will, coincidentally, appear in the next issue of The Baltimore Review.)

Then I turned to the woman who sat next to Murad on the boat. She was a mother, had her children with her, and I wondered how she came to risk not just her life but those of her children as well. As I started to write her story, I discovered a husban–abusive, loving and callous all at once, a few friends, but mostly I discovered that she was not a victim. She was someone who was doing what she thought was best for herself and her children.

The stories started to pile up and soon I realized I had a collection of linked stories on my hands. This coincided with a busy time in my personal life and so I put the collection aside and wrote a few, shorter, unrelated pieces. When I returned to the collection in the spring of 2004, I began to revise, of course, but I also found myself being curious, this time about what happened after the boat trip. I had grown fond of my characters, and I didn’t want to end my time with them in what was essentially a big question mark. So I started to write the after-stories–the stories of the survivors, those who get caught by the police and those who make it through.

What happened next was a delightful surprise. My agent took my manuscript and placed it with a wonderful house, and I feel enormously blessed and incredibly grateful to have ended up with them. The Things That Death Will Buy is due to come out in Spring 2006, and for the next few months I plan to focus more exclusively on my second novel, about which I’ll only say that identity and religion and politics figure prominently.

The January/February issue of film magazine The Independent is devoted to shorts, and includes, among other things, a production journal by director Jacob Okada and an overview of the short genre by Marissa Olson. I also happen to have a profile there about filmmaker Kevin Everson so if you’re interested, you can pick up a copy at any fine bookstore.

The new issue of Mizna is now available, and features poetry by Bushra Rehman and Shelley Ettinger, and fiction by Gregory Orfalea, Alia Yunis, and Mahmoud Kaabour, among many others. Visual art is provided by the enormously talented Marya Kazoun.

I happen to have a story in that issue, so if you’d like to subscribe, that would be cool. I also have an extra copy of the magazine to give away and I’ll gladly send it to the first person who emails me with his/her street address.