American Muslima Writer -Daring to Work Towards Jannah

April my favorite month of the year.  Such a beautiful month filled with images of Flowers and fresh Spring Air. To start off the month is the best day ever, the day I was born.

This past weekend I actaully spent the whole day feeling like I was being partially brainwashed except I liked it.

It's a big Holiday time with E'id, Thanksgiving, Blessed Jummah, Hajj, Fasting of A'rafat, soon to be worldwide Chistmas and Hannakah season,
What is the best gift to get someone you love?
A gift that doesn't break with usage and time.
A gift with no batteries required.
A gift that will teach them something about life.
A gift that will open their eyes to the world around them...

J. Samia Mair has written about this wonderful gift in her Blog Article for the Baltimore Muslim Examiner

Holiday gift ideas and not just for Muslims! - The 'Many Voices' of Muslim authors

 Check out her other cool and insightful articles! Masha'Allah.

My Adventures in Tucson had a funny post about Authors and their faces on the backs of books.

For me I do not like their faces on the backs, whether large or small. But especially hate the large photos. I do like them on the inside of the book in the back. Yet sometimes they certainly surprise you how the author looks doesn't match with the image in your head. But with their faces on the back every time you shut the book you are taken a bit out of fantasy zone that half this book is an advertisement venue for the author. As I said in comment to Advn. in Tucson "It's kinda like watching a movie in the theater with the lights on." You can get into the movie plot but you keep getting distracted by the guy three rows down picking his nose then sticking his hand into the popcorn he shares with his friend. I.E. Reality Intervenes.
But it got me wondering, what about Muslim and Muslimah Authors? Do they put their pictures in their books? First point of course is some people believe photos are haram of people, lets not get into that. If that is your opinion ok. For those that view people pictures as ok think about this:
You just read a fabulous Science-Fiction book by made-up-author Lacy White. You reach the back after a satisfying ending and there is a color photo of a middle aged Muslimah white convert with a lovely green hijab that matches her eyes. She is smiling a beautiful yet modest writer's smile. What do you think of?
Firstly are you surprised that this Sci-Fi book which had nothing to do with Islam was authored by a Muslim?
Are you surprised she's a hijabi in the picture?
Do you think she is supporting the role that we Muslimahs can be great writers?
Or do you think her wearing hijab means she should NOT be putting her face all over the world and into the hands of non-mahram men?
Do you think she should not be smiling in case some weird man becomes attracted to her and starts stalking her?

What would Muslims and Non-Muslim's reactions be to a picture of just a black swathed niqabi picture for the Author Picture. Or even dare I say a fully burka swathed photo. Some might say the alter is pointless but is it? You know that this author is a burka wearing muslimah and come to some conclusions about her by her writing and what she is wearing, one thing is for sure though there is that shock by a non-muslim that what they read was written by THIS!

For current Muslim and Muslimah authors out there do you put your picture on your books? What do you write about yourself in the Author Descriptions? What do you feel about your fellow authors who choose to do the opposite from what you feel?

I had thought of this question a long time ago when I was first putting hijab. I thought when I authored a book, should I put my picture of me in hijab? Should I wear colored hijab? Should I smile? Should I let my eyes sparkle? Should I leave off the picture? Should I mention in the author description I'm a Muslim Convert. Especially with a name like mine writing Islamic Fiction it might be seen as odd and surely someone would want to know who the heck is this Brandy person doing talking about Islam. For non-Islamic Fiction would it be a turn off for readers to know you're Muslim? Would they stop buying your books? Some perhaps afraid of becoming brainwashed by your subtle words encouraging Islam (you know secret Islamic conspiracy messages).

What are your views on this issue?

Yesterday I finally got a few minutes to myself in the early morning and was staring at my big book of poems and then started to read it to get the meter in my head again. (Do you writers do that too have to read a book to remember how to write? LOL) So after reading I got my little memo pad and fav pen and began writing...and scratching off a lot... and finally got myself a new poem. I'm not gonna post the entire thing right now but just a small stanza:

...So my fellow Poets,
Hold your pens still.
And be vary wary,
Of the ink they spill.

To Allah, Reverance, is due,
So dot your prose with dew.
Let it not be said,
At Him, you threw your shoe.
.....

But the last two lines I had a small debate Islamically about the wording with my husband. I had written "Created perfectly by Him, The Criterion." My husband said that No it's not created and there was a big debate on this issue with scholars. I said well isn't everything created by Allah, he said YES BUT... the Qur'an is also called the Speech of Allah and a part of Allah is not Created as Allah is not Created. So therefore you cannot say that it was created technically. Very deep issues here people! So I changed it to: "Perfectly said by Him, The Criterion."

I will type it up today and insha'Allah work on the Short Story today too as I don't have much time left for writing it and editing it before Submission deadline!
_____________________________________________

Also in other news I'm trying to wean my son as of yesterday. His naptime went ok with a few tears but bedtime was crazy, he wouldn not sleep for hours and kept rolling around and crying no matter how much I rocked him. This little boy loves his milk. So I gave in and will wean him from day feedings and only if he really needs it at night. Please make du'a this will be easy for him and me.

Women's Silent Tears

How many tears have been shed,
because of few words said,
by voices low and deep,

how many more must weep,
withhold them, they cannot keep,
down faces very pale,

through grief; the silent wail,
battling emotions, they fail,
yet inside they harden,

though they beg for pardon,
hearts locked up by wardens,
who really has the key?

A lioness all will see,
selflessly, protects her family,
yet inside a mouse,

rocking numbly in her house,
always pining for her spouse,
those escaping little tears,

exposing all her fears,
subjecting her to jeers,
but her soul's strong,

though they do her wrong,
she'll bite her willing tongue,
bottled in her head.

Many more tears shed,
ringing her eyes with dread,
underneath they simmer,

resolving with a glimmer,
blurring smiles with a shimmer,
they fall without sound,

fresh throughout the rounds,
pacing the same ground,
so soft she was made,

but, she must stand brave,
his mercy does she crave,
Women's silent tears.

~(c) Brandy A. Chase -2009
~[do not reprint without permission]

Oh Lebanon! Keep Waiting!
Oh Syria! Keep Waiting!
Oh Jordan! Keep Waiting!
Oh Afghanistan! Keep Waiting!
Oh Pakistan! Keep Waiting!
Oh Iran! Keep Waiting!
Oh Iraq! Keep Waiting!
Oh Saudi Arabia! Keep Waiting!
Oh Kuwait! Keep Waiting!
Oh Bahrain! Keep Waiting!
Oh United Arab Emirates! Keep Waiting!
Oh Qatar! Keep Waiting!
Oh Oman! Keep Waiting!
Oh Yemen! Keep Waiting!
Oh Nigeria! Keep Waiting!
Oh Egypt! Keep Waiting!
Oh Sudan! Keep Waiting!
Oh Mauritania! Keep Waiting!
Oh Turkey! Keep Waiting!
Oh Algeria! Keep Waiting!
Oh Morocco! Keep Waiting!
Oh Kazakhstan! Keep Waiting!
Oh Uzbekistan! Keep Waiting!
Oh Turkmenistan! Keep Waiting!
Oh Nations of the Prophets! Keep Waiting!
Oh Nations of the Books! Keep Waiting!
Oh Nations of High Morals! Keep Waiting!
Oh Nations of Wealth and Populations! Keep Waiting!

Keep waiting for Israel to find it's last "terrorist" Hamas leader
with his automatic rifle in one hand,
his green bandanna across his forehead,
suckling at his mother's breast.
Keep waiting for this infant militant to throw his ball
across the room and receive a grenade back from Israel.
Keep waiting for the numbers
to reach higher and higher.
Keep waiting with your blindfolds on
and your hearts locked in vaults.
Keep waiting while Israel clear out the foreigners
to prepare for the slaughter.

Ah, but they deserve it don't they?
Their babies blinked. Their children laughed.
Their youth kissed. Their mothers toiled.
Their fathers wept. Their elderly sighed.
Shameful deeds indeed.
So please keep waiting.
Israel is not done.


(c) Brandy A. Chase, 2009

I call myself a Writer. Yet I have not yet told how this came to be.

Perhaps we should first look at my childhood. Since I was young I was good at telling stories. My biological mother always would say "Brandy tell me a story." Later as I grew up to around 6 or 7 I saw many Shrinks and Social Workers and I was always Narrating my past so they could analyze me. In Kindergarten I was just learning to read things and in the foster home that taught me to read one of the younger boys made fun of me that he could read before me. This fulled my rage to be better than him and so I read like crazy. In 1st grade I was reading so well that they moved me up to the 3rd grade reading hour (where I'd go to 3rd grade just to read books with them for an hour). In the 3rd grade class I had so much fun and I felt so special being advanced. Also the smartest boy in that class was tripping over a new "hard word LIGHTENING" and I was so tempted to say it out loud to help him but I held my tongue wiggling in my chair saying it over and over in my head. Finally the teacher corrected him and moved on and I never had the chance to show my brilliancy. I was disappointed but still elated I knew more than the smartest boy of 3rd grade. Once I started living with my father and my new mom they encouraged me all the time to read and I did voraciously. All my tests showed I had advanced reading and comprehension skills many grade levels higher than I was in, consistently through the years. I used to spend summers reading book after book eating ice pops curled up with my cat. Also playing pretend with my childhood best friend all the way until the middle of high school led me to enjoy the world of imagination.

In school plays, because of my advanced reading levels, I always got the part of the Narrator because I could easily read quickly and memorize the many lines. It was my inner joy that I was still "the best" at reading. My 5th grade teacher, the wonderful Mr. Vasquez, used to read to us out loud in class and it would send me into the enchantment of books to the point I'd wait eagerly for the reading hour and when it ended I wished I could take his book and finish it off myself. I also by this time had made a few simple poetry books and the teachers had applauded them thoroughly.

Middle School taught me further the power of words and writing. One of the teachers read the first book of Narnia out loud. Another book he read out loud enchanted me to the point where when reading of drunkenness you could almost feel yourself sloshing sideways out the door to the next class. Words held power. I was still writing poetry here and there and practicing my use of imagery with just the right word well placed. In 8th grade our teacher gave us an assignment to write an actual long story. My mind was racing! Oh the plots to make! It was fabulous fun. I wrote a Science Fiction booked called "Journey to Pluto". Basing the characters mostly off of my real life friends. A Book I'm still polishing to publish to this day (it's there in a file!) But I made a short version and gave it to the teacher and she liked it very much.

More importantly though my parents showed it to my Aunt who is into writing and publishing and I had no idea we had so much in common. As we edited the story to make it longer I fell in love with the writing process. I was having fun with this. Also I continued to write poetry to the point when we'd eat out with my grandparents nightly I'd write out a new poem on the napkins and spend the evening trying to find that perfect word and driving my whole family insane trying to capture a feeling with only one word. Eventually my parents gave up and bought me a thesaurus.

Sadly shortly there-after my paternal Grandmother's health was quickly deteriorating. She was placed on Hospice Program and I read literature and pamphlets on how to deal with death. One pamphlet said to let the person know you love them. So one night I went to my grandmother's room and held her sleeping hand while Beethoven's Fur Elise played in the background and finally she woke and I told her how much I loved her and she assured me how much she loved me. That night I was feeling so emotional about it all I wrote the entire experience down and sent it to my mom through the post office since at that time I didn't feel comfortable enough to hand it to her. She saved that letter unbeknown to me at the time.

Later, when my Grandmother died, at her funeral everyone told special things about her. I was too shy to stand up in front of everyone though I had so much to say. My mom though stood and read my letter out loud to everyone. I felt better. As we were walking to leave the cemetery my Dad's Step-sister told me she loved my letter. His other Step-sister came up then too and said "Wow that was powerful. You know you should be a writer!" I was really stunned by the compliments. I know it was heartfelt but 'powerful!?' Me? A writer? Could I be? Am I? Is this where I belong? Is this what I can become? More family members complimented me and a dayIi expected to be so sad turned into something amazing. The beginning of my dream to become a writer. From that moment on I was insatiable in my quest to read more challenging books and each summer I took a classic author in Science Fiction and read all their books. One summer Alan Dean Foster, Andre Norton, Anne McCaffrey, the entire Star Wars novels series. I also inherited my grandmother's Romance Novels and there were hundreds.

I couldn't get enough of reading. It's all I wanted to do. I let homework and school slack as I finished that last page of a great novel. I lived my life in imaginations and fantasy. While I moved around in the physical world my mind was always dual mode in an imagination. I was the Queen of Europe gliding gracefully toward the evening supper and later the grand ball as in real life I went to my next class and to the cafeteria. People around me were just extras on my personal set. Instead of doing homework at night I'd spend hours and hours acting out my personal imaginations when I wasn't in a book, like being a famous "Riverdancer" as I danced to my Celtic Music in circles in my room. Being an only child ensured I wasn't interrupted or bothered.

But the best of all during these High School Years was writing novels. Instead of listening to a history lesson I'd be writing the 7th Chapter to my latest novel. Two weeks later I'd have a new idea and relate to my friends the new plot. Sometimes during lunch I'd get them to chime in on plot ideas. My closest friends can attest to my obsession. Sure I flunked a few classes but it was worth it at the time to finish that part of the book. Plus there was always Summer School. By the time I finished 12th grade I had 20 yes TWENTY unfinished books in various stages of completion. Yes I am a procrastinator with Attention Deficit Disorder. But I'm a writer!

So as I met my future husband and had to deal with a suddenly difficult life. My solace was writing and reading. I read so many books while unemployed that I could predict (correctly) the entire plot by the end of the first chapter. It got so bad I lost the interest to read and write anymore. I couldn't enjoy the books when I could predict it all. Just then luckily I was too busy working at the movie theater to worry about time to read. But for me Movies are like Books with free pictures. I even used to ditch school on Fridays to catch the latest Picture Book ;) that was released. I never stopped having my dual reality of imaginations during real life but it got harder and harder to find the right plots to match my life. I made a rule though that no matter how difficult Praying 5 times a day got for me I'd never "pretend" to Pray or be a Muslim Character. Islam is always been the one thing I don't use in imagining. Because Allah is real and Islam is not something to play with.

After I got married and moved to Lebanon I spent much of my time cooped up with myself as is my habit and made more imaginings and I had suddenly a lot of free time to write but social obligations to hang out with the family caused me strife with time management. Until my younger sister in law H, showed an interest in my stories and in making her own poems and story ideas. Such a special bond we share. She was my happiness in those early days when few spoke English and understood my aloofness. Now I'm able to share books and stories with her easily and she's my sounding board for everything I write. When I had the idea to write with Arab characters for the first time she was right there helping me with names and themes. To her I owe much. While pregnant with my daughter I had ages of free time to write and finally I finished my rough draft to my book I'd been working on since high school. I finally got to write "THE END". It's been 4.6 years since I wrote THE END and still haven't had time to finish typing it into the computer and getting it polished to send off and of course it's a Romance Novel so it's unIslamic and I have that whole debate still going in my head of if I morally SHOULD send it off...

Now I have over 50 books in various stages of writing (one completed!) about 12 of those Islamic, and I've made my dream to be a Writer. This was how I got to this point of finally opening a blog to find people "just like me". Muslims who Dream to Write.

I was laughing and chatting online with my sister-in-law H when she suddenly took me by surprise.
"So what's new in the stories?" she asked. I blanked out a moment while memories rushed to my heart.
I always share my latest pages scribbled about any of the current books I'm writing with this sister. She always listens and gets properly excited about my characters which in turns fuels my writing passion. I haven't been able to write for a very long time now. Her question brought back the hunger. The mad insatiable urge to pick up my sculpting pen and carve out a tale, a tale the likes that have never been told before. My heart wrenched with grief that my pen lay idle.
"Nothing new yet, you know, two kids and all." I weakly laugh trying to rid myself of this burning pain in my heart. I tried to describe to her how much I miss my writing and I know that she knows but does she KNOW MY HEART IS ON FIRE!?!?

Why WHY! am I forsaking my passion? WHY! Sure I have the normal excuses any woman has... 2 kids, a house that needs Arabized cleaning, a big list of to-do. But the sad reality is my writing is no longer even ON the to-do list as it used to be. I really did actually put on a calender before: "Write on *** story". Maybe I don't even know which story to write now if I even wanted to dig out my pen.
It's calling me back to it, the great Sculpting Pen of the ages. Calling me to make my mark on history. Calling me back to my passion of the written word. Calling me back to the days where I'd sit writing a poem and take at least an hour trying to find that elusive perfect word to describe an intense feeling. Calling me back tot the days when I'd manage a good six pages in my latest book while my teacher waxed on about the importance of learning American History. Calling me back to the days when I read for my friends during lunch the latest in my plots.
What agony I am in.
Why do we let our passions fall to the way-side? Why can't we let our sculptors within free? My inner passion has been chained down, tormenting my inner soul with the feelings of being lost without remembering what it was I lost. The distant call of my sister has it all rushing back, and in doing so, has fueled my life back into brilliance.
The soul is happy when following it's passion to the utmost.
I need my soul to be happy again.
It's my torment that I don't know how.
I don't know how to manage the already overwhelming task of taking care of my duties and still have time for the time-consuming task of getting my head back into the writer's mode and my heart to follow the lives of my characters. But if I don't think of a way I'll continue to feel this hollow ache in my chest where my heart is slowly withering.
The beat slows... wash the dishes... slower... vacuum the floors... slower... take out trash...
"So what's new in the stories?"... stutter... ! ... faster... a pen... faster... a blank paper... faster... a story!... Faster... MY STORY! ... BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
THAT is living !~ Feeling your heart pound blood through your body.

My four finger stand up tall,
Reaching up to touch it all.

What will I reach?
Perhaps a fuzzy peach?

Perhaps a pink butterfly?
Glittery, twinkling to my eye.



Many thing I want to learn,
In my seat I twist and turn,

A joyous laugh,
A gentle bath,

Nightly to sleep I go,
Wake to four and say hello.

-Brandy A Chase (c)2008

(My daughter turned FOUR on Sept. 18th and her cousin turned 2, same day)

I'm going to post a small part of a post I put on my private blog because I feel it needs to reach wider and everyone neeeds to take the time to appreciate their children more.

*I yelled alot at my daughter today and finally she's getting sleepy after three hours of trying to get her to sleep*.........My mind is working frantically though as she starts to wear down. WHere is this coming from all this hate and anxiety towards my own daughter whom I love so much and would go to great lengths for? Obviously Shaytan is messing with my head. So I begin reading Qur'an for us both and it calms her down to sleep and me down to clearheaded. Finally she drifts off and I march here to the PC to do some major research. I've had it. I'm sick of yelling at my kids and feeling like al-Qaida surrounded by "Kuffar". (ie hot blooded). ..... I feel like crap and they feel like crap and this is all not healthy at all and it has to change NOW not tomorrow. So I'm googling things now and I will post it to both sites the links though not the full story of course. I already hear your critisim beleive me I know what a poophead I'm being. I'm the one who has to look into their hurt blue eyes and trembling lips and so I AM trying to find a way to stop this. I know it all stems from the chaos of life right now but it's such a visious cycle. Kids up all night sleep in the day eat irregularly etc,.. it all ties together but I don't know how to get it to re-adjust itself..... ugh.... ok let me get these links going:
http://www.babycenter.com/400_how-can-i-stop-yelling-at-my-toddler_500774_1000.bc
How to Stop Yelling
http://daddybrain.wordpress.com/2008/05/20/stop-yelling-daddy/
http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080111132054AALB4qR

Oh my god. I really am literlly crying now because I just read this aweful poem about child abuse and it's so terrible and yet so real and true that it kils me all over again that I even shout once at my kids. Ya ALLAH, please have mercy on me and stop me from doing this horrid thing to my kids.... PLEASE!
http://www.babycenter.com/400_how-can-i-stop-yelling-at-my-toddler_500774_1000.bc?pageSize=10&startIndex=10&questionId=500774&ownerId=1000
(about fifth or six comment down on this last link I found this)
"I too yell at my littl girl. Sometimes it's so fustrating and when shes yelling and crying and whining all morning, I feel like I'm not good enough and I'm not a good mom. Then I just break and yell back at her really loudly, and sometimes I start crying after because i feel so bad.. When I yell at her she gets scared and jumps and starts really crying, I just want to die after it happens but it's already done. I want to be more calm and patient, she is only 13 months but I feel so stressed out sometimes. Today was one of the few days that i really yelled back at her and I put her down for a nap, and went and relaxed for a while. When she got up I was trying to be really patient and calm and nice to her cause I felt so terribly auful. I then came to work today and a friend of mine sent me an e-mail called Blue Ribbon Against Child Abuse and I read it, it goes like this:
my name is sarah I am but three my eyes are swollen I cannot see I must be stupid i must be bad What else could have made My daddy so mad? I wish I were better, I wish I weren't ugly, Then maybe my mommy Would still want to hug me. I can't speak at all, I can't do a wrong Or else I'm locked up All the day long. When I awake I'm all alone The house is dark, My folks aren't home. When my mommy does come, I'll try to be nice, So maybe I'll get just one whipping tonight. Don't make a sound, I just heard a car My daddy is back From charlies Bar. I hear him curse My name he calls I press myself Against the wall. I try and hide, From his evil eyes I'm so afraid now I'm starting to cry. He finds me weeping He shoults ugly words, he says it's my fault That he suffers at work. He slaps me and hits me, And yells at me more I finally get free and run for the door. He's already locked it, And I start to bawl He takes me and throws me Against the hard wall I fall to the floor With my bones nearly broken, And my daddy continues With more bad words spoken. "I'm sorry!", I scream But it's now much too late His face has been twisted Into unimaginable hate. The hurt and the pain Again and again Oh please God, have Mercy! Oh please let it end! And he finally stops and heads for the door, While I lay there motionless sprawled on the floor. My name is Sarah And I am but three Tonight my daddy Murdered me.
I know it's too sad and very extreme, but we must try to stay calm with our children, because they sometimes know no better. After reading this poem, I know I will make an effort to try and understand my chilkd more, and get angry at her less. posted 3/29/2006 by Guilty mother canada "

Oh MY, are you crying too? Can you just feel the girl's wanting to love her parents? Don't you look at your own children and think how often they just want our love too? Why am I doing this too my kids? Because I'm stressed about the hosue and marraige and life and everything? It's not even worth one tear from my baby. Maybe this poem affects me more because I have been in abusive foster homes and all I wanted was parents to love me and they wouldn't. We have so much love to give our children and we waste time doing other things. Ya ALlah.
Here's the last link: http://actagainstviolence.apa.org/specialtopics/yelling.html