By Jeena R. Papaadi
“One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” – Friedrich Nietzsche
In our teenage, my sister and I used to haunt three libraries in our town.
One was a tiny, dark place, where older people sat outside in the evenings, reading newspapers and chatting; where all the books I wanted, battered, doodled, faded and ripped as they were, were crammed into one shelf, maybe two. I would head directly to these shelves; never even moderately curious to turn to the rest of the small library. Books that went missing or were never returned were not replaced. The books I wanted—by a beloved author or the next in a series or a new one I had heard of—were almost always checked out by someone else, and once in a while, if I’d find some of those much-desired books in transit, I would consider it magic.
The second was a larger and more frequented library in the heart of the city, with a range of medium battered books and a few good-looking ones. People who read them scribbled on their margins; sometimes the pages were torn. The books were bound tight and often we had to prise the binding apart to read. There was a moderate fine if books were lost or overdue. Readers would hide the books they wanted in a different shelf in a different part of the library so that they could find these during their next visit. Yes, it worked most of the time.
The third was an elegant, vast, air-conditioned, foreign space where we stepped into, holding our breath, for fear it would shatter its grandeur and sanctity. We had to take our shoes off at the entrance—the whole process giving a holy air to the place. We thoroughly enjoyed sinking our feet into the soft carpet. It would not be an exaggeration to say walking was one of the highlights of the library. Many of the readers hovering around the bookshelves looked befittingly intelligent, haughty and grave. The books were well maintained and arranged; and fines followed you home and lingered outside your door if you defaulted.
It gives me goosebumps when I recall youngsters slipping in and out of libraries with books under their arm, a sight I don’t see much these days for a variety of reasons. In the 80s and 90s, we were advised to keep story books away and focus on studies. Today we request and plead with our children to read a book or two.
Some of the books in the first library and perhaps in the second as well, were not recommended by grown-ups. No, we were specifically forbidden from approaching ‘those books’—they were ‘trash’. I concluded that books with intimate pictures on the cover were trash. They wrapped them in white paper to conceal the covers. In fact, the white wrapping signified a forbidden book. It also became the symbol of rebellion: when their teenagers walked about with white books, parents could only glare. I also associated some authors with this qualifier: ‘trash’. I dutifully kept my eyes away from them, however intriguing they seemed.
Years later, I would discover that some of those novels were actually thrillers and quite entertaining ones at that. The juicy cover picture served the purpose of enticing enough to make readers curious, and yet very little within the story would justify the image.
“The pleasure of creativity can erase any pain.” – Dr Nawal El Saadawi
When I started writing earnestly and was ready to release my work into the wilderness, I was, like any other writer, apprehensive about how it would be received. More than whether it would be disliked or ignored, I was worried that it would be of so poor a quality and would be considered ‘trash’. I had no clue what went into attaining that label, nor how to protect myself from it. I laboured to infuse energy and life and gravity into my writing so that it would be perceived a serious piece of work.
I have always been plagued by the question of what constitutes ‘trash’ or even ‘bad’ writing.
How do we, as readers and writers, distinguish good writing from bad?
A seemingly simple problem with a clear solution; however, it is anything but.
Surely a person who has been devouring books since the age of nine or ten, has grown up to be a decent judge of writing?
I am still unpacking the answer.
Bad writing could manifest itself in the form of poor language, unoriginal style, weak structure, unconvincing plots or flat characters, and generally would be unable to stand on its own. Good writing could excite the reader—by its concise, sharp and taut quality, rich characters, and its ability to surprise.
However, sometimes the difference is subtle. It is a feeling, rather than a quantitative measure of what went right or wrong. Reading is a subjective experience. One person’s ‘brilliant read’ could be another’s ‘trash’ or ‘boring stuff’.
One has only to take a glance at some of the reviews on critically acclaimed titles to know there is no such thing as a work that is loved by every single person who has read it.
Copied below are actual reviews on a renowned book by a Nobel Prize winner:
“I thought it was kind of boring.”
“This may be my favourite book of all time.”
“Pretentious, with poor descriptions and transparent characters.”
“The storytelling is so exhilarating that one gets goosebumps.”
The author may be beyond caring but the rest of us are around to assess their work.
A book that critics wrote off as mediocre becomes an overnight best-seller. A cleverly written, intriguing story with deep, unforgettable characters vanishes into the folds of history with not so much as a ripple. Every so often, out of the shadows of controversy emerges a superb piece of literature, taking off to heights unexpected. There is no formula to success in writing. Many factors apart from the quality of writing contribute to it. In fact, the very term ‘success’ defies definition. Famous critics, reviewers or others whose voices matter, can steer popular opinion in a certain direction as would clever marketing strategies. These are days when sales numbers do not necessarily mean what we think they mean.
No one sees your writing the way you do. No one.
Similarly, we can never really see our writing through another person’s eyes, and hence, never objectively judge it. The best we can do is to put some distance between us and the piece, come back to it weeks or months later and see if it still holds its ground.
By gauging the quality of writing in the works of both prominent and unknown authors, digging for their strengths and weaknesses, searching for the definition of ‘bad’ writing, I am trying to find the answer to the real question, simmering beneath the skin: How do I decide if my own writing is any good?
Am I a good writer?
There is a shift that happens almost overnight when you, as a discerning adult, transform from a ‘reader’ to a ‘writer’. From a person who praised or critiqued books with abandon, you have become one who appreciates the effort that goes into conjuring and creating something out of thin air.
All of a sudden, you have the superpower to see the writer behind a book, as though she were seated before you: working, seeking perfection, tearing her hair apart, rewriting, doubting and second guessing herself, pouncing on the perfect phrase, jumping for joy, sinking to the ground, all in a matter of minutes. You’re kinder to her and her creation, since you know the struggle so well.
I have heard writers (real as well as reel) declare that they have always wanted to write, and that they have been writing from the time they could pick up a pen.
I wish I had something similar to say but the truth is that although I did scribble in my teenage, I neither considered myself a writer, nor wanted to be a writer, and not even called my produce ‘writing’. It was just something I had to get out of my mind so it would not torture me so — jot it down, complete or not, and toss it to a side. If it clawed its way back into my mind, I would develop the idea and complete it—or procrastinate enough so that it died in my mind too.
A couple of friends who were allowed to read my writing were warned to keep their mouths shut about it. To this day, I have no clue what I was so terrified of. Of being laughed at? Of being read? Of being seen? Of being found? Of being ignored? Or was I not even sure? Had I tried to analyse the source of the fear, I might have found the courage to overcome it. I was intensely possessive of what I wrote, because it came from a well deep inside whose existence I could not explain or justify.
Like any wise teenager, I tore most of those writings apart, even set fire to some, so there was no way to judge their quality. What I remember makes me cringe a bit—but I consider it a good sign, because that is where I began.
Years later, when I got to the point of daring to call myself a writer, I sought the purpose of writing, several times: why do I want to write stories? Why do I write at all? Whence comes this beast, thrashing about in the dungeons of my mind? Why this unrelenting torment until I release it?
An answer would help me ascertain the best way to tackle the beast. The quest took me way back—to the point where I started reading.
As children, all of us loved listening to stories; many of us enjoyed reading as well. Books were perhaps the only engagement we had, apart from games.
Stories were captivating; they left us wanting more. When a narrative got dull, we could stop listening or reading. But what is it in stories that captivated us? Why did the thought of a book waiting for us, a story to come back to after school or work, excite us?
Books take us to worlds hitherto unknown; to people and cultures unfamiliar; to points of view unheard of. Add a breath-taking book cover to the mix—and there are no words to explain the exhilaration. That is the straightforward, simple response.
But no, I am not satisfied, so I dig deeper. What do we feel when we are reading a story; when we finish reading a story? Where does the hunger for the next book spring from?
In the midst of a particularly entertaining novel, I found my answer. The main character, lost and dejected like me, did something to change her life. She took a stand and went forward with a decision she had been postponing for long out of fear. I read that paragraph many times. I found that I could do something similar—and I did. I cannot recall if the outcome changed my life in any significant way—but the act of performing it did. The few hours I engaged in it, I was saved from darkness. I realised that I needed to keep changing my life in bouts and escapades.
Isn’t that the whole essence of life—not the outcome, but the journey? The book provided me with an answer not only to the wretchedness I was feeling, but also to my question—what do stories do?
Stories open up new possibilities. We read stories because somewhere in those pages we are going to find an idea; a solution. They may not solve all our problems, but they give us a direction. We realise we are not alone in this. We are reminded of how alike we are, across countries, across continents, across cultures, across genders, across race. The stories, for a brief moment in time, hold our heads above water. We breathe in huge gulps of air.
Which brings me to the next revelation—when we read, we are looking for a connection, of the kind that we don’t always find in real life. We connect with the characters, we identify with them and their challenges, we guide each other. We make friends with their friends. We fall in love with the people they fall in love with. We become them, flaws, follies, foolishness and all. Their embarrassment becomes ours. At the end of the book, we feel satisfied (though we want more) and we feel stronger and ready to take on the world, albeit for a short while.
We read and write stories to establish human connections. We read and write to feel less lonely, less depressed.
“How many times have people used a pen or a paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?” – Virginia Woolf.
Left to itself, the human mind has the tendency to sink to the bottom. Attaining peace is a daily struggle. We need to find a reason that has the power to raise our heads above the surface. Stories do that for us. For some of us fortunate enough to be able to create stories, all the more so. Isabel Allende writes in The Soul of a Woman: “I am grateful to that unhappy childhood because it provided ample material for my writing. I don’t know how novelists with happy childhoods in normal homes manage.”
The more miserable you are, the more meaningful and impactful the stuff you churn out. I am certain this applies to all forms of creativity. You have this vast reserve from which you can dredge out diamonds. I suppose the twisted way of putting it is, be happy you are miserable—misery makes you a genius.
One thing is certain: no one is coming to save us; we have to save ourselves. It’s a heady fact that simultaneously empowers and petrifies us.
And to save ourselves, we seek connections: a touch, a hug, a kind word, a compassionate look, a listening ear. However much we desire to live without depending on others, the universal truth is that, at some point or another, we would lean on them, and they on us.
When we write, we are doing the same thing: looking for connections in the world we create. If we feel them ourselves, so we can offer them to the reader.
We write to find and provide solace.
We write to find someone; often ourselves. At other times we write to get back at people we can’t in real life. It is liberating.
We write so as to do things we cannot in real life. We take flight in those pages, though in reality we are confined by infinite human laws. We write to break free. We write to support causes, we write to explore our stance.
It is said that when we write we are talking to ourselves; explaining and describing to ourselves; causing the situation to present itself before us in all its colours.
Even in an unlikely fictional world, one finds the author lurking between the lines. Her philosophy, her ideas, her notions and her truth jump at you. The exceptional writer does not distinguish between the story and herself. She becomes the story. The reader does not identify where the author ends and where fiction begins.
“For my best poems were all written when I felt the worst. When I was happy, I didn’t write anything.” – Langston Hughes
Human beings achieve immortality through their legacy. We read authors from centuries ago, see the world through their eyes, and realise, to our surprise, that they experienced pretty much the same prejudices and problems as we do in the 21st century.
Parents comment that their children are smarter than their own generation, older people speak of better times in their youth, there is always a war going on somewhere, bigotry thrives, slavery and oppression change forms and evolve, privileged people live comfortably and blame the underprivileged for their situation, the voiceless continue to suffer, everyone is unhappy.
Our convenience would always be the driving force of our progress. Any technological development that makes our lives simpler and allows us to be lethargic, would flourish. Everything else is a side dish.
I want my writing to survive. I want it to mirror today’s world. I want a future reader to earn a glimpse into my neck of the woods in this century. I want them to consider how similar life is, even when it is different. I want to reach out and hold their hands. Because the more we try to change, the more we go back to our original instincts.
For a person who was once mortified of her writing being seen, who was possessive about her thoughts and creativity, this desire seems strange: for her writing to be read and analysed and discussed and taken apart by the rest of the world—because it would mean she has lived. She has struggled. She has been brave. She has fallen and picked herself up. So many times. One has to pass through the long, dark tunnel of despair and emerge to have that change in perspective.
Creating art that survives is the only way a person can hope to achieve immortality. For most of us, the real question that keeps us awake at night is: will my writing outlive me?
Jeena R. Papaadi is a writer based in Bengaluru and Thiruvananthapuram, with six published books. Her work has appeared in several publications including The Hindu, Borderless Journal, The Hemlock Journal, Usawa Literary Review, The Wise Owl and Kitaab. Jeena’s work is listed at: https://linktr.ee/jeenapapaadi
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