Tag: authorsofinstagram

  • To me… From me…

    To me… From me…

    This may seem vain, but I’ve been wanting to do this in my copy of my first book since I first published it.

    And today, sitting and reading through it to remind myself of some of that advice that I give others but don’t use, it felt like the right time to finally acknowledge me.

    There was no one cheering me on to walk this journey that I started in 2018.

    Rarely did anyone cheer me on in my journey up to that point either.

    And I often have to remind myself to give myself a break because it’s easy to get life wrong when you’re trying to figure it out by yourself.

    The best things to come out of my mistakes, have been the most fulfilling lessons that I’ve been able to share with whoever thought it worth listening to.

    So don’t go through life judging yourself harshly for getting it wrong at times. Or even most of the time.

    Success makes us haughty while failure and mistakes inspire us with wisdom.

    It all depends on what you take from it.

    Peace.

  • Turning pain into beauty

    Turning pain into beauty

    Shortly after I published my novel, An Incomplete Love Story, I remember asking if I finally had permission to post romantic, or mushy stuff. The responses were entertaining and generally positive.

    The most common question I get is whether it is based on true life, or is it fiction. Suffice to say it’s a dumbed down version of true life, because as they say, life is often stranger than fiction.

    Besides, where would be the fun if you knew for certain what in the novel is true and what is from my imagination?

    There are people reading this who still cannot believe that I am capable of romance. The bewildered look on their faces will always be a source of entertainment for me.

    Don’t allow the opinions of others to limit what you allow yourself to explore as self-expression, or as life goals.

    Here’s a piece I wrote a year ago.

    “It is my grasp on the subtlety of beauty, or the hints of romance that breathe between her pauses and between her aches that horror has imposed. My subject of beauty focused on the horror, while I, in my romantic notions, caress with care the breaths and the pauses, seeing in her the divine where she only sees the pain.”

    Perhaps this will find its way into the sequel of my novel.

    Perhaps the sequel may never be written.

    Time will tell…since time holds the secrets to many joys that I hope to encounter in life.

    When reading the above snippet, don’t only think of someone else. Consider that this may be how someone sees you, while you’re focused on the heartache and pain from your past.

    And that’s what is important. Sometimes we’re so fixated on the pain, that we don’t realise what beauty it has unearthed within us.

    Until we do, we’ll always honour the pain, and neglect our beauty.

  • My echo chamber

    My echo chamber

    For what feels like an eternity, I’ve been grappling with whether I have anything of substance to share beyond my first novel. Will it be an indulgent rant of self-pity, or will it honour the human struggle? Am I invested in it the way I was with the first novel? Or is the tedious repetition of adult themes in my life that inspires my writing just too much adulting for most who encounter its narrative?

    Such thoughts have plagued me for a long time now. Some inspired by genuine self-doubt, but most spawned by the weight of a colourful life that most could not bear. Thinking aloud reinforces the imposter syndrome, and speaking into a void reminds me that I’m my only echo chamber.

    Being cryptic is a natural disposition. A disposition that I expended every effort in my life to decode so that I could convey a coherent thought to any who would listen. My efforts appear to have resulted in an over achievement. Where once my challenge was in articulating my thoughts, I now stand accused of communicating in ways that are too complex. In my efforts to be as succinct as possible, it seems I’ve grown too dense in a single expression to the point of fatigue for the listener.

    Balance between the two is what I’ve sought through my writing. Being able to read within the perceived mindset of the reader has offered me the opportunity to develop depth to my echo chamber. But, it’s still my echo chamber, manned by me, and occupied by none else. My objectivity is therefore subjective, and my perspective unreliable.

    Therefore, I must dig deep into any snippet of feedback that I receive, trying to understand what is meant in the restrained or lethargic feedback that is spilled, almost hesitantly, as if a burden. Analysing and unpacking, decrypting and translating, finally leaving me with a glimpse of the truth behind the vague words offered as a description of how my writing may have been experienced. But I’m painfully aware that it’s still my echo chamber, manned only by me. Therefore none of its contemplations provide certainty or confidence. It only provides entry to yet another rabbit hole of doubt and over thinking.

    Will I write again? I think I may. Will it be more impactful than the first attempt? I’m not sure. But I’m curious to know. And that curiosity can be satisfied in one way only. I must write, and I must share. My echo chamber is an indulgence of self-pity that holds little value and no promise.

    The uncertainty of life must be celebrated, if not honoured. Without it, we’d be complacent beings disconnected from our souls, and each other. It is our collective fears that create the greatest moments of connectedness when we rise above those uncertainties, rather than surrendering to it.

    The answer, I guess, is clear. I should (must?) not abandon my story now. There is still much to be told, and if I truly believe that it is more important to tell my story than it is for my story to be heard, then it’s clear that the sequel to my novel is not to be doubted. Instead, it must be embraced with more grit and tenacity than the first.

    I may not have a soul to honour in the sequel, but I do have a narrator to respect, if not appreciate. This is more difficult than honouring another. It demands that I find that elusive balance between confidence and conceit, or self-worth and arrogance. In a world that defines the victim as the hero and the critical thinker as the oppressor, finding balance grows ever more elusive.

  • Forgotten bones

    Forgotten bones

    Sullen heart

    Tainted soul

    Exhausted spirit

    Far from home

    A journey long

    A stranger lone

    Broken promises

    Forgotten bones

    Cryptic poetry from a cryptic soul

    For each to take

    What echoes with their own…

    Photo credit : Adobe Stock

  • That empty bench…

    That empty bench…

    The saddest scene for me has always been the abandoned park bench.

    It echoes with profound intensity the pervasive isolation that too many experience, but too few reveal.

    There is a shame that is carried upon the broken wings of abandonment that anchors us in that space between wanting to create beauty in this world, while believing that it will always be unreachable for ourselves.

    So we birth the martyr within, presenting it as the selfless lover without.

    Being sure to distract others with affection, so that no one notices how achingly we stare at those empty benches.

    Those benches that once bore the hopes and dreams of togetherness.

    Those benches that once were claimed as sacred spaces.

    Those benches that remain available to the next loving embrace between its arms, knowing that once the lovers move on, it will remain, rooted to that spot, waiting to be embraced and abandoned, again.

    Photo credit : Adobe Stock


  • An Incomplete Love Story – Author’s note

    An Incomplete Love Story – Author’s note

    A note from the author for my novel, An Incomplete Love Story

    This story was inspired by true events.

    Some, my own but many based on incidents that I witnessed in the colourful domains of my life.

    It is a story of an often-overlooked community.

    Caught at the intersection of cultural pride while fighting for relevance in a rapidly evolving world, the South African Muslim Indian community is replete with prejudices from religious, political, and cultural influences.

    Good intentions rarely paved the pathway to heaven. But, understanding those intentions in the face of the carnage that the resulting actions impose on the innocents is what breathes life into a decaying soul.

    It is this that motivated me to write this novel.

    That is, my hope to draw attention towards the contamination of the good by the misguided prejudices of a sincere but deeply flawed community.

    ~ Zaid.


  • To give up silently

    To give up silently

    “When you give up on something, it becomes a weighty silence that you carry within you for the rest of your life.

    It’s a quiet acceptance that what once was the centre of your being will never be a part of your being again.

    The silence is the only gesture that will honour such loss, such surrender.

    And when anyone asks, if they even know to ask, all you can muster as a response is a sheepish grin and an involuntary shrug, hoping to appear nonchalant enough to hide the pain and the shame that you struggled with in the tortured darkness all those lonely, distraught nights.

    That’s how the light fades, and the dullness replaces the enthusiasm that once defined your spirit.

    Only, there’s no one looking close enough to notice. So your shame remains safe, and your heart, incomplete.”

    Another excerpt from the manuscript threatening to bleed out of my heart and onto the keyboard.

    From the sequel to my novel, this is a piece that may make it into my next novel titled, Taqdeer: A dance with destiny.

    Photo credit : Adobe Stock

  • Support Indie Authors

    Support Indie Authors

    Thank you Gallo Images for creating opportunities for indie authors and content creators like myself to get exposure.

    As any indie author will tell you, writing the book is the easy part.

    Publishing it is the next part, which is a bit easier than writing it. That’s if you do everything yourself like I do.

    But the most difficult part is getting people to know that your book exists, and to convince them to want to buy it.

    No matter how amazing your writing skills may be, or how enthraling your story, if people don’t know it exists, it will be a brilliant piece of work that is forever undiscovered.

    So efforts like these go a long way towards giving indie authors a fighting chance in the industry against the traditional publishing houses. Or perhaps even to get the attention of those publishers.

    Support an indie author by sharing their content with credits, and by leaving reviews of their work.

    Your small gesture can make a world of difference.

    Thank you.

    Photo credit : Gallo Images