The fact that anyone has to ‘defend’ the decision to knight Rushdie…

… Is ridiculous, at best. At worst, it’s disturbing and sad. And the fact that other British politicians are using this situation as an opportunity to score points by feigning deep concern for Britain’s relationship with Pakistan is to be expected. The hardliners in Pakistan will take any excuse to steer the mob.

As a writer, I am profoundly irked by all this. I am especially irked, because all of this is being painted as a huge embarrassment for Britain. Embarrassment? Please. If anyone should feel embarrassed, it’s the people who are shouting slogans in defense of a vile code of blood vengeance that thinking Muslims reject (please don’t show up in my comments and start talking about how “real Muslims” are more than happy to spill the blood of anyone who dares inconvenience the nonexistent “Islamic state” – I’ve been around the block, and I know that Islam is a whole lot more interesting and complex than the fanatics make it out to be).

The funny thing is, like Jack Straw, I’m not even a fan of Rushdie. Unlike Jack Straw, I won’t pretend that the sociopathic bloodlust exhibited by people who can’t be bothered to understand literature (even the sort of literature that I don’t, personally, read) is even remotely legitimate (Naturally, Straw is referring to the well-mannered protests regarding this issue, at least I hope he is, but any compromise, at this point, will threaten the integrity of a relatively free British society, for a number of very specific reasons).

The fact that Pakistani officials used the word “Islamophobia” to refer to all this was particularly hilarious. “Islamophobia,” really? A country honours a prolific writer… Because it’s afraid of Islam? And not because, say, it simply doesn’t give a hoot about someone else’s interpretation of religion as coupled with a non-interpretation of a novel? Speaking of books, someone should really send these people a copy of He’s Just Not That Into You. I don’t doubt that some British officials privately predicted the possibility of a controversy – but all of this only means that Pakistani hard-liners are playing directly into their hands. It’s all politics, it’s all dirty. Writers get lost in this, it’s hard for a writer to breathe in this atmosphere. It’s especially sad that Rushdie’s writing should be so overshadowed, once again.

Oh, and apparently, now we can compare Rushdie to Osama. Wow, I hadn’t realized that this writer has killed thousands of people! Where would I be without the good “scholars” to set me straight?!

I wasn’t going to blog about this situation – because I don’t want to give the mob undeserved attention. But then I read some of the apologetics out there, and got angry. The liberal press will not (and should not) give a free pass to people who say things like, “let’s bomb Iran to smithereens.” The same thing should always go for the other side. And yet Salon is comparatively tame on the subject, of course. And what’s up with this whole West is West, East is East, thing anyway? There are people in all parts of the world who do not live by false dichotomies. Yet of course, the initial liberal impulse is to gently, and condescendingly, point out all of our wonderful “differences.” Them Eastern peoples, they’re just so diverse from us! Wow. I’m offended on behalf of Muslims everywhere now.

7 Points About Writing

Inspired by LitLove.

1. I absolutely hate people who excuse writerly misdeeds by pointing out “but s/he’s an artist!” So bloody what? So because you’re an “artist,” as opposed to, say, a plumber, it’s OK to be perpetually drunk and pretentious and annoying? No! Doesn’t mean I’m never drunk or pretentious or annoying – but neither should I try to excuse any of it by pointing to my long and illustrious history of.. *errr*

2. I think someone out there should give a course entitled “Managing Your Imagination.” George Romero, for example, has a wonderful imagination. As do Stephen King, Kazuo Ishiguro, Margaret Atwood, the writers on “Lost,” and… well, the list goes on. But how do all these people keep their imaginations from driving them insane? How come they’re not in straightjackets, drooling placidly  with a view of a padded wall? Because, damn, the things you imagine can haunt you in the worst ways.

3. As much as I like to write about writing, I will never do it as well as this guy.

4. The only thing that scares me more than the phrase “a writer’s writer” is the possibility of a zombie invasion.

5. I’m not really sure where I stand on the whole “a writer must always keep a journal” issue. It seems that there are two camps, and they are as divided as the Capulets and Montagues, but I can’t make up my mind. I’ve had periods when note-taking in journals seemed as essential as breathing, and periods when it just made my mind wander, causing me to accomplish virtually nothing. I think blogging may be the best form of note-taking for someone like me – it’s instant, electronic, immediate, and always up for review.

6. One of the reasons I like David Eggers has to do with the fact that he at least has the courage to point out that the modern definition of high art is far too narrow.

7. Plot is underrated. Vastly. Almost as vastly (and undeservingly) as sparkling wine from Crimea. There, I said it.

Greatest Hits: The American Edition

Live-blogging from Ukraine! Because I am having a Charlie moment! And because life is too short, especially life in the States – you can never quite get enough of it. In case you’re wondering, the hits are in no particular order.

Trip to New Orleans our junior year. Our greatest achievement was getting into a sleazy karaoke bar. Anna and I kept planning on getting in line to perform a song, but we were thankfully too wiped out to even stumble over to the stage when we had the chance to do so. Mark stormed off in search of a blues bar. I “peed on Mason” (a dirty rumour that WILL be squashed one day, no matter how many lawyers I have to go through), and Paula got up for church the very next morning, at six a.m., to be precise. Oh, and scary old people piled into the hotel elevator by the dozens, it malfunctioned, and my entire life flashed before my eyes – and it looked good.

Skipping work to go on a nature trip with my brother and parents. I was sixteen at the time, and had my first job selling tickets at the local cinema. I hated my job with the fire of a thousand suns. On that particular Sunday, we drove out to the forest after I pretended to have the flu. It was autumn, the trees were yellow, everything smelled like bonfires, and my dad climbed an oak and pretended to be a squirrel.

The night we played Apples to Apples in Jeff and Mary Clay’s old apartment.

Every single cast-party I’ve ever been to. With possibly one or two exceptions. And the favourite one, perhaps, being the time I slept on the floor next to a big yellow dog.

The first time Habibi and I kissed.

My second-ever Dave Matthews Band concert. On the count of three, we shouted for “Lie In Our Graves.”  We did this with annoying frequency. Dave couldn’t care less, but we were too busy dancing dorkily in the aisles to be upset.

That day at Snowshoe, when Anna yelled at us to turn around and let her change, and left the window open. Shortly afterward, a toothless old man appeared on the slope below. He yelled, “hey baby! I got chicken for ya! I’ll be waitin’!” Anna and I ran downstairs, and were accosted by another man, this one wanting to do his laundry in our room. After we managed to shake him off, I decided I needed a cigarette. I was immediately set upon by a third man, who screamed that my “cigarette looks good.” We finally holed up in a restaurant, only to be menaced by a freakishly large Great Dane named Czar, and Czar’s inebriated owner. Who knew that Snowshoe is like a bar straight  out of Grand Theft Auto?

The late-night Ewan McGregor film-fests in my bedroom.

Meteor showers – with Trey, and with the fam (at the end of the street, sitting on blankets sketchily).

The night I went to the party at Chris’ apartment on Central. At 2 a.m., Stavros and Dan and I decided to drive out to the beach to someone’s house. We kept getting lost, and Stavros kept saying things like: “And then we’re going to get to the end of this street, and there will be people with torches waiting for us. And they’ll be wearing masks. And chanting.” I kept screeching at him to stop it, and it only encouraged him further. We made it to the beach by dawn, and smoked by the ocean, and I freestyled in Russian – in front of other people. Then we went to bed for a while, and I slept next to Julie. I woke up and listened to Orbital on my iPod in the sand. I knew I was falling in wuuuuv with Habibi, I had to freaking clue as to where it would lead me, and it didn’t matter. I was the happiest girl in the world – the happiest girl outside a Sephora, anyway (tee hee).

With a little help from my friends

I just want to take this blog-moment thank the people who have been going out of their way to save my ass. This namely goes for Anna and Alex – but there are a few others involved as well. I hope that one day, I will have the honour of saving your asses right back, guys. Thank you for consenting to be my friends, and for being so great at it, better than I could probably ever be. I, who am about to start a new and lonely life bereft of your company, salute you.

“…И вот тогда из слез из темноты
Из бедного невежества былого
Друзей моих прекрасные черты
Появятся и растворятся снова”

– Bella Akhmadulina.

And the higher your GPA, the racier your panties!*

This is the reality of many women and girls who live in super-duper religious communities (and by “religious” I really mean “backward” – the two don’t necessarily have to go hand-in-hand, but spirituality is so complex that most people just take the easy way out, turning into drooling, intellectually stagnant fanatics).

Like Aliana, I am incredibly saddened to read about incidents of young women being threatened for daring to acquire knowledge. An educated woman is dangerous in certain circles. She may make the fragile egos of the men around her wilt faster than their, ah, appendages.

If you think that Muslims are bad – check out some of the comments my relatives got, having divulged to fellow Orthodox church-goers the fact that yours truly had attended college in the U.S.:

“How will Natalia find a husband now?” (Of course, the assumption is that I’m just DYING to get married – after all, I’m an old maid! “Normal” women get married at 18!)

“A good Orthodox man is not going to like that sort of thing.” (I’ve already got a good agnostic man, but thanks…)

“It’s especially bad if she was in the humanities – they teach nothing but filth.” (“And now my cousin, who’s also my beloved wife, will accompany me to our weekly book-burning!”)

“If she was living on her own, she’s pretty much a lost cause. Young women need constant supervision.” (I’m not even going to dignify this one with a snide comment)

“I don’t want to scare you, sister, but I hear they have the falling-down sin in abundance in college!” (For the uninitiated, the falling-down sin (повальный грех) = orgy!)

I honestly wish I was making this stuff up.

*- This basically means that Anna goes commando every day. Go Anna!