Seema 3

I get a call from Farzana of uni days. She browbeats me into meeting several of them Saturday at a coffee house. No, not religious she asserts, literary.
I arrive first, then Farzana, then Homaira and Zohra. They plan to start a website. I groan inwardly thinking of all the fun things I could be doing with Saturday.
When my turn to speak, I lay it on with a frontend loader, how lacking my computer skills are. In fact, by accident I cross over the line of protesting too much.
Zohra smiles too sweetly, "we'll take that at face value. Quite frankly, I am far more computer proficient than you."
Inwardly I heave a huge sigh of relief.
She continues, now drily, "it isn't your computer knowledge we seek. Each of us will write a book."
"What on earth for?"
"Good public image for Afghan women. So, no competing with each other. We're each keeping a separate genre. I'll do romance, proper of course."
Homaira, "I actually stayed awake during those sci classes, gonna try sci fi."
Farzana smiles proudly, "western, instead of cowboys, Afghan women."
I retort, "that is ridiculous. Cowboys were swine, drinking, shooting, hookers, poker ..."
"I intend to keep behavior standards higher than that."
Farzana continues, "pick a genre that isn't taken."
"I'm lousy at writing."
"Pure BS," Zohra retorts, "you had three short stories published in the student paper."
I blush hotly. Truth is, I had forgotten, that was back in first year.
"So, which genre?"
"Horror, a psychotic werewolf goes on a thrill kill spree."
"No way," Zohra asserts, "we aim to keep it child suitable. You're in for a murder mystery."
Murder is suitable for children?
"Thank you so much for volunteering."
As they congratulate me, I rerun the conversation in my mind. At what point did I actually agree? It's a mystery to me.
We agree to meet in a month, everyone having plot and main characters ready.
Irritated I stare out my bedroom window Saturday evening. It just appears from nowhere. Murder victim will be a pawnshop owner. Red herring that it was done during a robbery.
But actually, it's vengenance for events of decades ago, thousands of miles away. Now there is something an Afghan could understand. Or a white. Perp and victim will be white.
I know exactly what I wish to look up in the university library, for history.
It opens 11:00 Sundays. By 2:30, I have sufficient background info.
Over coffee, I decide to make my fearless detective (Afghan of course) a bit slow, not spotting the connection til after the third murder.
We gather to compare notes. Zohra's romance sounds like dreck. But then I'm not impartial, all romances sound drecky to me.
Homaira's sci fi is cast away on another planet following a spaceship crash. It sounds too much like plagiarism to me, stealing ideas from Survivor and similar shows.
Farzana's western defies belief, no killing. A Soviet type collective sheep ranch, complete with way too many committee meetings. I can envision John Wayne rolling over in his grave.
The others jump all over me for making my detective so dozy. I bow to group pressure, agree to make him male instead.
They want the perp not to be caught. At this, I rebel, somewhere there is a law that all perps must be caught, in books.
They agree it would be ok, if he chooses to shoot himself as the cops close in. I agree, it does give a neat sanitary ending.
On the way home, I reflect, not really a lot to change. Perp and victims remain the same, white males with this murky past in Europe. Just change gender of detective and start writing.
Still, it is ironic, the whole stated group purpose is to glorify Afghan women, not Afghans in general. So, since there are none in my book, it seems the height of pointlessness.
But as I sit at my desk, I enter an altered state. When involved in the story, my life fades away.
We had not agreed on names of main character, merely their traits. I could change names at whim. I'll pull a trick on the readers.
The names of perp and victims are a tease, pointing to the ending. So, each of them will have chosen to legally Anglicize his name after arrival in Canada.
The detective himself will be in the dark until an old Immigration file slaps him on the face.
Monday, I overhear East Indian, "you seem tense."
Afghan, "no **** Sherlock, I'm in big trouble."
"How so?"
"Secret or not, the parents insist and I mean insist fiancee comes for dinner at least once."
"What you gonna do?"
"Gimme time, I'll think of another alibi."
It's all I can do not to burst out laughing.
"So, how's things with Lata?"
"With all the hoohaw and delay, she's now spoken for. A doctor no less. I suspect he's mostly interested in her free secretarial work for that walk in clinic of his."
Both laugh.
Ruefully, Afghan, "wish I had your luck, not mine."
"I know, how to wiggle out."
"How??"
"You and I are the old style of gentleman. The law does not permit lethal duels, so we conducted a non-lethal one. Wrestling, best of three falls."
Afghan roars with laugher, "of course I lose, you winning the hand of Her Ladyship. But of course, that too is a secret."
In due course, I overhear that Afghan's parents bought it. No more pressure to produce me at the dinner table, merely generalized pressure to get married.
Next literary meeting produces one more change. They finally catch up to the idea that the whole site purpose is to glorify Afghan women; insist I change the detective back. Fortunately, not hard to do. I had kept him all cop, showing almost zero of the personal side.
The day I pass probation at work is a non-event. A month before, I was given the glowing performance appraisal.
The anniversary date triggers a problem. I have three weeks vacation. What exactly does a prisoner do with vacation time?
It's not an immediate concern, I can keep it in the bank for a year.
I ponder, should I take some of it on the novel? I soon deepsix the idea. Two of the three are making heavy water on the voyage. If I finish too fast, it makes them jealous and produces pressure to help them. Better to plod along.
Leafing through the calendar of Uni Extension, I soon see how to solve 1/3 of the problem. Only time I actually feel alive is caught up in my book's characters. Rest of the time, I feel like a polite little robot, acting out the role of nice girl.
So, there is a one week writing workshop during summer school. I phone, confirm there are spots open.
After work, I register. As my debit card causes the registration form to be printed, a change comes over me.
Now, I couldn't care less what the others do or think or say, it's just me and my characters.
I ask myself why I should react so. Would not Afghan characters resonate with me better? Probably not, I'd be too hung up on all the cultural taboos to present them honestly.
As to these whites, no such inhibitions. Quite frankly, I view both sides of the feud as utterly nuts. Makes me the perfect referee, treat them equally.
Now that I am in the zone, the story flies off my fingers, fast as I can type, 55 words per minute. I decline to be so wimpy as to let the perp merely shoot himself. He goes out in a blaze of glory, taking a few cops with him.
At our next meeting, they are stunned by my progress. The predictable happens, Farzana wants help with the western.
I lay down the law. You either cut the committee meetings in half and throw in at least a little gunplay or forget my help.
I'm surprised to hear she agrees. It's ok John Wayne, I'm getting her on the right track.
I spend all of Sunday at Farzana's house, in an effort to get the western rolling.
She looks at me incredulously, "why write about enemies? I'm writing about the ranch."
"Because you'll bore the reader to death. So choose. Rattlesnakes, cougars, wolves, Mexican bandit gangs, wild Indian tribes, the next ranch over, rustlers, the evil land-grabbing railway company, prairie fire, buffalo stampeding through. Any or all of the above."
"You mean, just invent things?"
I throttle the urge to throttle her, "that's what fiction is."
"Oh."
"And this ranch forewoman Nilofar. Come on, she's supposed to be tough. It's ok if she doesn't drink, but at least make her smoke."
"You think so?"
"Yes! Poker games, hard feelings, shootings."
"You're making it too American."
"What else would it be? It happened in the USA. It must at least partly mirror the American reality of the time or it's a flop."
"We-ell I don't know."
I draw a deep breath, call up my reserves of patience, "American cowboys viewed themselves as the roughest toughest hombres to ever walk Planet Earth, right?"
"Oh yes."
"Does not the Afghan woman view herself as the roughest toughest women to ever do so?"
I see comprehension. "Of course, to be convincing we must resemble them at least some."
"Bingo, the rest is easy, details. So?"
"Leave out the drinking, don't want to offend Afghan readers. Everything else, go for it."