Writer
“I would like to be able to look Maitreyi in the eyes…” — Bengal Nights, 1933 For a powerful narrative set in postcolonial India, told by two powerful minds, one pair stands to be compared and contrasted. These are Mircea Eliade’s 1933 Bengal Nights and Maitreyi Devi’s 1974 It Does Not Die. Together, they […]
It occurs to me that, were I to exaggerate, I have never needed to write. My writing comes from a place of want. I want to write. The struggle is, in this case, when one wants to write, that the quality of the work comes into question. Wanting, one invests time, writes from desire or […]
(. . . the story of a magician and a sorceress.) The magician dashed off stage. He had been ridiculed for his fast-sprouting carnations, yet again. No more flower tricks at these open mics, he begrudged, they don’t care for nature fast or slow. Not to mention, being booed for your favorite spell sucked […]
Lavender fields brushed the side of the island of Hvar. It made us feel calm, those handful of nights in paradise. Argentina had been knocked out of the Cup. Threatened were the vibes. But dinner would that night turn things around. I couldn’t even tell you who won the World Cup without googling it […]
Why not get into the holiday spirit with some lines? These I wrote while traveling this past summer. They feel warm to me, silly, carefree, and yearning. Skim them, or sit on a word for a long time. They are here to keep you company. Personally I like the last one the best. […]
![Now available on P-a-p-e-r-b-a-c-k-! :: [The Summer Abroad] :: A soundtrack](https://www.ivanbrave.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/blog-post-pic.png)
After interminable edits, formatting marathons, and emails during breaks between class to lay down the marketing bricks of this project, it is done. Everything that is not writing is finished. Anything that is left to be, will be left to be. The novel, ladies and gentlemen, is out now. You will find a cover, sexy […]
Last Friday night, in bed with a cup of chamomile tea, I finished the last chapter of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Quartet. What a rush, I thought, staring at the wooden end of an exhausted incense stick on my desk; what a rush, despite the peace around me. I closed the fourth book, itself full of […]
The girl facing me was called Conchela. She had a heart-shaped face and a ponytail so tightly pulled back that it was hard to tell where her forehead ended and her hairline receded. She seemed real at first, but later I came to learn the only thing real about her was how children in Southeast […]
