I’m an honest believer that what we write both reflects and patterns the ways we perceive, what we believe, how we are in the world. And its not only about what we write, but what we produce, what we choose to put out. But recent experiences have brought these beliefs to a head, forcing me to think about what I write and the effect my decisions to stick thoughts onto paper have on my reality.

My parents’ garage burned down at the end of last year in Texas. Luckily, no one was harmed, but my wonderful cat Neelu passed away in the flames. Our other cat, Shanti, escaped somehow and was only found two days later, her formerly white fur now a dull smoky shade, her little body bruised and suffering occasional nighttime coughing fits. Nothing else survived; all was burnt. The smoke had creeped into the house and anything exposed to it was taken by the insurance company for cleaning. My parents can’t work out at the gym because their shoes are being dry-cleaned. The stuff in the fridge was rotting. Electricity and water, cut off. My sister didn’t want to look at Neelu’s body, which was luckily taken care of by one of the Latino firemen who was wearing a tulsi mala and had pictures of Krishna at home, on his Altar.

Fires in my neighborhood is a subject of a short story that I had worked on (and a piece of it posted here) a few months back. In it, I was driving up to my neighborhood late at night and became quickly concerned for my family when I saw the flames emanating from our slice of suburbia, the Orchard Lakes subdivision. These worries came back to me when I got the phone call about Neelu and the garage. I couldn’t believe it, and after being immensely thankful that my parents were okay, my thoughts eventually turned to my long-standing fascination with natural yet odd things, and how this is the second time that what I write is connected to what happens to me, and my family.

The first was when I was writing another short story about a suburban Muslim family not unlike my own. When thinking about a certain character, my friend Birj came immediately to mind. His irreverence and illogical nature, dedication to social justice, our kinship over bad jokes and puns were a “natural fit” for the character I was contemplating. Once I figured out how to incorporate him, I decided to make the character disappear. Two days later, I find out that Birj had passed. Since then, I haven’t been able to finish that story.

I gradually became afraid that what I write shadows a later reality. I remember my exact thoughts when I decided to make that character disappear - I thought it novel and an interesting plot twist. But more, it just felt natural and furthered the story along in a direction I hadn’t yet thought through but knew was right. That I was fascinated with the giant fire is not abnormal - but when I chose to write about that over other odd things, it foreshadowed what happened a few weeks ago - and another disappearance.

A friend recently said that it could be that I can see the future, that I have the ability to make premonitions. But before that, that same friend told me I should stop writing. My sister said the same. So because of that, I’ve had a tough time writing.

So this is more complex than mere writer’s block. I’m afraid of what I might write in the future because it might turn into something I never expected. Its hard to know where to go from here.

Posted by Vivek on Monday, January 22nd, 2007 at 1:10 am.