The Memorist (Zainab Chaudary) was born a June baby in 1982, in Karachi, Pakistan. A Jersey girl from the age of 1, she's lived in Europe and traveled around the world, making up obscure travel rules as she goes. In her spare time, she is a bibliophile (understatement of the year), a nerd, a dreamer, a nostalgist, a scribe, and a connoisseur of experiences.
About this Blog // My brain works like a mushy tangential Venn Diagram. Hilarity (sometimes) ensues. Please be patient while organization of my brain is under construction.
Two weeks ago, I quit. Cold turkey.
I am not a smoker or a drinker. I don’t use drugs and will cut myself off from caffeine if I feel myself becoming too dependent on it. That’s the point really: I don’t do addiction because I don’t like losing control. But if 2014 has taught me anything, it is that nothing is ever under control for long, and that addiction can sneak up on you when you least expect it. Continue Reading
When you’re a writer, ideas flit across your mind on a daily basis. Some are fleeting and ephemeral, difficult to pin down and wrestle. Other flesh themselves out slowly, taking time to shape themselves as clay on your potter’s wheel.
Then there are days when ideas smack you in the head, over and over, insistently, until you give up and allow them escape onto paper or computer screen. An entire day filled with a confluence of events that isn’t so much a gentle nudge from the universe as it is a goddamn shove off a cliff. As Ray Bradbury once said,”you’ve gotta jump off that cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down.” Continue Reading
It’s funny how certain things from childhood become seared into your memory while others slip away. What makes those certain things stick? And is it those particular memories that created you as a person, like hands shaping clay? Or is it the person you are now that defines what memories are important to you and therefore worth remembering? Continue Reading
12+ hour flights have a way of disorienting you. Your legs, asleep from their cramped position behind someone else’s seat, take a few minutes to wake back up as you mentally instruct them: walk, forward, left, right, left right. You walk past fellow passengers in line for immigration, for baggage claim, sheepishly practicing non-acknowledgement of people you’ve spent the last entire half day with, 12 hours of non-intimacy in an intimate space. Airports in foreign countries ooze difference, subtle. Like a color-blind person who knows something is slightly off, you navigate the throng of people, of new faces and different languages. Continue Reading
Tonight, I witnessed a mini-love story unfold at the local Starbucks. Nights like tonight, with odd weather and strange winds, crackle with an inexplicable energy, a strangeness so palpable, you can feel it ride in on the freak flash rainstorm that ends a streak of unseasonably warm weather in April. It is in the odd rolling fog and the flashes of light across clouds, like ancient gods communicating fate to one another over an expanse of sky that stretches over this patch of farmland. Continue Reading