Rumination 6

Nothing to report as of late. It's been over four weeks. I can safely assume that all queries have been rejected.
See how the world goes on? Deep depression and anxiety to acceptance. The same cycle. How much one "yes" would have changed. Given me a true hope I haven't felt in so long.
But "yes" is simply half the hurtle, they may demand more of you and still, rejection. No, you must convince them through the last page. Have them hang on every word.
So much research and revision to do.
I have things I should be doing; I can't find heart in them now. But, now is the time to act.
I must write something in the nature of my heroes. Something that impresses at 18 and 88. The same detail must be given to every word, sentence, paragraph, page, and chapter.
It's a difficult task, as those that merit doing are wont to be.

Rumination 5

The worst time to make a decision is during the evening.
During the day we can occupy our minds and avoid the inevitable yes or no. But in the evening there isn't nearly enough time to tire ourselves out and fall asleep with a clear head.
In the morning we can busy ourselves with the rest of the day, and by the time we hit out beds we're out cold.
In the evening, we ease ourselves into bed, worried about responses and the opinions of others. We toss and turn, not really letting our minds come to terms with the decisions that we've made. Our minds race through thousands of impossible scenarios a second, and our dreams are littered with self doubt.
As someone that is learning from experience, always make your more difficult decisions during the day, so you can sleep at night.

A Plea for the Shipbuilders

For thousands of years, we have looked to the heavens for guidance, revelation, and understanding. Within the past 100 years we grasped our legacies. Taken the wisdom of our ancestors and touched the heavens. Discovered answers to questions millennia in the making and begun to craft even more.
Now we stand on the shores of the cosmic ocean, the frames of our ships being constructed in the harbor, and we quit. We stop the shipbuilders and tell them that it is impossible to complete what they've begun; when they can see that their efforts are not in vain! They yearn to continue, beg you to reconsider, but you don't have their vision. All you see are the bare bones of the ship, you can't see how it will protect them from the ravages of the sea. You don't have their knowledge, their passion; you crush their hopes, and your future.
Never in our history have we been so hostile to exploration. Never have we let our leaders dictate where our exploration ends. Now, with our backs turned, they slash away at our tomorrows.
Science is being attacked, the backbone of society is being removed. Will we ignore it?
The United States' space program is being decimated with steady persistent budget cuts. Cuts to a budget that hasn't demanded more than it's fair share in it's half century history.
At this rate, we will never return to the moon, or ever stand in the dried river beds of Mars; not if we systematically destroy the engines through which we touch the stars.
Children don't want to be Astronauts just because they see a photograph in a book, but because they see a Human Being launch himself into the unknown.
I saw a man hold the Earth in his hand. So small we seemed. So insignificant our differences, and all I wanted to do was see more.
I want to see the Sun form the surface of one of Jupiter's moons. I want to stand on the red surface of Mars. I want to travel beyond our galaxy in a spacecraft of ambassadors from Earth.
Let me dream that one day I might. Let me know that my chance to stand on the moon will not die because we are too afraid to do what is necessary.
Don't halt a millennia of questions. Let the shipbuilder finish his work.

Stigma

Sometimes you forget.
Not important things, just aesthetic properties of yourself.
I was born into a Indian family in Yonkers, New York, early one February morning. It's never really weighed on me before, but suddenly I see how much it weighs on the people I meet. The first thing they see isn't the image of me that I have in my mind, but an Indian woman, that probably doesn't know English. In fact, until age 5, I didn't.
My entire life, my English skills have been tested, my speech patterns, my writing habits. I progressed meteorically, but it wasn't enough. By age 6 I was fluent in all Punjabi, Hindi, and English. I was in a special education class for only 6 months of my educational career. Only removed when the teacher said it was holding me back. After first grade, I never received any special treatment.
But imagine my surprise when I learned that the state of California's educational board had required my teachers to send in a writing sample until my senior year of High School.
By then I was already on the path to becoming a full fledged writer, I had first drafts of 13 different novels under my belt and no idea I was lacking in any sort of way.
I wasn't; but because of a six month stay in special education I was "looked after."
Really? I had kids in my class that needed actual help and I was the one they concerned themselves with? And why English samples? Why not the catapult my Physics partner and I designed senior year? Or Math tests?
Was I special just because of who I was born to? So will my siblings and I live with the "stigma" for the rest of our lives?

Rumination 4

So, I got the Blogger app for my iPod Touch. This is me using it, so I don't feel bad about not using it.

BRIGHT SIDE! New blog post. Yeah!!!

Rumination 3

Writers willingly confine themselves to an enclosed space for a dedicated amount of time every day, and then torture themselves by writing even if they have nothing to write. But they enjoy it.
The real fear comes when they have to present that work to you. The public. There they are judged on everything. From execution to their names. To push something that personal out into the world takes a special type of courage that only a few people have. I'm not sure I have that type of courage; so I rationalize it.
Even if people hate my book now, it will become a cult classic in twenty years, like every other hated book.

Gathering

We are born alone, we will die alone; but while we're here we will surround ourselves with others like us. Others that think like us, dream like us.
We'll shun and ignore those that don't. The ones we don't understand, nor care to, because it's easier to fear that which we don't understand than it is to comprehend it.
When the whole gathers, we will separate ourselves into smaller clumps. Suddenly, we ignore the rest, and in that moment they do not exist. They are the out-group, and they don't matter.
We'll do anything for those we consider our "peers," die for them, kill for them. We will do anything to the 'outsiders.' They aren't like us, therefore less than human.
This is how entire nations find justification for war.
In their glory, in-groups can be expanded. In a nation every patriot is a member of the in-group. Everyone else is the enemy.

Stunning Walls of Fear
Dreams born from fear,
in the shallow minds of the forsaken,
They will always linger here,
in the tattered souls of the broken.

I'm your true disciple after all,
so soon the time came;
Too late to hide in shame,
it's time for you to fall

Why is it so hard to believe,
Beyond the burnt bridges to desire
A song deep within the soul

We all dream to be alive!
We all rot behind
Stunning walls of our fear!

You taught me everything you know
Where you went, I dare not go
I tried to fly, you told me no.
So I found solace in dark liberty.

You cower behind your walls
For fear of the other side
you spent your days creating pitfalls
Eventually they came back to haunt you.

You taught me everything you knew,
For hope I'd be the neo-you.
You thought everything through,
Except that I was more brilliant than you.

Imagine for a moment that I heard everything,
Imagine that I know,
That I've seen, what you really are.
What you've tried so hard to hide.

Why is it so hard to believe,
Beyond the burnt bridges to desire
A song deep within the soul

We all dream to be alive!
We all rot behind
Stunning walls of our fear!

Where Would You Hide?

I don't know how many of you read these. Quite frankly I stopped caring a while ago. Sure, I go through the motions, as if I'm begging for the attention I know I won't get. But why would I, an introvert, yell so loudly, speak so much?

To hide.

To hide from all of you. Look through my notes, 30 or 40 of them. Just the multitude would shy you away from reading them, never mind the length. If you did take the time, thank you, hopefully they made you think and see that even in the masses, I gave the best of me, at the time.
And my tens of status updates a day; ahh these banes of existence. If you look closely enough you see the truth, buried in the pile, but that's the idea. All of them are sincere, yes. But they hide me. Think; the more I post, the more likely you are to glean over the ones that speak truth. Because that's the idea.
The people who update you every few days or so receive your utmost attention, but not me. Which is a good thing. Hopefully even this will be hidden behind the mess I've made.
I read once that the best place to hide is in front of the world. No one gives a second glance, because what have you to hide? They already know everything.
However, nobody ever did it. Nobody ever hid in front of the world. Nobody that I knew anyway. So, why not let it be me?
I once buried something, deep in the abyss of my mind. For the hope that I would never have to find it again. Then I needed it, and it was gone. Buried so deep and far away that it had become like everything else, and unrecognizable, even by me. So, it doesn't matter anymore, the past is meant to be remembered, not dwelled upon.
I've only had one real cheerleader, my grandfather, and I barely even got a chance to know him before he was ripped from my life; by demons that haunted him since the death of his son.
My brother and sister are irreplaceable and amazing, but I never wanted them to have to cheer me on. Though I'm afraid I may have forced them into it on more than one occasion. They needed their own support, but I was never very good at it.
I've said things to people, that I'm certain if I remember them, then they must too. If I was cruel, no apologies can make up for it. If was overbearing, no distance can absolve it. If I was inattentive, no amount of attentiveness now can cover for it. If I did anything wrong, there is nothing I can say or do, that can make you change your mind about me. But I can ask you to understand that I never meant any of those things. I'm a product of the world that I live in.
I was never very good at anything; except maybe art and singing. And even that was iffy.
Then I started writing, and I was good at it. I knew what I was doing. It was an incredible place to hide. Very far away from everything else.
But it wasn't unpredictable. Yes, we writers talk about how a story writes itself. Glancing over the headache of sleepless nights and early morning coffee breaks. The hitting your head against the wall when the story stopped flowing. You know, the good stuff. We're just special in the fact that we keep going. We keep torturing ourselves, because its amazing, it really is. But we crave unpredictability. We love it, that's why we have friends, people who don't think like we do, but understand what we're going through.
I wanted approval from only two people in my life. And I never got it. Even now, if I'm overjoyed, they can plant the seed of doubt and within seconds I'm devastated. My plans lying in shambles at my feet. Just a single "I have faith in you." could have changed everything. And I couldn't even get that.
But it doesn't matter. It shouldn't. Because I'm not living for them, I never was.
Not a single one of you is living for anyone else. No significant other, no child, no parent, no sibling determines who you are, or what you can do.
You can hide like me, or not. From what I've seen, hiding brings a great deal of pain, but someone has to live it.

Lover's Respite

How can I have so many words to share,
But never enough to say,
I love you

How can I be the wordsmith,
and never have the conviction to know
That I will not be denied by you.

I would give up my beliefs,
My faith and my words,
I would give up my life,

If only for a seconds worth.
I would give up my convictions,
I would give up my faith for you.

If only I was brave enough to say that.
If only I was brave enough to know;
You wouldn't deny me.

How can I have so much conviction to know,
That all you believe cannot exist.
How can I know so much

Yet falter in your eyes?
You are no braver than I,
You are no more convicted than I,

You are no better than I
So why can I,
Not look you in the eye,

Not stare you in the face,
How can I stand there,
And not know how to say I love you.

When we both know it's all I've wanted to say
Since the moment I saw you,
Since the moment I knew you.

-AJ Sandhu

Rumination 2

I am a writer, not so I can present my woes to the world and expect sympathy; but because I am not alone in the emotions that bombard my mind. My job isn't to die in happiness springing from fulfillment, it is to shine the mirror on the world, and perhaps find my niche. Nor is it my right to claim I alone writhe in the sorrow of the world; because I don't.
"The world owes you nothing, it was here first," - Mark Twain

Masquerade

We come into the world bared for all to see, gifted with those certain instructions survival of the fittest deemed important enough to pass along. As we pass through this life, we gather experiences. These experiences shape our reactions; they are our masks.
We all have them. A mask for our families, a mask for our friends, for our acquaintances, our enemies, strangers, our pets, ourselves. Personalities, we would call them. If you think carefully enough, are we really the same around our friends as we are around our families, or co-workers? Are we even the same around our parents, as we are around our siblings?
We have no concrete personality, we rifle between them as one would shuffle between masquerade masks; picking the right one for each and every situation.
So what is our true face? Has the world hardened our usually temporary masks to the point where we can no longer recognize ourselves? Have we buried the truth so deep that we can't even find it anymore? Will we ever escape this masquerade long enough to see our true faces? If they even exist.


There is a wall
Where shadows come to rest
There is a well
Where wishes come abreast.

It's hidden behind the thorns.
It's protected by the gates.
It's an honor you must earn.
It's a want you must forsake.

You'll have to dig up the truth
You've worked so hard to bury.
You'll see who you are,
Or you'll scoff and move along.
-AJ Sandhu

Quiet Days

Somedays are just silent. Nothing but the hum of your computer harmonizing with the buzz of the refrigerator to keep you company. It's nice to write on these types of days. You're not lost in the haze of activity; you get to slow down for a moment and see the breathtaking beauty of the world. You get to be awash in description, and nothingness.
Meaningless banter isn't necessary here, lost in your own mind, wandering from one place to the next, with little to no hope of stopping. Yet it's a slow craw through the thicket of the mind. A lazy gait through the forgotten worlds of yesteryear. You accomplish so much by doing so little.

Into My Own

This is a poem I wrote a couple of years ago called "Into My Own."

Never wanted to say,
Now the words have faded away,
Like childhood memories,
All the things I needed to say.

We've been drifting apart
For so long
You didn't see it
Till I was long gone!

Now we're standing here,
No apologies strong enough,
No repentance heavy enough,
To mend these broken bridges.

We were never brave enough,
To admit we were wrong,
To admit we never belonged,
We never should have held on!

How can you know?
Of this ache inside my soul?
How can you see?
When I never let you near me?

How and why?
Are you drawing me down,
Into my own,
Into my own...

-AJ Sandhu

Red Sunsets

We've had one every year for the past nine years. Well I've only been aware of them for the past nine years anyway.
The first time I saw one I was certain something was about to happen. I did not know if it was a harbinger of good or bad occurrences, but I did know I was fascinated with it.

I was inspired to write the first few pages of a three part series. It was one of my favorites, it still is. It was the first of many books that made me dig deep into a place I was certain I could hide behind smile after smile. So deep, I wouldn't even remember what the truth was anymore.
It's not really as dark as I make it seem, but the stench of pain still lingers.
I noticed the red sunsets one cold midsummer's day in India, when all of my preconceived notions of family and tradition lie shattered around my feet. Childhood fantasies torn asunder.
Yet, I find them so beautiful, those stunning red sunsets, messengers of long buried memories. You see I was right, you can bury the truth so deep that even you don't recognize it anymore.




The Play

What are you hiding from,
I wonder.
What are you running from,
I wonder.


Are they the hallowed vows
Of yester-year?
Or the wistful boughs
Of dreams lost in fear?


Could you pause for a moment?
Could you linger for a minute?
I would hold your hand,
If only for a second.


What do you hear
I wonder.
What do you fear
I wonder.


Are they the words
Of the one you've forsaken?
Or the wrath
Of the one you left, broken


Could you hold still?
I want to memorize your face.
I want you to take part in this farce.
I want you to play my part.
-Aman J. Sandhu

Rumination 1

So I haven't really been on Facebook in about two and a half weeks. I haven't died, I'm not ignorant of the world, and I'm definitely not insane. Which makes me think all of this "social media helps us stay in touch" stuff is crap. Only a handful of my friends follow me on twitter (handful is generous, 8 MAX), and for all anyone else knows, I could be dead.
It's nice to see how many times I'VE been the one to start conversations with the people I supposedly love, and how few of them care about me. To the ones who do care, thank you, seriously, you guys deserve better than me.
My point is, that in this mad rush to make ourselves feel important we've forgotten that we need to make others feel important too, especially those who take the time out of their days to make us feel better about ourselves. Even if it is a birthday reminder on Facebook that prompts us to do so.
Would you like to know how many happy birthdays I got on my birthday last year through any form of communication (text, phone call, facebook, twitter, email, snail mail, ect)? Nine. Nine out of my 250 so called "friends" on facebook. NINE including the 4 other members of my family. NINE, and five of those nine only happened AFTER I told them it was my birthday. So I'm not expecting much this upcoming birthday. Do you know how many people I said happy birthday to? Everyone I could get a hold of, in my "Old English" style so it stood out from all the other half-hearted "Happy Birthdays."
So yeah, I'm a bit bitter. But I'll be fine, because I'm perfectly fine with having fair weather friends, so long as you're fine with being the same. I'll end with this; a question for you that an old video game once asked me;

"Do you have friends? Do they consider you a friend?"
-Legend of Zelda; Majora's Mask

Foggy Days

Everything passes as if in a haze; blanketed by the gloom of the persistent gray fog. From the haze, if you look hard enough, you can explore the secrets of another world. Quite frankly, I hate the fog. I've been wanting to go to our local ice cream shop for the past week and a half, but no, it has to be too cold for that, without any hope for the sun to shine through. I'd go to the local coffee shops but there are far too many "writers" there. The act of writing should be personal. I like locking myself in my walk in closet and writing by the dim glow of a reading light. I know, weird, but if we weren't weird we wouldn't be writers.

I like the darkness. The reason we fear the darkness is because we don't know what could be hiding away in it; but I flock toward it. In the darkness I find my most inspiring characters. I'm not telling you to go write in the dark, though it might be fun to watch... The most personal of my characters was born in the dark. Their world formed out of the fog of my imagination.

So I guess I owe the fog, but it doesn't mean I have to like it. If anyone read this madness to the end the lesson is; I still want my ice cream.

New Blog

Well then. I'll probably be updating this blog with the same posts has my other blog, so I'm sorry readers you're not more special than the people on my other blog.
These will probably just be the insane ramblings of a bored writer. When my book comes out it'll probably be more lively, but for now you'll have to deal with the far and in between mundane of a writer avoiding her editing. In a few months you'll  have to deal with the constant and mundane. Think of it!
I'll probably be posting a lot of things that have to do with my book when I have more to tell, and I'll try and answer any and all questions I may get about anything that I post.
So...yeah... 

New Blog

I barely update my other blog.