Category — Writing

In 2004, author Norma Khouri was accused of perpetrating a literary hoax of immense proportions. Khouri’s 2003 book Forbidden Love told the story of an honor killing in Jordan and helped raise public awareness about the horrific practice. From her home in Australia, Khouri became the face of a movement to move the UN and others to condemn honor killings and to urge countries to put an end to the practice. As it turned out that Khouri was not who and what she originally seemed, doubts and explanations multiplied into a fog of suspicion and confusion. Was this a case of literary license, cynical exploitation, or something else entirely?

Anna Broinowski’s terrific film, Forbidden Lie$, looks at Khouri’s story, and attempts to untangle the many threads–fact, fiction, con, hoax, art–that surround Khouri, her book, and her detractors. Khouri is a strong presence in the film, and her interactions with the filmmaker raise new questions, spin new stories and result in a trip to Jordan where Khouri attempts to prove her veracity.

Khouri is mesmerizing, but is it the passion of an activist or the seduction of a con artist that draws us in? A running poll on the film’s website shows that opinions continue to differ. Wander into the tangled web and make up your own mind!

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As always, the disclaimer applies: This is a festival to which I have a substantial connection. I have volunteered for the past two years and sat on this year’s Selection Committee. I wrote for the festival catalog and will likely be introducing some of the filmmakers and subjects at the festival. Feel free to adjust for my bias. My blog reportage and opinions, however, do not represent the views of AFI or the SILVERDOCS festival, the Selection Committee, or of any of their staff. No one should construe anything expressed on this site as being endorsed or supported by AFI, SILVERDOCS or anybody other than me.

Those who know me are aware that, for the past year (with a couple of prominent interruptions), I have been working on my first novel. So far, it has been a mysterious process, full of doubt and wonder (for me), and the outcome is far from certain.

One aspect that has been surprising to me is the extent of interest that others have about writing. I’m not talking about my friends, who, at minimum, are going to fake an interest for my sake. No, I’m talking about casual acquaintances or people to whom I have just been introduced.

How do I know? Because of the questions that they ask. And ask. And…..ask.

So, to hereby save everyone I don’t know some time, I will run through the basics (people I meet in the future will be referred to the website).

What is the book about?

I’m not sure.

Translation? “Please don’t ask me what it is about. I thought I knew, but now I’m not sure. To tell you that makes me sound like an idiot, but honestly, I’m just making it up as I go.”

No one ever seems satisfied with “I’m not sure,” but I should note that sometimes this question is asked with genuine interest. More often, it is asked with a suspicious tone, like I’m trying to pull something over on them. (Tempting answer? “It’s the Bible, except with fact-checking.”)

When will it be done?

How should I know? I just told you I don’t know what it is about.

Where do you get your ideas?

Like Marty Scorcese and Sergio Leone, I steal them from Asian filmmakers.

So, how’s it going? (also, what’s it like being a writer?)

My days go pretty much like this. Everyday.

Pre-6 a.m.: Read email, read news, check Consumating rank, read movie reviews.

6 a.m.: Pick up pad of paper, pen. Stare into space.

6:15 a.m.: Put pen down. Turn on TV.

6:17 a.m.: Turn off TV. Pick up pen.

6:20 a.m: Turn on TV, turn down volume. Pick up pen.

6:22 a.m.: Resume staring.

6:28 a.m.: Stand up.

6:28 a.m.: Sit back down.

6:45 a.m.: Read a bit of what you wrote yesterday, to “get your rhythm.”

6:47 a.m.: Begin to question why you ever thought you could write a book. Hell, you can barely read a book. You must be an overly ambitious moron. Yesterday’s writing was total poop. Feel panicky.

6:50 a.m.: Let active self-loathing begin.

7:30 a.m.: Begin displacement behaviors to reduce feeling of despair. Email. IM. Blog. Read blogs. Read writers who inspire you. Become depressed that you will never be half the novelist Tolstoy was.

7:48 a.m.: Realize Art Is Dead, or at least, Art is not familiar with your house, and will not be stopping by.

7:50 a.m.: Resume active self-loathing. Alternate with staring, if it makes you feel better. Get coffee.

Repeat entire cycle until your will is broken, your nerves snap, or you are filled with a fatalistic nihilism. Or until re-runs of Judging Amy come on. (Why Judging Amy? Because Amy Brenneman’s character is even more neurotic than me. Feel good by comparison momentarily.) Or until you can justify a nap. As a last resort, justify your stopping by doing household chores.

Are you starting to get the picture? Somewhere in there, I scribble down some words–sometimes good, sometimes bad. How does it happen? I don’t know–I don’t even know what the book is about. (Seriously, are you even paying attention?)

But, thanks for asking. Now don’t ever ask again.