RANDA JARRAR

This year has been incredibly bountiful and wonderful. I traveled like crazy- to London, Paris, Greece, Germany, and coast to coast. My partner and I got married in a beautiful outdoor ceremony. We decided to move south, back to Austin, and he took a courageous step towards a new career.

I hope next year will bring a new teaching job, more readers, and more peace and equality to all.

In case you missed it, here are a couple of new publications:

In the New York Times Magazine: The Missing-Piece Son

In Five Chapters: Accidental Transients

And look for an essay in The Progressive next month.

Beirut39, a Hay Festival project, aims to celebrate 39 of the most interesting Arab writers under the age of 40. There’s an article in The National about this…Here’s an excerpt:

Around 500 young authors from across the Arab world as well as the Arab diaspora in Europe and America submitted their works. The vast majority of these texts were written in Arabic…

The 39 authors will travel to Beirut in April for four days of literary talks, debates and recitals. Libraries, bookshops, cafes and universities will welcome visitors to discuss the issues at the heart of Arab contemporary fiction. The festival hopes to attract a diverse audience, reflecting the power of writing to stimulate social cohesion and cultural understanding.

To mark the occasion, Bloomsbury will publish Beirut39, an anthology of fiction and poetry by the selected authors with an introduction by the Lebanese writer Amin Maalouf. The book will be published in English and Arabic in the UK, the US and the Arab world.

I’m so honored and excited to be a part of such a special project! Stay tuned for more details and adventures.

The paperback edition of A MAP OF HOME is now available from Penguin books.

You can get it at your local bookstore or on Amazon, Powells, or B&Noble.

About the book: Randa Jarrar’s fresh, funny and fearless debut novel chronicles the coming-of-age of Nidali, one of the most unique and irrepressible narrators in contemporary fiction. Born in 1970s Boston to an Egyptian-Greek mother and a Palestinian father, the rebellious Nidali—whose name is a feminization of the word “struggle”— soon moves to a very different life in Kuwait. There the family leads a mildly eccentric middle-class existence—until the Iraqi invasion drives them first to Egypt and then to Texas. With echoes of Jhumpa Lahiri and Marjane Satrapi, this critically acclaimed debut novel is set to capture the hearts of everyone who’s ever wondered what their own map of home might look like.

Also, I did an interview with Zocalo which you can read here.

The Austin-American Statesman profiled me in their Books section.

Electronic Intifada, which I love, reviewed my book here.

Enjoy!

…my fall-back home. I moved down here about a month ago to focus on writing the new novel and to do so in a warm climate. I will miss the Arab-American mecca that is Michigan, but I will not miss the seven month Winters.

To give you an idea of what my new novel is like, I’ll share with you the books and objects currently parked at my desk.

Angela Carter: Saints and Strangers and the Old Wives’ Fairy Tale Book.

The Making of Iraq, 1900-1963 by Samira Haj

Two different Mythology encyclopedias, and a scholarly book on Myths.

Candide, by Voltaire

The Devil’s Dictionary, by Ambrose (lost in Mexico) Bierce

Haddawy’s edition of the Arabian Nights

Santera: African Magic in Latin America

The Book of Imaginary Beings, by JL Borges

A picture of the Virgin Mary and child

A Jaime Hernandez drawing of a woman walking out of an East LA apartment in red cape.

Smoking rabbit toys.

A tiny toy sewing machine.

A Fairy door.

Two notebooks.

A wrapped cube of Nablus soap, all the way from Palestine.

Postcards.

A poster of Umm Kulthum.

My computer, on which about 50,000 words have so far been written.

I have a title, but I’m too shy to share.

Meanwhile, A Map of Home is released in paperback tomorrow. Be sure to pick up a copy for a friend if you liked it and want to share Nidali’s raucous voice with others.

Here are the German and Taiwanese editions of my novel. They’re both so cool! I love how bicycles figure into most of the covers for the book. My bicycle always symbolized freedom for me when I was a teenager. When I won the Hopwood award, the first thing I bought was a cool cruiser with 21 gears. Now it’s in the basement. Must dig it up and take a celebratory, summer ride!

Click to enlarge

A Map of Home has won the Arab American Book Award for best fiction of 2008. Woo hoo! The ceremony will take place in November at the Natioanl Arab American Museum in Dearborn. Other winners include Naomi Shihab Nye and Suheir Hammad. We’re gonna party!

Also, my german book tour is shaping up for September to coincide with the German edition of the novel. I’ll post details soon.

And last, the Penguin paperback is now available to preorder. Check out the snazzy new cover!

I’m currently preparing to move, writing, and reading: State of Grace, Joy Williams; Maggie the Mechanic, Jaime Hernandez; and One Writer’s Beginnings, Eudora Welty. It’s finally warm in Michigan! I’m also putting together my paperback tour for A Map of Home. Want me to visit your town? Drop me a line at randajarrar on the g to the mail.

I am reading and enjoying I Live Here and My Happiness Bears No Relation to Happiness.  The first chapters of both books examine the lived realities and consequences of militarily erased homelands.  I Live Here begins with Chechnya, with stories of its 1944 Stalinist purge and its current day tragedy, articulated by the Internally Displaced Persons camps.  My Happiness Bears No Relation to Happiness starts with the very first of poet Taha Muhammad Ali’s influences: his hometown Saffuriyya, which was erased by Israel.

Both books are stunning achievements; Joe Sacco’s comic in I Live Here is highly recommended for those who know nothing about the Chechens’ tragedy; Adina Hoffman’s biography is highly recommended for those who yearn for a well-written biography of a Palestinian writer, of which there are possibly none.

Okay, been receiving lots of email asking for clarification. What do I mean I will “miss” Michigan? Am I leaving?  Yes, I sure is. I’ve completed the MFA program and a year of full-load teaching. I am heading back to Austin, the only place on this planet where I truly feel at home. This won’t happen until late July or early August.  I am not going there for any practical reason, I only want to take a year off from working and teaching to concentrate on the new novel (which is going well) and on revising my short story collection.  These are my goals.  I will possibly end up spending the year revising several hundred bottles of Lone Star and seeing bands and swimming at Barton Springs.  But a little fun never heard nobody’s creativity.

A few weeks ago, I was chillin’ at my usual coffee shop/writing spot (literally one spot: I superstitiously refuse to sit anywhere else, and when someone is already sitting there, I use my voodoo skillz to get them to leave) when a malnourished pale man began yelling to Lily, my favorite barista.
“Why don’t you carry donuts?”
“We just don’t.”
“If you get some, they should be from Dino’s. You ever been to that place? It rocks.”
“Where is it?”
“Out on Stadium. The best donuts ever.”
“Better than the ones at Washtenaw dairy?” I ventured.
“Way better. It’s amazing.”
“It’s called Dino’s? Who owns it?”
“I’m not sure. They’re probably Middle Eastern. Unfortunately.”
Yes, I had heard correctly. Now, I had two choices. One was to ignore the ugly anorexic bastard. The second was to come out and tell him I was Arab and that he was a fucking racist turd. The third was to do either 1 or 2 and also include a swift kick to his minuscule balls. I opted for 1.
Today, I was in Dino’s hood, so I decided to stop by. The place is straight out of 1976. The vinyl floors shine, the blackboards outline different donut and deli possibilities, and behind glass cases shines maple, raspberry, sugar-coated, cinnamon swirled, sexy donut goodness.
“Hey, girl. What you havin’?”
This guy was strong. His stubble was black and his eyes honey-shiny.
“I’ve been hearing about this place for a while.” From racists, but still.
“Yeah? Things about our bad attitude or our good food?”
“Both.”
“Good. That’s how we like it. What can I get you, girl?”
“A dozen donuts, assorted.”
“Smart girl.”
At this point his arms did this freakyfast dance move, whisking 14 donuts out of their cases and slotting them into perfect geometric shapes in a cardboard box.
“Where are you guys from?” I said.
His eyes glazed over; he’d been asked this question approximately seven thousand, two hundred and eighty-three times.
“I’ll give you one guess.”
“Well, I’m Palestinian, so I was kind of hoping…”
“You. Are. Naaaat.”
“I am.”
“You grew up here though?”
“No.”
“Well, you’ve been off the boat a long time then. How many years?”
I had to think about it.
“Eighteen.” Holy shit. Eighteen? He was right. A long time.
“I’ve been off for thirty seven years,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Randa.”
“I’m Waleed.” We shook hands. “My parents were born and raised in Jerusalem.”
I thanked him and he said I better come back.
I took a donut out of the box and sank my mouth into its raspberry filling. My cheeks covered in powdered sugar, I read the cardboard box: Dino’s Donuts and Deli, LLC.
The LLC killed me.
I drove home.