zoe ghahremani : zoeghahremani.com

As the events surrounding the One Book, One San Diego program escalate, it’s hard for me to decide which is more important: My spot on the glory mountain, or the approaching Persian New Year? Caught between the two, I wrote down the choices and thought about them.

Plan A – Skip the traditional activities and forge ahead with the One Book events.

Plan B – Keep your beloved tradition and skip a few book activities in honor of Norooz.

No sooner had I considered my options than voices rose in my head. “Are you – bloody – joking? The OBOSD is huge!” You worked your little tail off for such a day. This is a chance of a lifetime, you silly. Norooz will be back next year!”

As I leaned more and more toward plan A, my Persian conscience kept on lurking, giving me a heavy load of guilt. “Oh, how quickly we change! Is that who you are? Besides, are you forgetting that Norooz isn’t just yours?”

The truth always hurts. For as long as I remember, I’ve been part of my community’s Norooz plans. There’s lots of baking to be done, items to prepare for charity bazaars, and nobody’s sabzeh is as green as mine! Each year I think of a way to give my haftseen table a fresh look, maybe I’ll paint more eggs with new designs. What should I make for an elaborate – and vegetarian-friendly – dinner?

Most years around this time I’d be done with spring cleaning, but the stack of manuscripts on my desk tells me that’s not going to happen this year. I wonder if I could rent one of those Velcro table-skirts, put it around my desk and push everything under it. Then again, I’m not sure an invisible clutter counts as clean. I send a prayer to old Mr. Chidgy for laminating my silver, giving me a bit less to do. The mere idea of a prayer shifts my mind into Norooz mode and all of a sudden, a new thought flashes. Why not do it all?

So here it is: Plan C. This year, I’ll take my Norooz around town. The libraries will have their little haft seen next to the OBOSD display and so will the museums. Wherever I go to present my Sky of Red Poppies, I will make sure they also learn about Norooz. It may be impossible to invite the readers to dinner, but why not let the book clubs enjoy the sweet taste of some authentic shireeni?

Looking back, I’m convinced of a universal harmony. When I chose the title for my book, or painted what is now on its cover, I had no idea what would happen to my story. Writing this novel on Chicago’s brutal winter nights, I couldn’t possibly picture the day when my poppies would bloom to see the everlasting springs of San Diego. Who knew the wild red poppies and I would someday join an entire city’s festivities to celebrate the arrival of spring together?

My daughter forwarded an article, where a celebrity has stated she’s currently reading my novel (http://www.zap2it.com/news/zap-melissa-darabian-tasty-story,0,6888614.story) Of course I was overwhelmed, but I also was grateful. Success can be sudden, but I have known it to also be subtle. While I may be miles away from fame – not to mention nowhere near fortune – every step of this ladder has been a milestone and an honor. My good readers have cheered me on, willed me to climb, and no amount of acrophobia can stop me now!

Growing up with two brothers, I loved climbing trees. My sister wasn’t as brave, so most summer afternoons she urged me to climb fruit trees in our garden and share the bounties. I sat up on a branch and sent down cherries, apricots and apples for her to enjoy. The climb was fun, something I took pride in doing, but sharing was where I found true joy.

I can only hope that’s how these blogs may be received. Here I am atop my modest height and sharing the cherries of joy with readers. I may not be up here for long, but oh, it’s fun while it lasts!

Just finished reading Margaret Dilloway’s How To Be An American Wife and am amazed at how much I could identify with its cultural nuances. In this book, the mother is Japanese, married to an American GI. True as it may be that Persian and Japanese cultures have nothing in common, the mother’s expectations rang too familiar. Oh, what my poor daughters must have endured!

I have enjoyed the book and learned much about Japan, whose culture has always fascinated me. Enough of looking for cherry blossoms in D.C., it’s now on my “bucket list” to someday go to the origin and see the real thing. But until then, I remain grateful for books that can transfer me to places and times that I would otherwise never see. Last week was Molokai’s and Hawaii, this week Japan, now I’m plunging back into Berlin, Krakow and Prague to retrace Kafka. More on that exciting journey when I finish my second read!

Sometimes, when my friends or children complain to me about their jobs, I tell them “A job is a job. No matter how you love yours, you’re bound to get sick of it at some point.”

“Easy for you to say,” I hear back now and then. The misconception is that because writing is my passion, I never tire of it. This is true most of the time. But on a day like this, I, too, wake up to smell the roses. Literally!

This morning, I took a cup of coffee and sat at my computer. Of course, first there was a ton of e-mail – yes, and I am allowed to brag, and fan mail – to respond to. Then came the revision I had stopped doing about 2:00 a.m. last night. I also have two overdue articles. Halfway through my revisions, I heard chirping outside the window. So far we’ve had no winter in Southern California and as the birds return, I know we’re not going to have any. I opened the shades to the backyard and despite a few clouds, marveled at the early spring out there. Why do we even bother pulling the shades when the sun is so mild and inviting?

The chirping had stopped, but I noticed a nest over the eaves. A bird with impeccable taste must have seen her chance for a home with a view and I’ll bet the noise I heard was that of a family breakfast.

I was reminded of an old cartoon –  Charlie Brown?  – and wanted to scream its sentiment! In it, a child at a school desk screams, “What on Earth am I doing here on this beautiful day? It’s the only life I’ve got!”

Sometimes joy means skipping what you have planned to do. Never lose the chance to play hooky, not even when your job involves doing what you love the most.

Participation in book club discussions has to be the most rewarding experiences following the success of a book. Not only does the author receive ample attention, but it provides a chance to meet other book lovers and learn much from intriguing conversations – not to mention enjoy the occasional good food!

Life is a chain of first experiences. Yesterday, I had several, which I intend to share below, but in order not to repeat myself, I’m going to put a star next to each.

This time, I had two book clubs in one day (*) and they were both in the same town – Poway (*). The a.m. book club was at an old church (*). I never know what to expect and was thrilled to find a large group of ladies, who seemed most eager to learn about my part of the world. They were so friendly that within minutes I found myself speaking to them with utmost ease and even cracking jokes. Most of the ladies had not read the book yet (*) which in turn made the discussions a bit harder as I didn’t want to give away too much. In the end, we took a group picture (*) and promised to regroup for lunch someday at Lily’s Café in Poway, where I will also have an art show.

The second group met in the evening and at a private home. The hostess had made some of my favorite Persian foods(*). An American, she is married to an Iranian and I had to admit that her Ghormeh Sabzi tasted better than my own(*)! Three of the American ladies present spoke Persian and had previously lived in Iran(*). The hostess had never lived in Iran, though she, too, knew a lot of Persian(*).

Book clubs can also be humbling. They have taught me that the rewards of success go far beyond fame or fortune – not that I could claim having fully experienced either – yet. To me, the human bonds are the most valuable reward.  For years, I had lived the life of a hermit, crawling under my rock and concentrating on my work.  Now that I have finally emerged and experience the warmth of these open arms, I find it hard to deny the need of a lonely writer for human contact. My readers’ words of support and encouragement are precisely what I need to go on. There’s no way to put a value on this and the best pay back would be to make sure I won’t disappoint them.

So, instead of resting between the activities, I am back in my cave, putting the final touches on The Moon Daughter. Readers have set the bar so high that I now owe them a book as good as the Poppies, if not better, and I can only hope that my unspoken promise is understood.

My daughter Susie called to remind me of something I’d neglected to do for years. Call me old-fashioned, but I was under the impression that a web site is what it is, a site on the web, a place to visit. Little did I know that it’s in fact a living thing and in order to survive, it needs to be fed on a regular basis. ” . . . you must blog more!!!! MUCH more. at least once a week. it can be very short (100 words or less) but just take a moment to keep a rolling log of your thoughts,” she advises. Aha! So this is what my marketing advisor had meant when she, too, recommended blogging.

Being a good obedient mom, here I go, writing the first of what I hope to be a reliable series of blogs. Come to think of it, between writing articles for the Iranian.com – something that I’ve done for over ten years, running my columns for  Zan magazine, http://www.zanmagazine.com, enjoying my moment in the spotlight with 2012 One Book, One San Diego, and editing my next novel – The Moon Daughter, and blogging for the San Diego Writing women, I should use ALL my free time – ha ha! – and blog here. But the advice is coming from high sources and who am I to argue?

Susie goes on to further recommend, “. . . after you make a post, share the link to it on facebook and twitter.” I’ll try, but if you don’t see a link to this blog on my Facebook, either I have fallen off the surface of the Earth or you can attribute it to my electronic disability.

The life of a writer isn’t as easy – or as glamorous – as it may sound. There’s much work to be done and no clock to punch. Oh, but the payback is beyond imagination.

Last night, as I presented medals to local authors at the San Diego Public Library, I knew I had climbed yet another huge step on my ladder to the moon. After I had given my talk, and while the audience approached to wish me well, their words of encouragement were more reward than my hard work deserved. “Your talk touched me deep in my heart,” one lady said. And I can only hope that she knows how deeply her words have touched mine.

Christmas morning is gone, the tree has lost its lure and somehow its glittery skirt fails to cover the nudity. We’re all a bit richer in material, a bit less hopeful, and glad it’s over. A plastic bag holds crumpled shell of anticipation and boxes no longer hold mysteries. There’s a soothing lull in my kitchen and the mere thought of leftovers is soothing.

Looking back, I realize how nothing has changed over the decades. It seems as if every year I’m a few more days behind in my preparation, presents are never any easier to pick and gift wrapping is pushed back a notch into the late hours of the night. Strong thoughts of those who are deprived, leaves a bad taste in the ritual. After all, this is their holiday, not mine. Guilt pushes me and I donate to food banks, buy toys for tots and stuff more money into the bucket a man is holding outside the supermarket. Playing Santa to a few does nothing for the hidden sadness. Who am I fooling? Every year it seems worse and it’s clear that none of my silly efforts can make a dent in the ongoing misery. What about the day after Christmas? Who’s feeding them now? Who buys them blankets, warm socks, Medicines? Who will love the loveless? This holiday is done, but what about the next? Who’s going to fill the gaps in this huge dark hole we call humanity?

Bells have ceased to jingle. The guy from Salvation Army has already counted what’s in his red bucket. No one exactly knows how much of what goes where, but still, most of us hope enough to pay. Santa goes on a long sabbatical and hunger and cold will remain the dark clouds over many homes. How many cans of beans will it take to free an elaborate meal from heavy guilt? How many glittery outfits will Neiman Marcus sell this season? And I’m not sure the guy driving that yellow Ferrari in La Jolla can break in time to hand out a dollar to the homeless on Torrey Pines.

So I can’t change the world. That has been clear ever since I grew up, but why can’t the damn world change me? When am I going to grow up enough to know that nothing I do will amount to much? Heck, nothing even Bill Gates does is going to make much of a difference. The world has always had takers and so few givers. It’s in that lack of balance that humanity tips.

Now what? Does this mean I should tolerate the wrong? But isn’t that harder even? Maybe I’ll find a way to help with the upcoming Norooz. Maybe my daughter’s idea of gym shoes for the needy wasn’t so bad. Maybe direct cash is best, especially when I know someone who knows someone. Then again, maybe I should go through a charity organization and make it tax-deductable!

There is no joy in the season and the best one can do is not to give in to its misery. Give a little and keep guilt at Bay. It’s a gift to yourself. What is the current rate for an ounce of peace, and how many pounds of joy for a dollar? The after-Christmas-trees remind me of corpses, dressed and all made-up for one last viewing. The mummified will keep the colors, a few will be burned and others decompose with time. These cadavers once held someone’s hopes and dreams. I think of the expression “Holiday Blues.” Isn’t that the oxymoron?

I listen to my son Cyrus’s music and think about all the Ghahremani wonders! It makes me so proud to be the mother of three of the most talented and extraordinary people. Lilly’s heart conquers the world. A highly successful young lady, she is by far one of the best writers I know – even though she refuses to limit her life to writing. Susie’s art – www.boygirlparty.com – has already put her at the top of the chart and now Cyrus and his “Hot Karate” band are the best thing that happened to LA!

To witness my creative children’s success is more than I deserve. How reassuring it must be to my husband to realize that the name Ghahremani shall live forever! As for me, I’ll just savor the moment and keep on sending them my prayers – and burn “esfand”! Tempted as I may be to take the credit for raising them, this has nothing to do with parenting, it’s who they really are!

I’ve never experienced writer’s block, but have heard plenty about it from friends. The truth is, there are so many stories in my head that I’ll never run out of things to say or write. Then why don’t I write more, you ask? Simply because I’m lazy! So the month of November being the National Novel Writing Month – NaNoWriMo – seemed to be just what I needed and of course, the main motivation stemmed from an affectionate kick in the butt from my good friend Marivi!

We wrote our novels simultaneously, though our subjects couldn’t be more diverse. Hers is a murder mystery/love story and mine revolves around the lives of the domestic help in the Middle East. But we shared a common goal: our 50,000-word novels had to finish by the end of the month.

For those who haven’t seen me typing, such a task may not sound too ambitious. After all, that’s what a writer should be able to do. But have you ever watched a tortoise at the typewriter? And I’m not just talking speed here. The way our alleged tortoise might stick two little digits out of her shell and bang ruthlessly on the keys, is all too familiar to me. At first I thought of using a voice-activated computer. Unfortunately the dumb machine transcribed my accent in a way that the words came out looking Russian. Finally I decided to type away, and to do it during the day so as not to disturb the neighbors with my tapping.

No matter how many nails I broke or how asthmatic my breathing sounded, I crawled onto the finish line, typed word number 50,143, planted a big fat period and shouted, “I did it!”

True that I began at the dawn of November 1 and finished late evening of 30th, but there it is, a whole novel, done! Now if I ever run out of subjects, and should I be so lucky to find a free moment, there’s a 200-page novel titled The Basement, smiling at me. It may be in desperate need of editing, but at least we know I can’t use “writer’s block” as an excuse.

I’m going to see an old friend whom I have not seen in years and I’m filled with anticipation of familiarity. None of my new friends know my hometown or my family and there aren’t too many people left who can recall my childhood. I need someone to validate my youth and it seems as if, without that, I’ve been middle aged forever.

“You haven’t changed at all,” she says. “Not a day older than the last time I saw you!”

Considering that she’s referring to decades ago, I decide that either she is too kind, or suffers from poor eye sight.

“You haven’t aged either.” I go along with her game. After all, I couldn’t possibly comment on her new nose or mention how, her new eyelids give her a surprised expression.

I silently observe her diamond ring and her lovely copper fingernails and push my gardener hands deep into my pockets. I wonder if she uses Palmolive to do the dishes.

The hostess shows us to a table outside and my friend demands that the heater be turned on. She then asks for a glass of white wine. I order bottled water and think how right my grandmother had been in her prediction nearly a half century ago. “Someday, these foreigners will sell us their water for a higher price than our precious oil!” I still can hear how everyone had laughed at her bizarre notion.

My friend puts her brown and yellow handbag on the empty seat next to her. “Can’t live without my Louis Vuitton,” she comments. “Hard to match shoes, but carrying a Blackberry, an I-pod and what not, who’d manage with a Channel or that stupid Hermes?”

Owning only a cell phone from her list of portable electronics, I push my T. J. Max bargain handbag under the table and force a smile.

“So, what do you do?” she asks when our drinks have arrived.

“I’m a writer.”

She makes a face and dismisses my whole career with a wave of her hand. “Do you remember when the composition teacher kicked me out?” She giggles with pride.

I don’t remember, but no response seems to be expected.

“What do you do?” I ask.

“You mean work?” she says and sounds shocked. “We travel a lot and have an unbelievable social life.” She takes a sip of her wine, leaving her copper-color lipstick on the glass. “We’re Beverly Hills,” she says to her diamond ring, “but our friends are mostly around Brentwood and Pacific Palisade. Gatherings are fun, but each time I have more than five people around the pool, our maid threatens to leave.”

Okay. So she doesn’t need Palmolive.

“Do you hear from any of our classmates?” I ask.

She shakes her lovely, highlights. “I don’t even remember most of them.” She then studies me with intent. “I remember you, though. Vividly. You used to be so cute; I always thought you’d look beautiful with a bit of makeup.”

I smile at the approach of a compliment, but she stops and seems disappointed at her failed prediction. “I still remember your house behind Bagh-e Melli…” she adds and her eyes glaze over. This is my favorite moment, when people bring out the details of old memories, it’s as if a blurred vision is brought into focus. But, she takes another sip of wine and moves on to her own story. “We left all the glamour behind. The mansion, the antiques, my piano… ”

She never played that piano. In fact, they lived in a modest home. I don’t know what glamour she’s talking about.

“Luckily, business has picked up,” she goes on. “We’ve finally recovered some of what we lost to the revolution.”

I am reminded of those who lost their lives to the revolution and find it hard to sympathize. Her story is nothing next to that of other immigrants, but a nostalgic sigh is the day’s fashion. No one seems willing to admit to their luck in having survived or that now they are better off than ever before. Where were all those old mansions and luxuries? Everybody seems to be related to royalty and finds it hard to adjust to the common man’s lifestyle.

Like a dark cloud blocking the sun, melancholy envelopes my heart. I share nothing with this woman, not even a childhood. She seems to have built a new world around her and with her distorted truth, she now belongs to a place I’ve never seen.

I guess in a way I have changed, too. I have learned to discard the useless brand names, shallow standards and pretentious lifestyle. It’s hard to stop looking back, but each time I do, the scene behind me has changed. Why wallow over a youth or a home that no longer exists? There’s a whole new level of peace in knowing who I am rather than whose daughter I used to be.

We part with the promise of another lunch, but I know that won’t happen. I pride myself in keeping my old friends, but there are a few who have joined a different world and will have to remain there.

She gets behind the wheel of her red convertible. I watch her drive away and a chunk of my childhood disappears into the L.A. rush-hour traffic.