Awards, Recognitions and Sri Lankan

Creative Writing in English

Featured image courtesy University of Kelaniya

SASANKA PERERA on 05/30/2017

Editors Note: The text reproduced below is the longer version of

the introductory comments made at the BMICH, Colombo on
27th May 2017 at the announcement of the winner of the Gratiaen
Prize 2016.

About Concerns of Judges

When speaking of the concerns we have as judges with regard to

our experiences in judging the entries for the 2016 Gratiaen Prize,
I am speaking on behalf of my fellow judges, Chandana
Dissanayake and Ruhanie Perera as well. These are our collective
thoughts. Over two decades, the Gratiaen Prize scheme has been
an important system in providing recognition to writers in Sri
Lanka who write in English. And this should continue. We already
noted in April when the short list was announced that it would be
best to institute separate award schemes for different kinds of
creative writing in English on the same model as the H.A.I.
Goonetilleke Award for Translations. Though difficult, this is not
impossible if there is a willingness to work with other concerned
entities and people who may share the same goals and ideals.

This is primarily to offset financial burdens. This self-conscious

diversification will limit the kind of subjectivity that necessarily
seeps in now, as the system is way too open, and judges have to
precariously navigate across varied genres of writing to arrive at
reasonable decisions. And that does not necessarily work too
well all the time. The present scheme makes life difficult for both
contestants and judges.

Ideally, the broad schemes and criteria for judging works in each
category should be formally and clearly defined and publicly
available so that contestants would know on what criteria they
are being evaluated. But at the same time, there needs to be
some leeway and flexibility for judges to be creative when
needed, within limits. In other words, there is a need to have a
more transparent and robust scheme with built-in possibilities of
flexibility.

We also think that the Gratiaen Prize and other similar award
schemes in the country need to ask themselves two fundamental
questions: That is, should they be looking for the best creative
writing in English in the country on par with global writing
standards and norms? Or, should they be overtly moved by local
conditions? If it is the latter, then, judges might often have to
reduce global standards drastically quite possibly against their
better judgment to deal with perceivably local conditions and
idiosyncrasies. This simply cannot be good for the future of
creative writing in the country.

As the Gratiaen Trust begins to celebrate its 25th anniversary while

reflexively revisiting its important institutional history, we hope
these issues might be thoughtfully explored so that a more
reasonable scheme for evaluating creative writing in our country
might be evolved.

On Creative Writing in Our Country

Let me take a few moments to reflect on the status of creative

writing in Sri Lanka, but with a focus on prose. But I think what I
have in mind can be generalised across all genres. These
thoughts are based on my reading of Sri Lankan writing in Sinhala
and English over the last couple of decades, and not by looking at
the entries we received for the 2016 Gratiaen Prize. But these are
simply my thoughts, and I do not want to implicate my two young
colleagues in whatever politically incorrect I might say today.
I have often wondered why is it that Sri Lanka has not produced in
contemporary times writers like Gabriel Garca Mrquez, Umberto
Eco, Fernando Pessoa, Pablo Neruda, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Rohinton
Mistry, Salman Rushdie, Elif afak, Orhan Pamuk and so on.
Admittedly, these choices are based on my own subjective
interests and taste. But all these are globally recognized writers of
creative fiction from different parts of the world.

When I am asking such a rhetorical question, I am also asking why

is it that our creative writing in general whether short stories,
novels, poetry and so on lag so far behind in terms of global
norms, and particularly with regard to recognition? I can answer
this question by focusing on four specific and inter-related areas
of concern:

1) One is about the time spent on creating a work, and the nature
of exposure a writer might have to the expansive world of writing;

2) The second has to do with the use of language;

3) The third concern is what appears to be a limitation of

imagination in working out plots and ideas;

4) The fourth is the relative lack of attention to research and a

pronounced disinterest in broader domains of knowledge.

All of these are inexorably linked, and inattention to one, would

obviously affect the others, and the work as a whole.

On Time Spent in Creating a Work

 As I read Sri Lankan fiction and poetry in general, I dont get the
sense that most people have spent as much time as they ideally
should in working out the structure and details of what they
write. Many seem to be in a mighty hurry to finish, publish, and
win awards. And it does not help that we hardly have a
professional publishing industry in this country with competent
systems for vetting and reviewing. As we know quite well,
publishing often depends on the personal connections a writer
has with publishing houses, and the commercial interests of these
publishers. In this scheme of things, quality of writing is not
always a major concern. This means that writings, which have not
achieved the necessary quality due to lack of investment in time
and effort and have not fulfilled other essential criteria, can easily
be published. They might even win local awards.

Unfortunately, many of us be they writers or not are also not

too keen to broaden our horizons, by reading widely. If one reads,
Fernando Pessoas work, The Book of Disquiet, how can one miss
what Phillip Pullman has called mysteries, misgivings, tears and
dreams and wonderment within the books 260 odd pages? If
you read Vikram Chandras Red Earth and Pouring Rain, his first
novel, one can see he is a master narrator of stories,
moving Adam Thorpe to caustically comment that Chandras
novel makes its British counterparts look like apologetic throat-
clearings. Similarly, Umberto Ecos Prague Cemetery,
convincingly deals with 19th century Europe from Jesuit plots
against Freemasons to Italian republicans strangling Catholic
priests with their own intestines, and so on.

All these have become memorable works of fiction primarily due

to the time the writers have taken to perfect their art, to fine-tune
their narrative styles, do essential research and build the
necessary background.
What is stopping us from bringing such well-established global
milestones to bear upon what we write locally? In the prevailing
circumstances, if we go beyond our islanded frame of mind, and
situate some of our hurriedly produced works without any
seeming inter-textual sources of inspiration in a global scheme of
reckoning, how would they fare? Would they make a mark in a far
more competitive environment? But then, why should one even
attempt for such greater heights when we can manage with much
less, right here?

I leave these questions unanswered for you to think about.

On the Issue of Language

By and large, in much of the Sri Lankan writing I have read, I dont
see a passion or a serious engagement with language or radical
experimentation with different forms of writing.

This is not about using correct spelling or grammar. In many

cases, language is either economical, fed by an unfortunate
limitation in vocabulary, or its simply dry. Not much time or
effort is taken for essential description, to build up stories, or
construct conversations. Or, it is forced, and wordy. By and large,
one also cannot see much reflection and thinking when it comes
to creatively dealing with various forms of writing as well. There is
not much interest to work across genres. All these shortcomings, I
think comes when language is merely used as a utilitarian device
for the primordial act of communication, and clearly devoid of
passion, color, emotion, imagination and feeling. How often do
you see passages like the following in Rushdies The Enchantress
of Florence in our writing?
A week after his final refusal, Marco Vespucci hanged himself. His
body dangled from the Bridge of Graces, but Alessandra
Fiorentina never saw it. She braided her long golden tresses at her
window and it was as if Marco, the Fool of Love were an invisible
man, because Alessandra Fiorentina
had long ago perfected the art of seeing only what
she wanted to see, which was an essential accomplishment if
you wanted to be one of the worlds masters and not its victim.
Her seeing constructed the city. If she did not see you, then you
did not exist. Marco Vespucci dying invisibly outside her window
died a second death under her erasing gaze.

I will not over-stress my point. But as fellow readers, I think you

can grasp what I am concerned about.
On Limitations in Imagination

When specifically thinking of fiction set in defined historical or

mythical epochs, examples that instantly come to my mind are
Marquezs One Hundred Years of Solitude, Ecos Prague
Cemetery, Elif afaks The Architects Apprentice and Orhan
Pamuks The Museum of Innocence.

These are simply unconnected references that are stuck in my

mind due to the ways in which they have used history, notions of
the past or memory to develop their plots with a nuanced sense
of imagination to narrate their tales. There are many other
examples.

Our written histories are replete with many possible and quite
intriguing points of departure, which could ideally allow us to
write good historically rooted fiction. But we dont seem to ask
the right kind of questions or allow our imagination to blossom
within the realms of possibility. For instance, why shouldnt one of
our novelists ask:
Are Dipavamsa, Mahavamasa and Chulawamsa the only
preeminent records of historiography?

Within the frame of that question, what about the fictional

possibility of a secret, not yet discovered, but possibly existing
record of our history which local monks had spirited off to Nalanda
for safe keeping in times of local calamity, which was in turn
taken to China by the pilgrim monk Xuan-zang during his 18
years of travel across the region from China to India and
back, before the ultimate and complete destruction of the
Nalanda library and the main complex itself. Xuan-zangs
descriptions of Buddhist sites in ancient South Asia are among the
most complete accounts one can find, and he dreamt of coming
to Lanka, but could not.

Within these possibilities, what is stopping one of our own from

writing a work of fiction in which the story line might suggest that
our understanding of local history would radically change if this
lost manuscript languishing in some godforsaken Chinese
monastery in the Sichuan Province was found? That could be a
fascinating journey into history, the intrigues of present day
politics, and the world of myth and belief while allowing creative
imagination to blossom. When I wonder about these fictional
possibilities, I often think about books like Umberto Ecos Name of
the Rose or Jostein Gaarders Vita Brevis: Letters to St
Augustine both of which engaged with history deeply to weave
their narratives. But closer to home, it seems to me that Prof
Gananath Obeyesekeres recent book, The Doomed King: A
Requiem for Sri Vikrama Rajasinha, which offers a creatively
revisionist history of 19th century Lanka with a focus on our last
king, presents tremendous possibilities for creative writers
interested in historical fiction.
But to ask such questions, and to allow ones creative imagination
to soar, we must be exposed to the broader worlds of global
writing and domains of specialised knowledge, such as the
historical records that Prof Obeyesekere has consulted in our own
context, and Xuan-zangs detailed travel accounts, all of which
are now published and available in English. But above all, to do all
this, one must have reservoirs of patience and time.

On the Issue of Research

In my mind, no creative writing is possible without sound

background research. As a novel, Rohinton Mistrys Such a Long
Journey, foregrounding the life of Mumbais Parsi community and
Indias nationalist politics of the 1970s would not have been
possible, if not for the thorough research on Indian politics and
demographic transformations undertaken by Mistry.
Similarly, Baudolino would not have worked if not for Umberto
Ecos considerable grasp of Christian and European history of the
12th century.
Similarly, Ecos Name of the Rose has become what is, due to the
authors sound grasp of medieval European history, semiotics,
biblical analysis and literary theory.

To reiterate, it is due to sustained research that these novels and

many others like them, have been able to successfully create the
overall context and mood within which they flow, and have
acquired global recognition.

But knowledge of this kind has to be self-consciously sought, and

the only method for doing this is through extensive research.
There are no short cuts. Such knowledge does not merely come
from quotidian experience, by reading the morning newspapers,
casual online loafing and certainly not through divine or demonic
intervention.

In these times of uncritical and populist nationalism, some of you

might say I am being unreasonable, unpatriotic, and we write as
well as anyone else. To friends and colleagues with such
reservations, my only question is this: how come our writing in
English has not become a global presence barring a very few
exceptions? Why was it necessary that many writers with Sri
Lankan family connections had to first leave our shores to become
globally recognised? Is it a massive conspiracy against us by the
rest of the English-speaking world?

More realistically, I would say, the answer lies in our collective

inattention to the four areas of concern I just outlined. But
obviously, there are many other issues as well, which I have not
discussed today. In any event, without the ability to be self-critical
and reflexive of our predicaments, we simply cannot go beyond
the often self-defeating systems of reckoning presently in place in
our country. No system of evaluating creative writing should be
obliged to offer awards annually as a matter of ritual. Let there be
dry spells for a year or two or more, if entries that fulfill basic
global norms are not received for consideration. As we have
already noted, it is a serious mistake to have systems for
evaluating creative writing too closely anchored to local
conditions and idiosyncrasies. After all, we compete with the
world successfully and on an equal footing in areas like visual art,
film, architecture, cricket and political violence. So why not
writing? The local can inspire us, and it certainly should; but we
must necessarily write for the world, particularly if we write in
English. My point is if we offer an award to one of our own locally,
he or she should also be able to compete with global award
schemes with the same entry. If this is not possible, then there is
something very wrong in what we do.
I have said all this today for a reason. It is not to dampen your
spirits, but to make a plea for our collective future in writing.
Including the Gratiaen Prize, we have systems of reckoning
focused entirely on the end product of the creative process. That
is, the focus is on awards. We have almost no regular and
institutionalised systems in place to help budding writers to get
their craft right; to discuss the kind of things I have outlined, and
to offer ways to deal with these. How can we offer awards
without first clearing the avenues to get there? This is not
something that can be done with irregular efforts by a handful of
concerned individuals. I think it is essential that such systems of
training and exposure be made available to younger and
aspiring writers on a regular basis be it by the Gratiaen Trust or
other concerned entities. But it must be done. I am not arguing
that workshops will create good writers. But I am saying that
such efforts will offer young writers exposure to people who know
their craft and may work as regular sources of inspiration. This is
what in certain ways, Indias Jaipur Literature Festival has done
over the years primarily due to its policy of free access, and
Lankas Galle Literature Festival has failed to do for precisely the
opposite reasons. Given my present location, this is something I
can help with, if there is adequate and serious interest.

I think I have said enough for one evening. And I am sure my

position is clear enough whether people opt to agree or not.

(Sasanka Perera is Professor of Sociology and Vice President at

South Asian University, New Delhi and Chairman of the Panel of
Judges for the Gratiaen Prize 2016)
Posted by Thavam