Tag Archives: As Sweet As Honey

Back at the Ranch

Indira Ganesan, Ocean with jasmine plant, 2014

Indira Ganesan, Ocean with jasmine plant, 2014


The need for a place to settle down, sigh into the space, and make plans to leave and return are part of the appeal of “home.”  Luckily, I have another year to hang my hat to remain in the same place.  As a writer or artist, The Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown provides temporary low-cost housing to Former Fellows to move back to town and produce work.  Five artists do just that, writing and painting in a beach community known for supporting the arts since the time of the Provincetown Players and Eugene O’Neill.  Readers of this blog know how I applied for a lottery, and had my name drawn out of a hat to live here, how I packed out and moved from my beloved community in Boulder because I no longer had a job.  Many times the first year and second year,  I wondered if I had made the right choice.  I planted a garden, admired the landscape, watched my novel get published, began a new job, fostered kittens and their mom, lost a friend to cancer, and struck a deer with my car.  By the time 2014 rolled around, I was waiting to hear from various job applications, grants, and the Work Center.  The spring passed in a blur of waiting and uncertainty, as I wondered what plans I could make for the fall, if I could make plans.


Indira Ganesan, weather watchers

Indira Ganesan, weather watchers

I raked Craigslist looking for apartments in Boulder, in Cambridge, In Boston.  I looked at  Princeton, and wondered if I should move back home to my aging parents.  Several bored nights, I wondered if I should pull up stakes for England, or France, or Italy, go to India.  Behind all this question was the unspoken thought: where can I write?  People say one can write anywhere and at any time, but I think a writer needs an anchor, a place so familiar and  unbothered that one can lose oneself in the words.  Hotel rooms work, if they have a view, but  I have never had more than a few days day at one.  I have to live somewhere for three years before I trust it enough to venture forth with cohesion onto  the page.  I don’t mean I do not write at all; I write constantly, but bits and pieces., but the long narrative, for me, requires me to trust my environment completely.


Just a few days ago, I found out I had another year in my home, a delight.  It is an earned year, a year to write, a year to teach  a course on American Women Writers, a subject close to my heart, and whatever else might fall my way or I reach for with aim.  It is a year to contemplate the next move.  A year to see if any dahlias other than the one so far will sprout, a year to  water the plans and plants. A year for the cats to turn another year over, and a year for me to appreciate every day of it.

Indira Ganesan, So Comfortable, 2014

Indira Ganesan, So Comfortable, 2014

Beginning with Marmelade

Indira Ganesan, Sue's Daffs, 2013

Indira Ganesan, Sue’s Daffs, 2013

I have been wondering in the past thirty-eight hours how to begin to unpack my impressions of my first visit back after two years. Finally, I made some toast and jam, and a cup of rose tulsi tea, and now I’ll begin.

Home is one of those words that I use to return to “that which I know where I rest.” For a few days, home has been my friend’s home  where I retired and replenished during my travels in Colorado. I have often spoke of home being the yoga workshop where I once practiced with some diligence among my friends. Home is of course in, South Asian parlance,where my parents live. To say come home means come visit me at home: come [to my} home.

Boulder is home. It is where I am comfortable, and can breathe easy, where things look similar if not quite the same. It is where my friends have like me grown two years older. It is where I run into people I know but don’t quite know, who say, I haven’t seen you in a while, and I say, I’ve been away two years, and because it is Boulder, city of bicycles and slow-moving mountains, that is accepted.

To declare allegiance to one home over another is of course to betray another home, where you have friends, where you are supposed to be making a life. To choose, as Georgia O’Keeffe did in Santa Fe (when I saw it, I knew it was mine) is a form of colonization, for no place really belongs to anyone.

I tried to pay close attention to when I came home to Provincetown, where I live now, but I was caught up in a conversation about other cities, other lives with another traveler, an artist who travels for work. I wanted to know if I felt a stirring, if the sand and marsh were saying, this, too, is home.

I have no conclusions. There is in me a desire to have a home, a permanent city apartment, a place where I can do with less clutter. I know I went to Boulder to see friends and to read from my book, and re-discovered my community.

The Weight and Thing of a Book


As I look over my blog posts, I realize I have posted about events, and cartons, and what’s coming up, but I have not really spoken of what it feels like to have a book published.

It feels good.

There were many, many revisions that were worked over. There are notes I’d write about possible ways the book could go.

I want to tell you about the book. I want to tell you how it feels in my hands, the subtle texture of the cover, the deckled pages, the soft cream thick pages.

My scribblings started in 2001,or maybe 2002, while living in Sag Harbor, NY. I had an apartment in a house on Richard’s Drive, in an area described in this wonderful book. In the midst of a long tortuous tale of a woman on the precipe of her fortieth year, wondering about marriage, about death, I wrote, “Mina’s aunt Meterling was amazing.” In four lines, I described Meterling’s wedding, and continued write about Mina.

After watching rock climbers on extreme sportsTV, I wanted to change my life, transform it. So I visited Boulder, CO, and wound up moving there in 2004. I never learned to rock climb, or bike, swim, or run. I discovered a form of yoga I loved, taught in a number of universities, and after a low,angry period which needs its own blog post, I emerged with a book. For three years, I wrote and revised, and then was faced with the need to move for work. My book had been submitted but no word on its future. I packed up my life in Boulder, my seven-year love affair with a town and its people, and moved to the place where I am now, Provincetown. One month before I arrived, the book was accepted.

I exchanged hundreds of emails with my editor, and combed through three copyedited versions, each time feeling happy I had something tangible to do. I attended webinars on media presentations, googled variations of “what to expect when expecting a book,” and waited. The cover arrived. Hurrah for Christopher Silas Neal and Carol Devine Carson! A decision had to be made about which butterfly to let flitter in the pages. (I get butterflies!) Did I like the typeset used to mark the first letter of each chapter?I did.

The bound galleys arrived. A list had to drawn of people to send the book to, in case they wanted to read and comment. A copy of the actual book arrived. The heft of the thing, the feel of it.

A crate of books arrived. I had to vacuum, I had to do the laundry, the dishes. It was publication day, and I was by myself. But Friday, there was a party, and a reading in a few days. My new students are happy at my news of a book, and my old students call to congratulate. There is suddenly more to do, even as the car battery fails, as a snowstorm if followed by another.

Today I heard a woodpecker that drove me outside to see if I could spot it. I opened the screened door and heard birdsopng in what seems like such a long time. I am sick with a cold, but my book is somewhere on a bookstore shelf. I will get my first glimpse on Tuesday night. This really is a dream come true.

Sweet News

Right now, the snow is whirling like a dust storm in a frenzy of wind.  Once again, Cape Cod has weather. Friday night, Stephen Russell of Wellfleet Market Place, which features an uncommonly fine collection of books on its shelves, hosted a reading and launch for As Sweet as Honey.  In an evening full of warmth, in a room filled with friends, and local writers and readers, after Stephen’s moving introduction, I read from the book, and chatted with writer Kathy Shorr on stage about Salman Rushdie’s genius articulation of  imaginary homelands.


Honey (Photo credit: quisnovus)

I signed some books, and continued the evening doing what I love, talking about books.

How often in our electronic worlds do we not simply talk about the books we are reading and have read.

The next evening, I attended a reception to welcome the new director of The Fine Arts Work Center, who takes the helm of a program devoted to giving time and space to emerging writers and artists.  Seven months to dream and work, year after year since 1968.

I completed my first book there, and began the second.  Would that I could make some headway into the fourth.

This is an article written by Sarah Shemkus for the Cape Cod Times.  Over tea, we spoke about writing.  Hope you enjoy!

Author chooses Provincetown for her literary retreat | CapeCodOnline.com.

One More Month to Go!


Ganesan, Indira As Sweet As Honey (Alfred A. Knopf, 2013)
Cover by Chris Silas Neal

Our Aunt Meterling stood over six feet tall, a giantess, a tree. From her limbs came large hands, which always held a shower of snacks for us children. We could place two of our feet in one of her sandals, and her green shawl made a roof to cover our play forts. We loved Meterling, because she was so devotedly freakish, because she rained everyone with affection, and because we felt that anyone that tall had to be supernaturally gifted….

Dear Friends,

In one month, my novel, As Sweet As Honey, will be available in the bookstores and on-line. If by any chance you want to reserve a copy by pre-ordering the book, you can go to the link below at Random House and choose from any of the bookstores (independent and commercial) listed. I am very excited about this book, my third in a sequence of novels that share a South Asian island setting, the imaginary island of Pi. As Sweet As Honey is about a very tall woman named who marries a very short man. The novel follows her life, as seen through the very curious and often very imaginative eyes of her young niece, within a family that cossets grief and ladles joy in generous amounts. I hope you enjoy the book when you read it.

As always,


From the Cover Flap:

…And there is a very tall South Asian heroine with the astonishing un-Indian name of Meterling, who has found love at last in the shape of a short, round Englishman elegant in white suits and pink ties. There are also numerous aunts, uncles and young cousins—among them Mina, grown now, and telling this story of a marriage ceremony that ends with a widowed bride who, in the midst of her grief, discovers she is pregnant.

From the Kirkus (Starred) Book Review:

The imaginary Indian coastal island of Pi, where Ganesan has set her previous fiction (Inheritance, 1998, etc.), works beautifully as the setting for this East Asian homage to To the Lighthouse, both the nostalgic recreation of a lost perfect moment and an exploration into Woolf’s “thousand shapes” of love.

To pre-order the book:


To “Like” the book on Amazon.com:


Books, Cheer, New Year

Indira Ganesan, streak of sunlight, 2013

Indira Ganesan, streak of sunlight, 2013

Dancing with joy at this lovely starred Kirkus review for As Sweet As Honey:

http://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/indira-ganesan/sweet-as-honey/ (review text below)

Reading The Marriage Plot; When I Was Cool; Lake People; & Tree Barking!  But, oh, I saw the “Downton Abbey” season three premiere  yesterday, & down the slippery BBC slope I go!  Those gorgeous clothes, actors, moments!

Ah, Welcome January!

From Kirkus Book Reviews:

  • Online Publish Date: January 6, 2013
    Pages: 288
    Price ( Hardcover ): $25.95
    Publication Date: February 15, 2013
    ISBN ( Hardcover ): 978-0-307-96044-3
    Category: Fiction

The imaginary Indian coastal island of Pi, where Ganesan has set her previous fiction (Inheritance, 1998, etc.), works beautifully as the setting for this East Asian homage to To the Lighthouse, both the nostalgic recreation of a lost perfect moment and an exploration into Woolf’s “thousand shapes” of love.

The novel opens with a wedding and a death almost in the same breath. After a brief but romantic courtship, 6-foot, 28-year-old Meterling (thoroughly East Asian despite her eccentric German name) receives permission from her Hindu family to marry Archer, a dapper 4 foot-7-inch Englishman in his 40s. During their first wedding dance, he suffers a fatal coronary. Meterling is naturally heartbroken; she is also pregnant. The narrator of the aftermath, Meterling’s much younger cousin Mina, lives with a passel of cousins, aunts and uncles in her grandmother’s household of joyous pandemonium, which is not unlike the genteel chaos of Woolf’s Ramsays; coincidentally, Mina’s is a family of well-read Anglophiles, not unaware that Pi is a little like Prospero’s enchanted island. Looking back from her own adulthood, Mina describes growing up in an innocent but not unsophisticated world in which people really do take care of each other and where what is meant to be happens. So her family accepts the scandalous fact that Meterling had sex before marriage and adores the resulting baby, Oscar. But Western influence is unavoidable. Mina lives with her grandmother since her parents are getting Ph.D.s at Princeton, and eventually, she ends up in America. Yet Mina still manages to tell the story of Meterling’s unexpected second romance and marriage to Archer’s cousin Simon, with whom she moves to England. The novel is masterful at exploring the difficulty of cultural identity and integration. There’s also a bit of magical realism in the shape of a ghost. But ultimately, this is a novel about the many permutations of both love and family.

Despite some slightly strained plot twists, the characters’ genuine charm and the girlish, witty energy of the storytelling are irresistible.