Tag Archives: Elif Şafak

A love letter to Andew Lang – who helped me find the Karagoz puppets

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I am sure you are dead and gone.  But, I do love you nonetheless.  Although I never met you, nor could I have met you due to time travel limitations, I love you because it was the books you wrote and/or edited about fairy tales that sparked the beginning of my writing life as if crushing clementine skins in front of a match for ten tiny bursts of blue flame per second.

Your stories led me to writing my stories, even if naysayers may scoff and talk of important writing and important issues vs. navel-gazing a la the likes of me.  So, yes, here it is, I love you…and the golden field of moments in which I am lucky enough to find the inspiration, space and place to write them.

English: Elif Şafak

Recently, I wrote about Elif Şafak‘s words on the importance of stories.  Say what you will of her, some say she is an opportunist, some say she’s not all that, but she speaks in a lovely and engaging way about the politics of fiction, and about breaking down walls, expanding circles and enjoying in the overlapping of those circles.  Although you wouldn’t know it from my current profession, a professor of statistics, research methods and policy analysis, I do firmly feel that stories make the world go round. The telling of stories is very important to me as a teacher trying to engage students in a difficult topic (though I have not yet tried fairy tales) – but also as a human living life.

As a tiny child, my sister and I sat enthralled, in the bathtub, as my mother read us stories each night.  She conned us into take our nightly bath for years – just so that we could hear the next chapter of…say, the entire Chronicles of Narnia series, all of the Little House on the Prairie books – the massive set of Oz books nobody knows beyond The Wizard of Oz – and so many more.

The Chronicles of Narnia

The Chronicles of Narnia (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The stories even continued once we got out of the bath and into bed, snug as a bug in a rug, as she told us with supreme maternal certainty, tucking us in tightly between hospital corners.  There will be no bugs, she said.  After the bug games ended, our last story of the night was always some sort of fairy tale.  Yes, we read through the horrific Brother’s Grimm (leading to the occasional nightmares after chopped off hands, bloody stumps and all other manner of horrors) – but also through the various tales of Scheherazade in the Arabian Nights and, volume by volume, your own series of fairy books, Mr. Lang, one per color (silver, gold, violet, etc.). And that is really when I fell in love with you.

It was these stories full of magic, horror and wonder – and their impossible opportunity – that captivated me the most of all the stories my mom read to us.  Why can’t humans turn into birds and fly? Why can’t animals talk? Why can’t magic mirrors speak? Why can’t time freeze in place? Why can’t tree spirits plant flowers?  Why can’t purple be a character all on her own? Etcetera.

fairy tale pic

An image that might have made it onto one of your books, Mr. Lang (Photo credit: Kjirstin)

These fairy stories set my imagination on a meandering course at breakneck pace – and as a child I became a writer myself as a way to get the images out of my head and into the world to revel in.  I was able to publish poetry in a few journals around age 10 (terrible stuff, don’t know why anyone published it).  I was in special writing classes – and writing camps as a fairly young person – but as an unpopular and old-fashioned sort of a kid – this was not really cool.  In perhaps one of the most regrettable mistakes of my life, I turned down entry into the coveted “art band” cohort – a set of classes just for kids skilled in the arts and writing.  Only the “weird” kids joined it.  Alas, it was a long time before I embraced my inner weird – and by that time – the opportunity was all gone.

books

Akin to a stack of the same books from my 1970s childhood (Photo credit: sdminor81)

As life wound its way along, I lost my writing practice as Ann Lamott or Natalie Goldberg might call it – and moved on to other things…including a lot of reading in the magical realism vein (see About Liz Cameron, above, for more on that) but have returned to creative (vs. academic) writing over the past two  years as an outlet of sorts.  The Karagöz puppets over at slowly-by-slowly.com have been the means to this end – always inspiring me to set my pen to proverbial paper on this laptop – and to write about what is going on – to be more present than my breakneck-paced job and life afford me.  I am writing in order to try to take more control of life.  To actually, well, to actually live life a bit more and observe upon it and to learn – and to just plain have fun, let’s be honest.

As I am writing this, Esma the hippie puppet is enthralled in one story from the Silver Fairy Book.  She just lifted her head to tell me – “so that’s where you got the idea of rose petals and jasmine blooms coming out of my mouth and ears when I am elated and happy – from this story of the curse of the princess who have frogs and toads come out of her mouth – and then rubies and diamonds-  gosh – that couldn’t be very comfortable, could it?” Leaving Esma to her enjoyment of the story, I move back to you, dear Andrew Lang.

So, in closing, thank you for the fairy stories, for opening my eyes and unbinding my writing hands and crazy imaged-mind.  And thank you for being open to letting those Karagöz puppets take me the rest of the way on the beginning of this new writing journey.  (Karagöz snorts at this soft-hearted patter but I will pay no heed as this is a love letter, and many snort at love).

Yours in the dark and in the light of human imagination,

Liz

P.S. I hope you won’t mind, but Hacivad Bey nods his head approvingly, and suggests I send a love letter to my husband instead, quoting from the Mevlana himself: “Your eyelashes will write on my heart the poem that could never come from the pen of a poet.”

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Karagöz puppets in Pansyland: M’lady and the puppets review Perking the Pansies: Jack and Liam Move to Turkey

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Cover of Perking the Pansies: Jack and Liam Move to Turkey (image thanks to Jack Scott and Summertime Publishing)

Earlier this month, I wrote about Elif Şafak, the Turkish author who in her brilliant talk on the politics of fiction also addressed the importance of sharing and feeling stories in ways that allow for the crossing of cultures and true connection. And it is in this spirit that I feel Jack Scott has written his new book, Perking the Pansies: Jack and Liam Move to Turkey. By sharing his experiences, Jack treats us to a window into an unexpected world – warts and wonders alike.

As a fellow chronicler of the navigation of relationships in Turkish and other settings, I was particularly interested in understanding how Jack and Liam worked as a couple to both adjust to and enjoy their new surround…and the book did not disappoint. Let it be known that by “surround,” I am referring to the fact that Jack and Liam are English men who have moved to Turkey – in the face of potential homophobia even in artistic Bodrum, the “Bohemian oasis” in Turkey.

But let me start at the beginning, as I was starting to meander around what Jack calls Pansyland and what Elif Şafak might refer to as another circle for exploration and wall-breaking. When I first stumbled upon Perking the pansies, the uproarious and ribald blog kept by Jack about his life with husband Liam in Bodrum, Turkey, I knew I had found a gem. Enthralled by his rat-a-tat-tat speed of witticism and truly lovely snark, I became one of his many devoted readers.

As a new blogger focused on writing about my Turkish-American cross-cultural marriage, I always found myself inspired by Jack’s observations – not to mention his dogged blogging. Although he does not know it, Jack has in many ways inspired me to keep going on my own project…and to be brave about saying what I see, speaking about how I feel and thinking on what it may and may not mean in life. When I first read Jack’s sample chapters and realized a book was on the way – I knew something wonderful this way was coming…and was thrilled at the prospect of adding something more interesting to my bedside table than the stack of dry, academic tomes I read for work on a daily basis.

As I read Jack’s book late into the first night I got my hands on the book, the puppets reading avidly along on my shoulders, I found streaks of my own experiences in Bodrum and other parts of Turkey – but with a wonderful new lens. Having spent time in Bodrum with a range of Turkish characters that I wish I had Jack’s skill to categorize so hysterically, I have also had the opportunity to observe the various expats Jack so perfectly categorizes with his wicked wit. In the book, Jack brings to life the VOMITs (Victims of Men in Turkey), the Bodrum Belles, the Semigreys, the Emiköys (expats living in ‘real’ Turkish villages) and the like. Through these archetypes, I could relate to Jack’s story in my own way – and in many ways this brought me some measure of peace by seeing that my interpretations of life in Bodrum were not out there on the gangplank, alone and wrong at their worst. I found that they were also sparkling at their best due to Jack’s portrayals. What is perhaps best about the characters in the book is what Jack models – that we all need to make fun of ourselves at times – and of the ridiculous around us – and while Jack does this brilliantly – this is not his only feat.

Having now read through the book twice, each time read non-stop, cover to cover, alternately laughing and crying, I am still struck by the engaging verve and jauntiness with which Jack writes. As a professor of statistics, I have yet to calculate the odds of (as Jack puts it) “two openly gay, recently ‘married’ middle aged, middle class men escaping the liberal sanctuary of anonymous London to relocate to a Muslim country” but for once, I am happy (no, thrilled) to put down my academic mantle and just enjoy Jack’s infectious verve, as my Granny would say! Speaking of infectious verve, this book is filled with fabulous Britishisms. Jack’s book has kept me busy explaining Cockney rhyming slang and the like to M. – not to mention the puppets that inhabit my head, especially that wicked trickster Karagöz who cannot stop adding “innit” (isn’t it) to the end of his sentences now, as in “Lor’ luv a duck! this book is right funny, innit?” or “Awright geeezzaa! you are an’ all uptight trouble and strife, Kenne, run up those apples and pears and leave me ter read dis book in peace, innit?”

But beyond the hilarity of the language which hurtles the story along at breakneck pace, there is a lot here. Let’s take the pure fact that this book documents the everyday realities of two gay men on a true adventure unlike one we hear about everyday in this globalized, adventure-is-constant-seeming world. Having watched friends and colleagues endlessly worry about, strategize around and bravely address the often merciless ravages of homophobia in American society (and particularly in American academe where one might perhaps least expect it), I loved reading about the forthright living of life out loud that Jack and Liam are doing in a most unexpected place. I am reminded of the poignant party scene where Jack and Liam show their wedding video – and melt all of the hearts in the room. Despite the challenges of living in a cold and drippy wintry expat village from, at times, hell, this was an illuminating and of course, heartwarming, moment. As Jack puts it, “at times I think we’re floundering around like idiots, but now and then I think we’re making a real difference.” I couldn’t agree more with the latter point.

Beyond the power of presence and the bravery of being out in Turkey – the wonder of Perking the Pansies is also in its stories. It is through the stories of the lovely Üzgün (and his eventual murder) and sweet baby Adalet (and her eventual adoption) that we get a sense of more of the depth of Jack and Liam’s experience in Turkey as expats – both in terms of the challenges of living life as out gay men – and of the joys of friendship and relationship in the face of navigating a new and sometimes truly confusing culture. It is, after all, through our relationships with different people that we find the truth that perhaps all expats seek, I would argue. And as Jack narrates the couple’s first year in Turkey, we can see the truth of their good and life-changing decision emerging. It leaves me wanting to hear more about what unfolds, and what is under the veil of these characters over time. Where will all of this lead Jack and Liam? Well, I am sure we will see. Let’s hope they don’t abscond for Bulgaria anytime soon.

As for the puppets, they are over by the Christmas tree, cheering mightily about the book – and riding our dog around the apartment as if he was an elephant during the Raj in India while they wait for their individual turn to read the book. Karagöz is leading the cheer – “give me a P” he screams – to which the puppets tumbled themselves up into the shape of a P (much to the chagrin of the dog). Esma continues on – “give me an A” she cried – so excited that jasmine blooms started shooting out of her ears (which only happens when she is in a state of true bliss). Tiryaki, the opium addict who usually nods his way through the day, in a rare moment of energy on an opium-free day calls out “yeah, man, give me an N, you know for nargile, like on the cover of the book, to smoke from.” Bebe Ruhi, the questioner with Dwarfism, not wanting to be left out, and always wanting to find an opportune moment for a question, said “yes, and give me an S, for so many stories to ask more about.” Since nobody is home to think I am crazy for talking to my imaginary puppet friends (um, are they?), I jump up and join the crew – “give me a Y” I yell happily, ” it’s PANSY time!”

QUOTES FROM THE PUPPETS ON PERKING THE PANSIES: All of the puppets are so excited about this book – but they are sharing one copy – so far – only five have read the book cover to cover on their own – and here is what they have to say…

Karagöz the irreverent puppet who loves to create chaos and is not very learned says: “I love the brash and real style that Jack embodies in his writing. I’m a simpleton, not much for books, but this one made me want to read a lot more! I love that Jack and Liam are out, loud and proud.”

Hacivad Bey the learned Sufi has this to say “Rumi teaches us to love – and to be lovers of the world. Jack opens his heart in this writing – and writes about the search for meaning in life through this new adventure. I applaud his work in this arena. As the Mevlana himself used to say, he never thought he was a poet until he met Shams of Tabriz, and then it flowed out of him. Looks like Jack has found his muse.”

Zenne, the nervous nellie, is transfixed, and has this to say about the book “Well, I was quite nervous to read the book, I worried, what if I don’t like it? I really want to like it. But I loved it – and it made me see that even if there is fear about doing something brave – like moving to a new country as a gay couple – that fear can be overcome in the face of fun, adventure and community-building. Where’s the Valium – I want adventure!”

Tiryaki, the opium addict cum surfer dude, has this to say: “Dude, these guys know how to have a good time – a rockin’ read I’d stay straight for.”

Esma, the little hippie puppet, has this to say “as a traveler and lover of life, I applaud what Jack and Liam have done – taken a stand for themselves, for their sanity, for their relationship. These men know what is important – and have fun along the way. They shared it with us, and this gives us inspiration on our own journey to truth through m’lady’s cross-cultural marriage. Here is cheers to the examined life!”

Bebe Ruhi, the incessant question-asker, only has this to say “what will happen next? I’m dying to know!”

Buy the book – an Amazon bestseller! Enjoy Pansyland!

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Writamatrix and Hacıyatmaz: On the rote hard labor and love of writing

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Satellite image of Tierra del Fuego

My academic writing muse, the Writamatrix, is on vacation at down in the Tierra del Fuego, in Chile. She figures that if Magellan could work hard - so can I - so she is down there doing research on how to torture me further - can you see her on the satellite image? Nope, me neither, maybe it will be a while before she comes back. (Image via Wikipedia)

Well, it’s been a week – ok – more than a week – of writing on – stories.  The puppets that drive the blog have had laryngitis, you see.  They have been tracking Kourtney Kardashian’s advice for tea with ginger, lemon and honey, and slowly they are getting better.  Kenne reminds me that it is a matter of discipline when it comes to getting better when one is sick.  And of course, I can’t leave this topic of stories without addressing the issue of discipline in writing, so here we go.

Ah, discipline.  For years, my parents tried to instill this in me. Kenne, who as you will recall is the little puppet who wants me to mind my manners – and get M. to mind his as well – she is in cahoots with my parents on this matter.  They had us up at 6 a.m. and to bed by 8 p.m. on school days.  Dinner was always at 7 p.m. during the school year.  We had structured time for play and structured time for homework.  We had structured time for etiquette lessons at my Granny’s Anglican church on Cape Cod in the summers.  My parents exhibited a stick-to-it-ness, as my Mum referred to it, that rivaled gum on the bottom of your shoe – it would not leave.  As a child, even my creative writing was scheduled (after daily needlepoint, which I hated, and was terrible at – remind me to tell you about “the oppositional Q” in my alphabet sampler sometime).

I, however, am not built like this, some sort of disciplined, controlled machine of a person.  Zenne, the nervous nellie puppet, has started to wring her hands at this.  Many a time, I wish I were built in the form of a disciplined lot.  Kenne clucks her approval at this, a sign of hope vis-a-vis my potential to pull myself up by my bootstraps.  For me, when it comes to getting work done, the “muse” of sorts has to be there.  It is awfully hard to jump-start a muse, you know.  Take it from me, I’ve tried many times with jumper cables of all different sorts (think: Red Bull energy drink, self-loathing, pep-talks, etc.)  Right now I notice that Hacivad Bey strokes his mustache, and looks at me intently, seeing what it is that I will say  next.

This week has a lot to do with discipline.  It is, you see, the week when I have my tenure hearing at my University.  Tenure, or “job for life” barring the unforseen unforgivable act, depends on being a good teacher (well, at my University anyway, which is what it should be about, after all), a good community member (within and external to the University in the form of community service) and a good scholar.   Now, as someone who loves to write and for whom this is a fairly easy chore that I do not see as such, this has not been a huge problem.

But as I sit here, thinking about the last 7 years, I have really been driven by fear.  I have some sort of whip-cracking Writamatrix puppet who has constantly been on my butt to write STUFF THAT MATTERS and STUFF THAT MAKES A DIFFERENCE.  Not a bad thing to engage in writing for those goals.  However, it is just that for years now, I jump-started myself as a result of Writamatrix, the academic muse out of the need to PRODUCE PRODUCT for tenure, like a good worker bee, eh?  I am thinking of Marx and the Alienation of Labor now.  But in any case, at the moment, I have some academic writing I would like to do, but that muse, a.k.a. the Writamatrix, must be on vacation down in the Tierra del Fuego, in Chile.  I’m totally serious.  All that muse wants to do is “chillax,” as my students say.  Karagöz is not chillaxin’ – “She’s left you with her slacker cousin, that Esma the little hippie, you know, the Belly Button Gazer, who just wants you to write about life, writing, stories and – oh yeah – relationships.  You’ll never write any of that academic crap that nobody reads anyway ever again!! Ha!”

Yehuda Rebbe sighs at Karagöz, nods his head in my direction, and recalling his knowledge of the Christian bible, and how the Protestant Work Ethic draws so much from it, comments that the Writamatrix, well, she must be a Protestant, and not to worry, Protestants always find their way back home.  Esma, the tiny, often-meditating hippie puppet, on the other hand, is ignoring Karagöz (and Yehuda Rebbe, although she respects him greatly) totally (that’s where meditation comes in handy) and she reminds me that there is always a third way in life.  Jumping onto my keyboard, she leads me to an interview with Elif Şafak (Elif Shafak in American parlance), where she is asked about her writing process.  Ms. Şafak has this to say about writing:

“I am not someone who writes with the same pace every day. I do not have fixed working hours. Instead I have an inner pendulum. When the pendulum swings to one end, I start writing my new novel. Then I write nonstop, day and night. I feel pulled into the story, and I live with the characters inside my mind. This goes on for months and months. When the novel is over, the pendulum swings to the other end. Then I do other things. I socialize more, I travel more. I become a student of life again.”  (You can see her full interview, of which this is an excerpt, here).  Well, at least I fall in a camp with good company, those who write as their muse wishes, when their muse returns from her sojourns to different parts of the globe, as in my case.

The ardent, ever-true-to-his cause and roly-poly Hacıyatmaz, thanks to this link for image

Karagöz is jumping up and down – screaming the following “Ignore that little hippie,” he says, “please meet my good friend Hacıyatmaz  (“hah-juh-yacht-mahz”) the roly-poly doll who always bounces back like crazy until you break him – or finish playing and put him on his side.  the Writamatrix, that vixen, she sent him here – she knows you need a break from academic writing – but not from your own!  No sleep til Brooklyn, as the Beastie Boys say!”  Before I know what Karagöz is talking about, a new puppet wobbles his way across the floor to my feet, and wobbles, back-and-forth, back-and-forth in seeming eternity.  “Hello, m’lady,” he whispers with a giddy air, “I am Hacıyatmaz, I and I am here until you stop writing for YOURSELF, which is going to be never, so you’d better get used to me! You gave up once before when you didn’t join the special art and writers curriculum as a kid, but you will not do this again – not again!  My roly-poly status will remind you that all of that pent-up writer is deep in there – you can do all the academic writing you want – but don’t forget about the other side of you too.”   The grating sound of the round bottom of this new puppet is all I can hear on the table in front of me.  It will-not-stop unless I produce enough writing for one post a day – even if it is three week’s worth at a time for posting out.  I guess I am in for writer’s cramp now.

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