What Freddie Mercury Taught Me About Breaking Free

I’m not sure how I get onto my tangents, but the other night I was thinking about Freddie Mercury and wondering why it was that he never talked much about his background- born an Parsi with parents from India in Zanzibar during British rule, years spent in boarding school in Bombay, and moving to London as a teenager. His silence on the topic seems to have led many to think he must have loathed his South Asian identity (he never struck me as a self-loathing man). Turns out, in giving precious few interviews, Freddie never talked much about *anything.*

I came across this thought piece which poses some interesting questions and makes a positive conclusion:

And it is also possible that Freddie was not “stuck” in multiple worlds — though he was rejected from most — but liberated. And maybe he had the right idea about  culture — that he was not Indian, Zoroastrian, British, or Zanzibarian — but quite simply, he was all that became of his passion: rock ‘n’ roll.

I understand being between worlds and being an outsider. I understand moving to the country of your parents’ origin as an adolescent and feeling like I have nothing in common with this place yet knowing it was part of what made me who I am. I understand the desire to not be labeled or to have to claim labels.

I was thinking about a recent conversation I had with a friend on the need for people to ask a person of color for their credentials to write a story related to his or her culture. As I am writing more, I realize that I write almost…nothing…Indian. My characters often are but it’s incidental or a sub-plot. Am I expected to write on Indian topics? Why must we draw these lines and distinctions? Perhaps finally I feel fatigued by identity politics.

What if we just didn’t talk about it? What if we just didn’t give people fodder to strike back? What if we just shrugged our shoulders and stopped defending the work and let it speak for itself? Maybe we should just keep people guessing (and use ambiguity where we can take it to do so).

Maybe we should all be like Freddie. I know he didn’t write Bollywood tunes (though wouldn’t it have been amazing if had?) or cultural lyrics for anyone to quiz him on his credentials; his ethnic ambiguity prevented people from asking about his credentials to write rock’n roll. His extreme privacy thwarted people from asking him much at all. (I would bet that he would have hated Twitter.)

Many are genuinely curious about an author’s inspiration and background influences. But there are some who seek to claim an author’s legitimacy. I found how Freddie navigated -or rather, didn’t navigate – his identity to be an interesting foil, yet completely fitting for a third-culture kid who was neither truly from Africa, India, or Britain (which are really more national than ethnic identities). Isn’t it after all similar to how I prefer to say that my parents are from India, but I was born in America? Perhaps most tellingly, being Indian/Asian in the UK in the 1960s was fraught with negative societal attitudes towards brown immigrants.

Volumes are spoken in the things not said. Even all his Queen band mate drummer Roger Taylor had to say about  his heritage was “Freddie did play (being Indian) down a bit. I think it was because he felt people wouldn’t equate being Indian with rock and roll.” I think it’s equally important to note Freddie never allowed himself to be defined as gay, straight, or bisexual: he was what was. And the world loved him for it.

I think what Freddie got intuitively was that there was no room for the barriers of “I vs. them” in order to have global appeal, and I think it was the very nature of his multiple layers of Other-ness that allowed him to be himself and to create his own path. Some of the art that has the most impact tends to be intersectional and genre-blending/bending. I think of others like: Prince, George Michael, and Michael Jackson.

Ultimately, here’s what his parents – the only people that matter with regards to this question – had to say: “He was kind and very respectful both to myself and his father.” And “…when he wasn’t away on tour, he would come home regularly. He always liked my cooking, especially my dahls, sweet and sour mince and cheese biscuits.” Even though he was the world’s biggest superstar at the time, he respected his parents and went home to eat his mother’s dahl. How very South Asian indeed.

I think Freddie perfectly captures how I feel about identity in the lines “I want to break free.”

The Creative Process

As I’ve been experiencing a resurgence in my writing, I’ve been thinking quite a lot about the creative process. How do ideas come into being? How are stories, poems, sketches, and songs created? Is it better to schedule in consistent, daily times for writing or is it better to write when the ideas move you?

The Idea
Some poems and stories flow from my brain as whole pieces, like Athena being born from Zeus’ head. Last year, I wrote a complete science fiction short story in my mind as I was about to fall asleep. Ideally I’d have penned it that night or the next morning, but I’m only pulling it out my brain now. Other ideas start out as a tiny spark: a scene, an image, a line of dialogue, a collection of notes, or a writing prompt. These ideas tend to need time and even research to flesh out.

Schedules and Word Counts
I’ve learned from a published YA author that it’s taken her vastly different times to complete novels of similar word counts; each one has been unique. Once an idea is on the page, it often takes on a life of its own. She also sets a goal of writing 1,000 words per day. A word count per day (or even week) may be a better way of approaching things for me rather than “I will shut the door and write between 10-12,” as my own creativity tends to ebb and flow. During one writing session at a ski lodge a few weeks ago, I stared out the window and listened to “Wham! Rap” the whole time, tickled by the “DHSS” refrain. On another occasion, the words didn’t come to me try as I might, so I spent the time outlining stories instead, pulling together ideas that had been floating in my head. Reaching a tangible, non-time-bound goal such as “I am finishing/revising this story today” or “I am writing 500 words this afternoon” may be a good middle ground. It’s routine and schedule that I find constraining.

I’ve read a lot about the writing schedules and habits of successful authors: morning vs. evening, outlines vs. no outlines, multiple vs. single projects, schedule vs. none (ok, most writers do tend to have some schedule). A former colleague and part-time writer told me that writing in the morning worked for him even if he wasn’t a morning person, because that way no matter what happened the rest of the day, the writing didn’t get bumped by errands, email, or work. In high school and college, I liked writing in the night, especially between about 10-11 pm because it was quiet and calming with daytime tasks done. I spent this time in different ways: to actualize ideas bursting at the seams, to revise, to gather information, or to read a book. It’s a time that still works for me.

Accountability
Ideas often come to me on a whim, and I try to write them down. But especially with stories, if I don’t treat them like work…I will not execute. I will allow other distractions to get in my way. I have work. I have errands. I have appointments. Also, the words don’t just pour out of me. They tend to be in a fog and I have to put a few down before more will come. What I am starting to see is that for me is that writing begets more writing. It’s a virtuous cycle, much like exercise (or so I hear).

What also works for me is establishing “public” accountability. When I was in the ski lodge, I told my girlfriends: ok, I’m going to go write for an hour now. After I came back, they would ask “How did it go?” and knowing that I needed to answer kept me honest. Sometimes I need a draft, rough as it may be, to work out where I want to or could go. A draft serves as the substrate, something I can react to in order to identify the gaps and think of the connectors. Sometimes I need to walk out the door and down the street before I can draw the rest of the map. Sometimes I need to get lost before I can find my way.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery
I love reading about writers’ processes. I’ve read and heard that writers like Neil Gaiman and Teri Pratchett take a journalistic approach of writing as work, rather than waiting for inspiration to hit. When I was on deadline for my college paper, I generated 500 words, rain or shine. Once in a while, they were good.

Recently, I’ve been getting more into the process of comedy writers like Tina Fey in developing sketches: it’s much more collaborative than writing stories and poems. Their process more closely resembles my professional life, where we have a topic, formulate objective and format, collaborate internally, review with external group leaders, present to a larger group of stakeholders, write and edit drafts, integrate comments, etc. Whether I’m inspired or not, the writing gets done. If I get stuck, I know the time is right to hand it off to a colleague. Inspiration plays a role here too. Some days I’m just not feeling it, so I let it to go a revisit it the next day (deadlines don’t always allow for this luxury).

Over the years I’m finding that writing might be a combination of both inspiration hitting and devoting the time to working on it. The “right brain” seems to be responsible for idea generation and that period of time where I just write and it flows. The “left brain” seems to be responsible for the more analytical tasks involved in planning, outlining, editing, and revising.

“If Music Be the Food of Love”
For me, music is the crux upon which my creativity rests. I almost cannot write unless I am listening to something I love. I have written so many poems to the beat of songs. Music focuses rather than distracts me, and I derive something unseen from that energy.

Songwriting itself fascinates me. I played piano for seven years, I can still follow sheet music, and I pay a lot of attention to musical arrangements. However, I don’t know the first thing about writing a song. What does that even mean? How do you bring together chords, melody, and lyrics? I had this idea of someone sitting at a piano or with a guitar and writing notes down meticulously on beautiful, blank sheet music stationery. Ok, I think some artists (like Stevie Nicks) create piano demos which then go into production. Others in bands appear to jam. I love what Sting has to say about about starting with an idea around which he can build a whole song, not just the first line because then he has to write the second line. It’s very conceptual and reminds me of how image-based poetry is written. Elton John has had a lifelong partnership with lyricist Bernie Taupin in which Taupin provides a series of lyrics and John writes the melodies-it’s unusual, but it works for them. Yet more unique seem to be those musicians who come to the table with the entire song in their heads, like George Michael or Michael Jackson, who sang each instrument part into a tape recorder. While Michael seemed to have total control over all the parts, Jackson had a more collaborative relationship with producers like Quincy Jones.

Zero songwriting ability aside, I am convinced that I write at all because of that initial love I had for music. Learning piano taught me about rhythm. I started writing poetry the year after I started playing, and perhaps this is no coincidence at all. When I write poetry and stories, I feel the same exhilaration that I used to when playing piano. My fingers flow with joy over the keyboard with flourishes – as though I am playing an instrument.

Quick note on pen/pencil and paper vs. typing: I used to write poems by hand and still do on occasion when I need or crave the tactile element; I started hand-writing stories, but transitioned to computer fairly quickly, as I was too impatient to write prose by hand. I imagine this is partly generational; I also wonder if I viewed the computer keyboard as an appropriate parallel to a piano keyboard. President Obama enjoys writing first drafts long-hand on yellow legal pad. I have toyed with using voice recording to capture ideas but the translation from mind to voice still eludes me.

Ultimately, I only have my best practices to share:

1. Write down your ideas: If you have an unreliable memory like me, writing down an idea before it slips from your consciousness can be helpful. You can jot it down on a post-it note, type it into your phone, or scribble into an email or notebook. Just don’t write it on your hand.

2. Make time to execute your projects: Time is a finite resource. Others have expounded on tips for how to make time but this is up to you. It may mean sacrificing other tasks that are less important, but only you can decide what those are. Can laundry and dishes wait until morning? Can you skip a social event? Think about what you can let go. Prioritize: this is hard, involves trade-offs, and it cannot be underestimated.

3. Experiment with different processes: Do you like to outline? Do you like to draft? Do you need to set goals such as a word count, hours, or a time bloc? If you don’t know, try it all out and see what works and what doesn’t. As you experiment, you will begin to understand the style and process that suits you.

4. Develop your writing into a habit: Write every day. Or at least every few days. Make it a habit. Once it becomes one, you’ll want to do it (like exercise, so I’m led to believe). It will be something you look forward to doing. Yes, it’s work, but work you want, need and love, right?

5. Give yourself a break: Nobody’s a machine. Find out what works for you during the process and to reset you during down times. Music, tea, reading. Sometimes, it’s about the magic that happens in between as your unconscious sorts it all out (in bed, in the shower, on the metro).

Or just toss all these notions out the window and just write!

How George Michael Helped Me Reconceptualize the Other

As I was diving more into George Michael as the person that was Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou following his death, I was struck by the way in which he characterized the influence of his Greek background in interviews.

In this clip during a press conference for the documentary “A Different Story,” Michael answers an awkward, but well-meaning question from a journalist about the role of Greek music and culture in his life.

An Australian friend explained this to me in a way to me that I had never understood. I think just the fact that I’m not English, I think the fact that I am of “mixed race” as it were. I think Andrew [Ridgeley] and I, to people outside of England…we just somehow appeared different because there was something very un-English about us I suppose.

Michael goes on to discuss how his music had always been rooted in American R&B and how he and his Wham! band mate Ridgeley (who was English and Italian/Egyptian) had projected their sexuality in a way that was very un-British at the time. “It’s not like I listened to a lot of Greek music at home as a child, well not voluntarily anyway,” Michael says.

This last part made me laugh, as it reminded me of how I listened to Tamil music at home only kicking and screaming. I was also taken with his point here because he talks about what he’s not in a positive way, and what he’s not isn’t necessarily based in his roots, but in what he genuinely likes, which was American R&B. His definition of himself as the Other appears to be a far more compelling driver in his life than the elements of Greek heritage itself.

He discusses his upbringing further in this BBC interview.

My father was the absolute archetypal 1950’s immigrant from Cyprus. Very determined. And every single member of his family made something of themselves in this country. They’re a typical immigrant family that worked their asses off and reaped the rewards.

This description resonated with me as it reminded me so much of my own parents, who emigrated from India. It occurred to me hard work and determination is not something specific to any one culture; however, it is quite emblematic of immigrant status.

Michael also reveals that his mother’s origins weren’t English as she found out from her own mother when she died that she had been Jewish. Michael was not at all an Anglo-Saxon Brit, but in fact had these layered elements to his background. In his life, he navigated aspects of both cultural and sexual identity and being the Other as best as he could.

A light bulb went off in my head.

I am an unrepentant atheist. I do not have particular aspects of Indian culture to which I cling. I’ve learned to cook a few Indian dishes from my mom, but I will never be as adept as cooking is not an interest of mine. At the same time, I have a keen propensity for language and I speak fluent Tamil. I certainly do consider myself Indian.

I realize there is a great degree of variability among first-generation Americans* in terms of how they negotiate elements of identity with themselves, and that it is a personal decision. However, I went through this phase last year where I questioned whether to do more “Indian” things in terms of food or experiences, and it felt so unnatural, not like me at all. Or taking Michael’s own words “not voluntarily at least.”

As a writer of poetry and short fiction, I pursue topics that are of interest to me, regardless of origin. I do not necessarily feel the need to be an Indian or diaspora writer. In fact, I want to be an intersectional writer. Even when I delve into Indian mythology, I am pre-occupied by the Other as in a piece I wrote with Roshani Chokshi in Papercuts magazine to bring light to the voices of marginalized women in the Mahabharata – not the heroines – but the castaways. I am usually far more enamored with Sumerian/Babylonian and Celtic mythology. I gravitate towards what my heart wants.

I realized that my perception of myself as the Other has a far more defining – and even empowering – influence on my life than that of Indian or South Asian culture itself. And I am completely happy with that; in fact, understanding this is a huge weight off my shoulders.

It seems so obvious, but I needed to hear it from someone else.

*I am defining first-generation here as the first generation born in the United States.

Note: I clearly had too much to say about George Michael to relegate it to just one post.

You’re My Man: Reflecting on George Michael

A week after the 2016 U.S. presidential election,  I overheard a story on CBS Sunday Morning from my kitchen about Smokey Robinson. I came bounding into the living room with terror in my voice, “What happened to Smokey?” At this point, if I heard any more bad news, especially about a musical artist I loved, I was going to lose it. My spouse chirped “Oh, nothing! They’re just giving him an award.”

Unfortunately, 2016 did not go by on that sigh of relief. On Christmas Day just minutes after I was listening to “Last Christmas,” my all-time favorite holiday tune on account of being so brazenly forlorn, I learned that we lost George Michael. This time, I did lose it.

The year started and ended with the deaths of two of my favorite artists, David Bowie and George Michael. Unlike the way I pored over every style choice, every film foray, and every song lyric of Bowie, I never bantered on about how much I loved Michael or analyzed his music. In the wake of his passing, I wondered if it may have been because I didn’t need to. In every sense—his voice, songwriting, image, and charity—I felt his work stood for itself. At once transparent and private, he was just there. Until he wasn’t.

Michael had this subtle, elegant ability to subvert, reverse, and reclaim stereotypes and convey messages through brilliant subtext. He didn’t need personas. He didn’t need gimmicks or frills. He integrated soul and R&B into his work seamlessly while respecting and crediting his African-American influences. He hardly needed to do anything but make music—something that seemed to come so purely and effortlessly to him. He wrote “Careless Whisper” at 17. Like Michael Jackson and Freddie Mercury, he had a true genius for songcraft and genre-blending.

With a strong handle on the abstract, Michael presented us with new uses for metaphors and structured multilayered meaning in his songs. It took me a long time to realize “Father Figure” did not refer to the sexualization of a parent, but held a deeper, spiritual meaning that I now understand on a metaphysical level but, much like the plays of W.B. Yeats, can’t quite articulate into words.

As a teenager in 1998, when I heard the news about Michael’s entrapment in a Los Angeles bathroom and the media subsequently raked him through the coals, I was confused and indignant—why are they ostracizing for him for being gay? Why were we not over this as a society already? The echoes of the life and tribulations of Oscar Wilde, who was imprisoned for “gross indecency” (in other words, being gay) and who died alone and too early from a prison-related injury, are not lost on me.

A child of the 80s, I’ve had a crush on George Michael for as long as I can remember. My mom sometimes likes to remind me “Oh, you liked him when you were five.” What? The blonde guy in the oversized white outfits?  When I was five? No way. Later on in my 20s, I reflected upon this and felt like it retroactively confirmed a pattern of mine: I had a slight tendency to fall for gay guys. Long before I fell for Anderson Cooper. Long before Michael was even officially out. Perhaps I always knew. Yes, there was a first so shh, no one can ever know.

Nothing is so magnetic as all white.

White suit with no shirt. Even better.

In retrospect, Michael’s sexual identity seems so obvious. He was telling us all along, as Daniel Larkin so keenly notes in his piece “The Thinly Veiled Queerness of George Michael’s Love Songs.” Yet, his work transcends gender and sex. With songs like “Faith” and the ever unnecessarily controversial “I Want Your Sex,” he challenges us to remove the shackles of taboo and heteronormativity. In his live performances, he exudes this kind of bold sexuality that’s neither straight nor gay nor black nor white. It defies all labels. It’s kind of incredible. He’s just so… himself.

Earlier this year, I got through writing a scientific piece playing “Freedom 90” and “Fastlove” on repeat… for hours…days at a time to calm and focus me, until I refined every last word. This was when I started listening to Michael seriously again after many years and with a sudden, premonitory insistence. I remember listening to “Father Figure” and reading Jessie L. Weston’s From Ritual to Romance, which analyzes the Arthurian legend of the Grail through the lens of pagan motifs, and finding the missing pieces of the puzzle I needed to outline a story I’ve long been attempting to write. Something about his music allows me to uncover and connect concepts.

George Michael's performance of "Fastlove" in London, 2008.

Nearly three years ago, a close childhood friend passed away at age 32 from breast cancer. She was a physician, a mother, a wife. My first memory of her was when my parents dropped me off at her house one evening while they were away. I was scared they wouldn’t return. Shy and insecure little thing I was, I remember her comforting and reassuring me. She was my first real friend. Throughout high school, she had encouraged my writing. I knew that she would have never wanted me to stop.  After she was gone, I wrote my first poem in three years. It was as though in her physical departure, she guided me back to poetry as a muse. From that moment, I have written and published some of my best work in years.

Part of me wonders if artists like Bowie, Prince, and Michael are simply too good for our emerging world: the era of Trump, misguided populism, and neo-Nazi, white ethno-nationalism. We don’t deserve them. The thought haunts me in the back of my brain. These artists have worked so hard for and have contributed to so much for which Trump and his entourage stand against. Are we seriously going to unwind the clock on LGBT rights and other social progress? On multiculturalism? I live in a world where I can watch a woman with my skin tone, Priyanka Chopra, kicking butt on ABC with other women, many also of color. I can’t go back now.

My friend and fellow blogger Sitting Pugs mused, “Who’s going to continue the struggle now?”

Compounded by the election, I poured my grief over Michael’s death into my writing. I outlined and started short stories I’ve been hesitating on for months. Reading Michael Darer’s stellar piece in The Huffington Post on “Why losing George Michael hurts especially badly in 2016” brought into laser-sharp focus what I need to do. Just in time for 2017, I have the beginnings of a roadmap-infused with Michael’s own unbridled optimism in the face of adversity-to lead me through this quagmire. Now more than than ever, I feel the urgency to respond and fight with writing. Because it really is the one good thing that I’ve got.

I’ve taken the death of Michael really hard—as if I knew him personally—because even though I loved him, I too underrated him. The sheer irony of him is that I didn’t realize how much he meant to me until he was gone. But I also think in all his sly humor and cheek, that’s exactly how he would have wanted it to be. And in his exit, he has given me the ultimate gift of becoming my muse.

Musing

I was listening to Eric Clapton’s “Layla”  (the Derek and the Dominos version) the other day and became curious about the song’s muse, Pattie Boyd, who I knew was George Harrison’s wife at the time.  I suddenly wanted to know more about the woman who inspired the crazed angst that comes through so strongly in the song.  What kind of woman was she?  What made her so special?  What was it about her that would make a man’s pursue his best friend’s wife.

Pattie was a classic mod model, with the beautiful eyes, narrow shoulders and oval-faced innocent look of most mod models like Twiggy and Edie Sedgwick, who invariably remind me of my own mom who very well could have been one of them.  I’m not sure my questions regarding what made her so special were answered, but I came across some interesting thoughts penned by Boyd herself in which she talks about being a muse:

I think I was a romantic inspiration to Eric and George because I gave as much as I could to them both, to the detriment of myself. I was always there for them. Which I think is really what a muse is. You are living your life for somebody else.

Then, it struck me.  Being a muse may sound romantic and all, but ultimately it involves a level of self-effacing and dependency that is destructive for the person.  A person who employs a muse for his or her creativity enables the elimination of the muse’s identity.  Indeed, a wonderful artistic product may be produced.  But a song such as “Something” (written about Boyd by Harrison), or “Layla” becomes personalized and universalized by the listener.  Somewhere down the line, one will remember – oh yes, wasn’t that written about George Harrison’s wife?  What was the story again?  One doesn’t really remember the muse.

However, I think the destructive elements only occur when the muse is present and involved, as Boyd was in these relationships.  There is the absent muse too – for example, W.B. Yeats’ unrequited love for Maud Gonne, in which the muse is somewhat spared.  Though I can’t say the same for the artist.

I read another piece as well by Boyd where she goes into detail about her love triangle with Harrison and Clapton.  Her words and poignant and vulnerable.  She seems like a sweet and sensitive person who acknowledges her own role in the series of events that were destructive to the people involved, and yet at the same time produced some of the most enduring music of a generation.