her say
‘You’ve written my life!” said the message in my inbox. “I’ve just finished reading your book and it’s got the answers I was seeking.” I’d set out on a journey to write a book that offered a fresh perspective on what it was like growing up as a British Asian Muslim woman.
This emotional reaction to Love in a Headscarf from all over the world is one that I feel heartened by. Especially as my bigger goal was to give voice to the many women's stories, like mine, that lie buried beneath misery memoirs, kiss-and-tell confessionals or traditional chick-lit. I love hearing from readers about the reactions that I've triggered: delight, fulfilment and a shift in perspective. Sometimes boredom, but I ignore that.
“I’m in the process of writing a book too ...” is the other line of response (followed up by the widespread myth that money must be rolling in now I’m published ... oh, if only!) As someone who came to authorship as a form of social activism, I’m keen for everyone to find their voices and contribute to our social commentary.
But what should I say when my excitement that their book is on the cusp is met by the paradoxical assertion that we are all authors, but that they just haven’t got round to it yet? My delight is tempered by comments that they’ve been writing for 10 years, it’s just something to dabble with, or “I haven’t actually started writing per se, but I know publishers will be interested …”
There’s a muse we all have. There’s truth to the adage that there’s a book in all of us. But to actually write it, all 40,000 or more words of it –my next is about 90,000, the first was 80,000 – to say something new and to be able to take huge advantage of the kindness of family while all that is on your mind is the book and its deadline to the exclusion of everything else, is not for the fainthearted. It’s hard work, soul-searing and emotionally draining.
I’m two weeks away from submitting my final manuscript for a second book, and the pain, fatigue, spiritual, creative and literary struggle is excruciating. Writing a book feels like being pregnant and giving birth. And I know, I’ve just had a baby, and she’s tiny. The sleepless nights, exhaustion and creative block with the end never seemingly in sight is exacerbated. Writing takes as long as writing takes, is the exhausting truth.
Before my two children, I lived inside my own imagination for several weeks to complete the manuscript. Now, while I’m sticking cotton wool to make clouds with my four- year-old, I’m thinking about how the chapters will unfold. Every nappy change is on automatic while I recite the sentences I want to write next. I have to decide whether to write late in the night knowing the baby will wake soon for a feed, or succumb to the minimum amount of sleep so I am able to look after two children the next day. And yet I continue to write, to chase the deadline.
The creative process is not a hobby or a form of relaxation. Inevitably it shakes you from the inner core because by its very nature it is transformative. I do it because I’m different by the end, better. That is the prize the eyes do not see, only the author knows. But of course there is a prize. The book itself is something you get to hold. And you get the responses of readers, which is the best joy of all.
Shelina Zahra Janmohamed is the author of Love in a Headscarf and blogs at www.spirit21.co.uk
