On this Blog I write two things and two things only:
Short Fiction pieces and Book Thoughts
The Short Fiction is stand alone writing, a few pages at the most, often much less. They’re experiments, concepts, abstract objects, practice. I hope to try new things, receive your valued feedback, entertain and inspire thought. If you read them, leave a comment, I’m eager to hear what you have to say.
The Book Reviews are labelled Book Thoughts. They are not conventional reviews; they do not try to measure how good or bad a book is meant to be. They look at what the book is saying, at how it fits into the author’s canon and shares what I’ve taken from it (if anything). They aim to give you enough information to decide if you’re interested in reading the book yourself. I’m always eager for book suggestions, feel free to drop those in the comments too. The only criteria is that the book be good.
In my personal space I write novels. Once I am published, I will list my books here too.
Who am I? That’s the fundamental question isn’t it? I once heard someone say that all stories are born of the same root, that there is only one story: “Who am I?” Some folks rely on pre-packaged narratives or post-prepared histories to answer that question. Some go for cultural constructions or social simulacrums. Some just do heroine. But me: I am a storyteller. So let me tell you a story.
They once called me Imran (they still do). I was born to doomed race of sentient primates living on a rock floating in space. I haven’t been to many other floating rocks but this is quite a nice rock if I do say so myself. I was fed numerous nuanced narratives by negligent natives on what life and the world were all about. For a time I devoured them; then I grew up. I became aware. And then I became more aware. And now I just keep becoming aware of how much I am not aware of.
I studied statistics to become an Actuary and I studied life to become a Writer. At work I punch magical numbers into a magical computer and more magical numbers come out. I am a sorcerer of statistics, a mathematical magician, a stochastic soothsayer. But when I arrive home, I pour my soul out on a page and I dream large and dream grand of making a living by the worth of my words. I have written one novel (presently unpublished). I am working on a second one. And after that I’ll keep writing novels until I run out ideas or die (although the two may be equivalent).
This Blog tells a story; this Blog tells my story. But does it answer: “Who am I?” Perhaps, perhaps not. And if the answer is not then here is more fuel to feed the flames:
I am an author, an artist, an actuary. I write rhymes and right wrongs. I sustain myself entirely on good literature. I eat paradoxes for breakfast; hyperboles are for lunch. Cape Town, South Africa is where I live; I have not yet found a home. I collect restaurants. I am happily married. I devour novels. I believe in God but I don’t think God believes in me. I am a senseless person doing senseless things; it makes sense. I share in the sorrows of generations gone past. I desire to ease the burdens of generations to come. This makes me an outcast, a misfit, a madman. I accept these accusations, I lament not these labels. I go forth and build new narratives: I design new dialects and dictate new definitions. In a different life, in a different time: I would be a different person. But who am I in this life? Which person am I now?
I am the youth in revolt. I am the young man gone astray. I am the artist going mad.