Friday, August 14, 2009
The BS Column: Don't sue the science guys
(Published in the Business Standard, August 10, 2009. My apologies for not updating this blog more frequently; I'm trying to finish a project by August-end, and hope to be back to bloggishness in September.)Simon Singh authored the first book about mathematics to become a number one bestseller in the UK, Fermat’s Last Theorem. His next two books, The Code Book and The Big Bang, are among the most lucid and precise examples of science writing you might read today. He’s a great entertainer, electrocuting gherkins on stage as an example of the “red shift” effect that helps prove the universe is expanding.
He’s also at the centre of a growing debate about science writing, libel laws and the rise of pseudoscience. About a year ago, Simon Singh wrote “Beware the spinal trap”, an article that examined the claims made by chiropractors. In the piece, Singh evaluated the risks involved in undergoing chiropractic treatment, and dismissed some claims—that chiropractors can treat children with asthma, colic and other ailments—as “utter nonsense” and “bogus”. This seemed to be a routine, if well-researched piece; Singh offered evidence of the links between bad chiropractic techniques and heart strokes, and seemed to back up his scepticism with facts.
The British Chiropractic Association sued Singh, claiming that he had defamed their reputation, and as of 4th August, the writer was fighting for the right of permission to appeal in what has become a key libel case. Libel suits are feared in the UK—they are expensive, with costs for the defence usually running well over POUNDS 100,000, and the burden of proof rests with the defence. Though much of the case concerns Singh’s use of the word “bogus”—to the delight of language scholars who’ve been blogging learned definitions and word origins—the broader issue is whether libel laws should apply to science writing.
The reason why Simon Singh is willing to go through the long, grim and financially draining process of a court case rather than issue a general apology is because he believes that science writers should be free to question dodgy science or pseudo-scientific claims. Libel suits are an easy way to prevent science writers from tackling certain subjects—as the pharmacological industry well knows. Over time, the threat of libel acts as a deterrent, preventing public inquiry into subjects that affect us at a very basic level. The pressure group Sense About Science has been running a very successful Keep Libel Laws Out of Science campaign, and is now in touch with PEN and other free-speech groups.
As an illustration of how important it is to promote freedom of speech in science writing, consider the case of Dr Ben Goldacre. His book, Bad Science, is on the Aventis Science Writing shortlist for 2009, and includes Goldacre’s debunking of vitamin pill magnate Matthias Rath’s dangerous claims in a campaign in Africa that anti-Aids drugs were poisonous, and that his vitamins were the true cure. Goldacre writes, “This chapter did not appear in the original edition of this book, because for fifteen months leading up to September 2008 the vitamin-pill entrepreneur Matthias Rath was suing me personally, and the Guardian, for libel. The Guardian generously paid for the lawyers, and in September 2008 Rath dropped his case, which had cost in excess of £500,000 to defend. Rath has paid £220,000 already, and the rest will hopefully follow. Nobody will ever repay me for the endless meetings, the time off work, or the days spent poring over tables filled with endlessly cross-referenced court documents.”
There’s a chilling lesson to be drawn here. Had Goldacre been more easily intimidated, or had the Guardian been less willing or able to fight such an expensive court case, the truth about Rath’s claims may never have come to public attention. Much of science writing today is pressed into the service of debunking pseudoscience—as with the patient and necessary attacks on creationist “theories” of evolution, or with examining the claims made by the pharma, food and alternative therapy industries. Many scientists are employed by these industries, and it’s for the independent researcher/ writer to offer the other side, or to examine claims more carefully.
It would have been so easy for Simon Singh to offer a ritual apology, and to save himself the trouble he’s been put to over the last twelve months. But he believes that his article addressed an important area of public awareness, especially with regard to children’s health—and he believes he did not defame chiropractors by drawing attention to the risks of the practice itself. “As a journalist,” he writes in a recent statement, “I have always been aware of the libel laws, but I don't think I ever fully appreciated the chilling effect they have on journalism - important articles are withdrawn and other stories are simply not commissioned because of the fear of libel.” It’s this absence, this rarely discussed silence, that Simon Singh and others like him are defending, in the UK and elsewhere.
Links:
From Ben Goldacre's site--the Matthias Rath chapter. Great reporting, and a frightening story.
From Sense About Science: Simon Singh's account of the trial
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
The BS Column: The return of the short story
(Published in the Business Standard, August 04, 2009)"For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.” Hemingway’s finest short story was written for a $10 bet, has never been bettered and hints at an entire universe of love, loss and grief in its three two-word sentences.
Most short stories occupy a more generous compass, but as with the Hemingway classic, there has often been a suggestion that divides the short story writers from the other kind: short stories are what you do for fun, real writing is more serious. This means that you, the reader, are often shortchanged—as is evident from this year’s Booker longlist. The reports in India focused on the absence of subcontinental writers from the longlist, but the bigger question is why the Booker would continue to ignore short stories as a genre.
To offer just one example of what’s missing, consider Kazuo Ishiguro, who has been shortlisted (and won) in the past for several of his novels, but who is absent from the Booker longlist in a year when his collection of music-themed short stories, Nocturnes, has been widely acclaimed.
In my brief stint in publishing, I quickly learned that literary agents and publishing houses abroad won’t look at short stories, no matter how promising. It’s a circular argument. While it’s easier to publish short story collections in India than in more fiercely competitive markets, many publishing houses still remain wary of commissioning short stories, because of the traditionally low sales for this form of writing.
There are exceptions—writers like Jhumpa Lahiri and more recently, Palash Krishna Mehrotra made their debuts with acclaimed collections of short stories, but they remain outliers. In the US, where the once-formidable magazine market for short stories has crumbled, most agents will advise their authors to concentrate on writing the far more publishable novel, rather than the hard-to-place short story collection.
This has an often bizarre effect on a writer’s work, pushing many who are temperamentally short story writers at heart to attempt a form that they never quite settle into. Some writers, like Rana Dasgupta with Tokyo Cancelled, Banana Yoshimoto with Asleep or David Mitchell with Cloud Atlas, have created a hybrid between the short story and the novel, where a running thematic link, or characters who play cameo roles in successive stories, provide a sense of novelistic connection.
It’s far more common to “discover” a writer’s short stories only after s/he has made their bones as a novelist—so Aravind Adiga’s short stories, which predate White Tiger, were released only after the success of the novel, or Junot Diaz’s early collection, Drown, emerged in non-US markets only after The Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao has come out. Readers will, of necessity, be reading out of chronological order, but at least they’ll get to see the breadth of a writer’s work.
There are signs that the three-to-four decade-long obsession with the novel at the expense of the short story might be changing. Some of this has to do with the power and clout exercised by better-established writers; some of this has to do with the influence of major prizes, such as the Man Booker International and the Pulitzer. And, I hope, some of this may have to do with the changing tastes of the reading public; if publishing is faced with a growing demand for short stories, the industry can no longer hide behind the excuse that “short stories don’t sell”.Earlier in 2009, the Man Booker International forced a re-examination of the importance of the short story when it handed the award to Alice Munro. Over four decades, Munro has published 16 collections of short fiction, and for years, criticism of her writing centred around the fact that she was “only” a short story writer, and had never attempted anything more ambitious.
The novelist Jane Smiley, one of the judges, put Munro’s achievements into perspective in her speech: “…The surface of Alice Munro’s works, its simplicity and quiet appearance, is a deceptive thing, that beneath that surface is a store of insight, a body of observation, and a world of wisdom that is close to addictive, a set of thoughts that we do not want to miss about characters and events that we feel a need to understand.”
In closing, here are a few suggestions. John Updike’s My Father’s Tears examines the world, 9/11, marriages and relationships from the perspective of the elderly and the ageing. Chimamanda Adichie’s The Thing Around Your Neck takes you into the world of a man in jail, the politics of a writing workshop and allows you to see America from the perspective of its newest arrivals. Kurt Vonnegut’s unpublished, often viciously funny early work is out in October, captured in Look at the Birdie. And Alice Munro’s Too Much Happiness offers nine stories that deal with disfigurement and the loss of children, among other things. That heap of novels can wait for a while.
(Links: My Father's Tears, by John Updike, in the New Yorker.
Cell One, by Chimamanda Adichie, in the New Yorker.
Dimension, by Alice Munro, in the New Yorker.
The Guardian Summer Short Story Special--Dave Eggers, William Boyd, David Mitchell and a host of others.)
Monday, August 03, 2009
The BS Column: In search of an Asian prize
(Published in the Business Standard, July 27, 2009)
The literary world attracts its share of harmless lunatics, and for some years, my mailbox was enlivened by the presence of a gentleman I will call Mr S K Parthasarathi. He had never been published, but had a burning desire to be recognised as an author.
For three consecutive years, he sent out exuberant emails announcing: “The S K Parthasarathi Award for Stellar and Superior Writing, judged by eminent Man of Letters Mr S K Parthasarathi, has been won by the finest Author, Mr S K Parthasarathi.” When he stopped sending the mails, it left a void in my life that nothing, not the Crossword, the Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize nor the Man Asian Booker could fill.
The SK Parthasarathi Award had this to its credit: it kept all parties happy, from the author to the judge to the prize administrator. The other three evolving literary prizes on the list face considerably greater challenges.
The Vodafone Crossword award has grown over the last eleven years, evolving as a multitude of issues from the nationality of the authors to the visibility of the prize has emerged. This year, the fiction award was split between debut author Neel Mukherjee (Past Continuous) and Amitav Ghosh (Sea of Poppies), in a decision that kicked off a post-ceremony debate. Is it fair to judge a new writer against someone who has been writing for years? The Booker judges sometimes deal with this by producing controversial shortlists, ignoring the heavyweights in order to encourage less well-known writers.
A two-winner result is a cop-out. The more “senior” author can feel slighted, the debutante can be unfairly judged, and the remainder of the shortlist can feel doubly dismissed. You could create more categories, but that can make an award a hydra-headed monster—too bewildering for the average reader to follow. Personally, I subscribe to the School of Hard Knocks theory—as a first-time author, your books are going to be judged by readers anyway against the greats. There are times when a debut author’s creativity and freshness will carry the day, and times when years of learning the craft will make a greater impact.
The Man Asian Booker has seen a sharp learning curve since its inception in 2007. The judges’ panel in the first year was drawn out of convenience chiefly from the Hong Kong literary world, since the prize was set up there; this year, the panel has a much wider sweep, with Gish Jen, Pankaj Mishra and Colm Toibin at the helm.
It remains the only major prize to encourage unpublished writers, and to accept manuscripts that have not been written in English. This puts more pressure on the prize administrators, in terms of the volume and range of manuscripts they have to evaluate, and the longlist often shows a huge variation in quality. The prize is still in its third year, and has time to evolve; if it becomes a useful scouting ground for publishers and literary agents, the Man Asian will have done a great deal to erase the invisibility of Asian authors. With a stronger focus on literary quality, this could grow into a substantial prize.
The Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize was instituted in 2008 in memory of the young and talented writer/editor who died in 2007. Its guidelines offer one way of looking at the tricky issue of how to handle an Asian prize. It’s open to all writers from the subcontinent, which takes care of the phantom author syndrome—the nagging sense you get when reading an awards shortlist that someone is missing, only to realise that the author you’re missing is Pakistani or Bangladeshi, not Indian.
By limiting books to the subcontinent, it manages to duck the other thorny issue—how do you define an Asian writer? (Do you include Iran, does an author from coastal China really have anything in common with an author from Nepal, that sort of thing.) The Shakti Bhatt prize is open to all genres. The categories are clearly literary rather than general: poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction (travel writing, autobiography, biography and narrative journalism) and drama.
The stipulation that all books must have been published in India gives entries a local focus. And in a more charming caveat emptor, the guidelines state: “Books that have been published elsewhere and have already won prizes are eligible, though less likely to win.” The breadth of genres might become a tricky area for the prize—it’s hard to judge the merits of poetry versus travel writing, for instance—but the 2008 shortlist was definitely one of the most interesting, from the reader’s point of view.
I don’t know whether any of these three prizes will become the pre-eminent “Asian” prize, but I do hope Shou Xing, god of longevity, will smile on them. As a collective of prizes, they’re likely to sharpen and redefine our view of Asian writing.
N.B. There is also the Golden Quill award, promoted by Indiaplaza, but it hasn't yet defined its criteria. At present, pulp and literary fiction are grouped together, which gives the Quill a very wide but puzzling selection of books. Take a look at this year's longlist.
The literary world attracts its share of harmless lunatics, and for some years, my mailbox was enlivened by the presence of a gentleman I will call Mr S K Parthasarathi. He had never been published, but had a burning desire to be recognised as an author.
For three consecutive years, he sent out exuberant emails announcing: “The S K Parthasarathi Award for Stellar and Superior Writing, judged by eminent Man of Letters Mr S K Parthasarathi, has been won by the finest Author, Mr S K Parthasarathi.” When he stopped sending the mails, it left a void in my life that nothing, not the Crossword, the Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize nor the Man Asian Booker could fill.
The SK Parthasarathi Award had this to its credit: it kept all parties happy, from the author to the judge to the prize administrator. The other three evolving literary prizes on the list face considerably greater challenges.
The Vodafone Crossword award has grown over the last eleven years, evolving as a multitude of issues from the nationality of the authors to the visibility of the prize has emerged. This year, the fiction award was split between debut author Neel Mukherjee (Past Continuous) and Amitav Ghosh (Sea of Poppies), in a decision that kicked off a post-ceremony debate. Is it fair to judge a new writer against someone who has been writing for years? The Booker judges sometimes deal with this by producing controversial shortlists, ignoring the heavyweights in order to encourage less well-known writers.
A two-winner result is a cop-out. The more “senior” author can feel slighted, the debutante can be unfairly judged, and the remainder of the shortlist can feel doubly dismissed. You could create more categories, but that can make an award a hydra-headed monster—too bewildering for the average reader to follow. Personally, I subscribe to the School of Hard Knocks theory—as a first-time author, your books are going to be judged by readers anyway against the greats. There are times when a debut author’s creativity and freshness will carry the day, and times when years of learning the craft will make a greater impact.
The Man Asian Booker has seen a sharp learning curve since its inception in 2007. The judges’ panel in the first year was drawn out of convenience chiefly from the Hong Kong literary world, since the prize was set up there; this year, the panel has a much wider sweep, with Gish Jen, Pankaj Mishra and Colm Toibin at the helm.
It remains the only major prize to encourage unpublished writers, and to accept manuscripts that have not been written in English. This puts more pressure on the prize administrators, in terms of the volume and range of manuscripts they have to evaluate, and the longlist often shows a huge variation in quality. The prize is still in its third year, and has time to evolve; if it becomes a useful scouting ground for publishers and literary agents, the Man Asian will have done a great deal to erase the invisibility of Asian authors. With a stronger focus on literary quality, this could grow into a substantial prize.
The Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize was instituted in 2008 in memory of the young and talented writer/editor who died in 2007. Its guidelines offer one way of looking at the tricky issue of how to handle an Asian prize. It’s open to all writers from the subcontinent, which takes care of the phantom author syndrome—the nagging sense you get when reading an awards shortlist that someone is missing, only to realise that the author you’re missing is Pakistani or Bangladeshi, not Indian.
By limiting books to the subcontinent, it manages to duck the other thorny issue—how do you define an Asian writer? (Do you include Iran, does an author from coastal China really have anything in common with an author from Nepal, that sort of thing.) The Shakti Bhatt prize is open to all genres. The categories are clearly literary rather than general: poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction (travel writing, autobiography, biography and narrative journalism) and drama.
The stipulation that all books must have been published in India gives entries a local focus. And in a more charming caveat emptor, the guidelines state: “Books that have been published elsewhere and have already won prizes are eligible, though less likely to win.” The breadth of genres might become a tricky area for the prize—it’s hard to judge the merits of poetry versus travel writing, for instance—but the 2008 shortlist was definitely one of the most interesting, from the reader’s point of view.
I don’t know whether any of these three prizes will become the pre-eminent “Asian” prize, but I do hope Shou Xing, god of longevity, will smile on them. As a collective of prizes, they’re likely to sharpen and redefine our view of Asian writing.
N.B. There is also the Golden Quill award, promoted by Indiaplaza, but it hasn't yet defined its criteria. At present, pulp and literary fiction are grouped together, which gives the Quill a very wide but puzzling selection of books. Take a look at this year's longlist.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The BS Column: Five Lessons from the Teacher Man
(Published in the Business Standard, July 20, 2009.
There are some writers you respect chiefly for the calibre of their work; what they're like as human beings is almost irrelevant. And there are some writers who become important to you because their work reflects their personality: in Frank McCourt's case, I loved his writing not just for his amazing stories, but for the humour and generosity that seemed to be so much part of him. Here's a tribute from the New York Times; and here's an excerpt from Teacher Man.)
Frank McCourt, who died this week of meningitis, was by his own account a resounding failure. In his forties, he was still a substitute teacher. His first marriage failed. He made an abortive attempt to earn a doctorate at Trinity. He felt inferior in the company of writers—even in the company of inferior writers. In his sixties, he began to write; he was 66 when he published his first book, and he hoped it would sell a few hundred copies.
The book McCourt wrote became the Pulitzer-winning bestseller, Angela’s Ashes. In his third book, Teacher Man, McCourt offered a bleak summary of his life: “I was born in New York and taken to Ireland before I was four. I had three brothers. My father, an alcoholic, wild man, great patriot, ready always to die for Ireland, abandoned us when I was ten going on eleven. A baby sister died, twin boys died, two boys were born. My mother begged for food, clothing, and coal to boil water for the tea… My brothers and I left school at fourteen, worked, dreamed of America, and one by one, sailed away.” It wasn’t just the inherent drama of his life that made Angela’s Ashes such a well-loved book—it was the honesty and humour with which he told his story.
McCourt never held forth on the craft of writing; and yet, reading his books could teach you more about being a writer than most creative writing 101 classes. In tribute to him, here are five things I learned about writing from his work.
Write with honesty, without expectation: “Just one more year, God, just one more year because this book is the one thing I want to do in my life, what’s left of it.” In the wake of the success of Angela’s Ashes, many people who had buried dreams of being a writer dusted their manuscripts off and tried to emulate McCourt. Few made it; they were looking for the success McCourt had serendipitously found, and didn’t share either his talent or his need to tell his story. “I never dreamed it would be a bestseller,” McCourt continues. He wrote this book, not looking for results, for the only reason that counts—he wanted to.
Collect stories, wherever you find them: For most of his life, McCourt didn’t even realise he was doing this—collecting and shaping his childhood memories, listening to the thousands of students he taught over the years, capturing the essence of the characters he met when working at the dockyards. Looking at a bunch of excuse notes forged by his students, he has an epiphany. “The drawer [of excuse notes] was filled with samples of American talent never mentioned in song, story or scholarly study. How could I have ignored this treasure trove, these gems of fiction, fantasy, creativity, crawthumping, self-pity, family problems…. Here was American high school writing at its best—raw, real, urgent, lucid, brief, lying.”
Recognise the kind of writer you don’t want to be: Early in his career, McCourt meets a “real” writer, Edward Dahlberg, who is often cited on lists of unjustly neglected American writers. “I envied him for living the life of a writer, a dream I was too timid to chance,” writes McCourt. But Dahlberg is a pompous poser, susceptible to flattery, whining and bitter, fond of the heavy-handed putdown. “Except for himself, [he] dismissed everyone in the twentieth century,” says McCourt, witheringly contemptuous of Dahlberg’s “moaning” about the daily suffering of a writer at his desk. McCourt will find the guidance he needs elsewhere.
Unleash creativity: In a fabulous passage, McCourt energizes his class by getting them to read recipes from cookbooks as though they were poetry. They read the recipes out to an impromptu band composed of the class’s guitarists, harmonica and oboe players. They argue over the kind of music that should accompany English trifle—not the bongo drums—or pork chops—definitely the harmonica.
Two asides; McCourt follows this class by reading his students more conventional poetry, trusting that they will now have developed a ear for it. And the reason why he can describe experiences like this—or the death of his baby sister back in Ireland—so well is because of his lifelong habit of keeping notes, doing the mundane tasks of cross-checking his memories, keeping track of dates. He does the creative experiments, in his writing and in the classroom, but he also does the scut-work.
And finally? “Listen. Are you listening? You’re not listening. I am talking to those of you in this class who might be interested in writing. Every moment of your life, you’re writing. Even in your dreams you’re writing. … A simple stroll in the hallway calls for paragraphs, sentences in your head, decisions galore…. Find what you love and do it.”
There are some writers you respect chiefly for the calibre of their work; what they're like as human beings is almost irrelevant. And there are some writers who become important to you because their work reflects their personality: in Frank McCourt's case, I loved his writing not just for his amazing stories, but for the humour and generosity that seemed to be so much part of him. Here's a tribute from the New York Times; and here's an excerpt from Teacher Man.)
Frank McCourt, who died this week of meningitis, was by his own account a resounding failure. In his forties, he was still a substitute teacher. His first marriage failed. He made an abortive attempt to earn a doctorate at Trinity. He felt inferior in the company of writers—even in the company of inferior writers. In his sixties, he began to write; he was 66 when he published his first book, and he hoped it would sell a few hundred copies.The book McCourt wrote became the Pulitzer-winning bestseller, Angela’s Ashes. In his third book, Teacher Man, McCourt offered a bleak summary of his life: “I was born in New York and taken to Ireland before I was four. I had three brothers. My father, an alcoholic, wild man, great patriot, ready always to die for Ireland, abandoned us when I was ten going on eleven. A baby sister died, twin boys died, two boys were born. My mother begged for food, clothing, and coal to boil water for the tea… My brothers and I left school at fourteen, worked, dreamed of America, and one by one, sailed away.” It wasn’t just the inherent drama of his life that made Angela’s Ashes such a well-loved book—it was the honesty and humour with which he told his story.
McCourt never held forth on the craft of writing; and yet, reading his books could teach you more about being a writer than most creative writing 101 classes. In tribute to him, here are five things I learned about writing from his work.
Write with honesty, without expectation: “Just one more year, God, just one more year because this book is the one thing I want to do in my life, what’s left of it.” In the wake of the success of Angela’s Ashes, many people who had buried dreams of being a writer dusted their manuscripts off and tried to emulate McCourt. Few made it; they were looking for the success McCourt had serendipitously found, and didn’t share either his talent or his need to tell his story. “I never dreamed it would be a bestseller,” McCourt continues. He wrote this book, not looking for results, for the only reason that counts—he wanted to.
Collect stories, wherever you find them: For most of his life, McCourt didn’t even realise he was doing this—collecting and shaping his childhood memories, listening to the thousands of students he taught over the years, capturing the essence of the characters he met when working at the dockyards. Looking at a bunch of excuse notes forged by his students, he has an epiphany. “The drawer [of excuse notes] was filled with samples of American talent never mentioned in song, story or scholarly study. How could I have ignored this treasure trove, these gems of fiction, fantasy, creativity, crawthumping, self-pity, family problems…. Here was American high school writing at its best—raw, real, urgent, lucid, brief, lying.”
Recognise the kind of writer you don’t want to be: Early in his career, McCourt meets a “real” writer, Edward Dahlberg, who is often cited on lists of unjustly neglected American writers. “I envied him for living the life of a writer, a dream I was too timid to chance,” writes McCourt. But Dahlberg is a pompous poser, susceptible to flattery, whining and bitter, fond of the heavy-handed putdown. “Except for himself, [he] dismissed everyone in the twentieth century,” says McCourt, witheringly contemptuous of Dahlberg’s “moaning” about the daily suffering of a writer at his desk. McCourt will find the guidance he needs elsewhere.
Unleash creativity: In a fabulous passage, McCourt energizes his class by getting them to read recipes from cookbooks as though they were poetry. They read the recipes out to an impromptu band composed of the class’s guitarists, harmonica and oboe players. They argue over the kind of music that should accompany English trifle—not the bongo drums—or pork chops—definitely the harmonica.
Two asides; McCourt follows this class by reading his students more conventional poetry, trusting that they will now have developed a ear for it. And the reason why he can describe experiences like this—or the death of his baby sister back in Ireland—so well is because of his lifelong habit of keeping notes, doing the mundane tasks of cross-checking his memories, keeping track of dates. He does the creative experiments, in his writing and in the classroom, but he also does the scut-work.
And finally? “Listen. Are you listening? You’re not listening. I am talking to those of you in this class who might be interested in writing. Every moment of your life, you’re writing. Even in your dreams you’re writing. … A simple stroll in the hallway calls for paragraphs, sentences in your head, decisions galore…. Find what you love and do it.”
The 2009 Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize: call for nominations
The Shakti Bhatt Foundation invites nominations for the 2009 Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize.
Last year's winner was Pakistani novelist Mohammed Hanif’s A Case of Exploding Mangoes.
• Entries may be in any genre: poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction (travel writing, autobiography, biography, and narrative journalism), and drama.
• All authors from the subcontinent are eligible but their books must be published in India.
• The books must be in English or translated into English from an Indian language.
• Books that have been published elsewhere and have already won prizes are eligible, though less likely to win.
• Vanity press publications are ineligible.
A 3-member advisory board will shortlist 6 books published between July 1, 2008 and June 30, 2009. This year, the board includes writers Anjum Hasan, Zac O'Yeah and poet Jeet Thayil. The shortlisted books will be sent to the 2009 panel of judges: novelist Rana Dasgupta, editor Mukund Padmanabhan and Professor Meenakshi Mukherji.
The winner will be announced in the second half of November and the prize presentation will take place in December 2009. The winner will receive a cash award of Rs One Lakh and a trophy.
The Shakti Bhatt Foundation is a non-profit trust set up by the late writer/editor's family to keep her memory alive. It wishes to reward first-time authors of all ages.
For further information, contact shaktibhattprize@gmail.com
Last year's winner was Pakistani novelist Mohammed Hanif’s A Case of Exploding Mangoes.
• Entries may be in any genre: poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction (travel writing, autobiography, biography, and narrative journalism), and drama.
• All authors from the subcontinent are eligible but their books must be published in India.
• The books must be in English or translated into English from an Indian language.
• Books that have been published elsewhere and have already won prizes are eligible, though less likely to win.
• Vanity press publications are ineligible.
A 3-member advisory board will shortlist 6 books published between July 1, 2008 and June 30, 2009. This year, the board includes writers Anjum Hasan, Zac O'Yeah and poet Jeet Thayil. The shortlisted books will be sent to the 2009 panel of judges: novelist Rana Dasgupta, editor Mukund Padmanabhan and Professor Meenakshi Mukherji.
The winner will be announced in the second half of November and the prize presentation will take place in December 2009. The winner will receive a cash award of Rs One Lakh and a trophy.
The Shakti Bhatt Foundation is a non-profit trust set up by the late writer/editor's family to keep her memory alive. It wishes to reward first-time authors of all ages.
For further information, contact shaktibhattprize@gmail.com
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The Crossword Award: translators
Translators, briefly profiled--Prema Jayakumar ("There has to be an emotional involvement") and Ira Pande: "It seems to me that each time we present a book as a translated work, we offer an apology for writing in a language that is not the globalised and the mainstream one. This shows a terrible lack of faith in our literary worth and self-image."
Prema Jayakumar's translation of M S Sethu's The Wind from the Hills and Ira Pande's translation of the late Manohar Shyam Joshi's T'ta Professor are on the shortlist for the Vodafone Crossword award, winners to be announced next week on the 23rd.
There's an interesting discussion of the award in the comments section of this blog: does the Crossword matter to readers?
Prema Jayakumar's translation of M S Sethu's The Wind from the Hills and Ira Pande's translation of the late Manohar Shyam Joshi's T'ta Professor are on the shortlist for the Vodafone Crossword award, winners to be announced next week on the 23rd.
There's an interesting discussion of the award in the comments section of this blog: does the Crossword matter to readers?
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