Rianna Shaikh's Blog, page 32

Darling petit Ro0 (new book)

dearest you,

today I completed this grande book for my little darling Ro0. It’s a cerebral palsy book. From his outlook as a little boy that cannot run, walk, crayon his maman’s walls.
I Cannot even begin to tell you why I write so much. It’s more than I can feel soo much. I can begin and I can flow et I can fall et I can go…. with the flow of course!

oui?
So it’s a short story about a book I wrote a few months ago, the Blanc rabbit. See I read it to little Roo and he was soo sooo happy. He glistened with glee, I imagined he never saw a grande book like it, but he admired the rabbit et Anya, and the tale of the forest. He sat there beside his sisters and listened to all 400 pages.
400 pages, that my other children would almost fall asleep to!
Hence, I smiled and he was excited to hear of the Blanc rabbit, and see the picturesque pages. I vowed to never like ever do a book, like the ones that’s been written et published, they all look the same.
They story is the Same, the editors do the same, the publishers publish the same, the readers are afraid of different.
I am not the same.
My books will not be the same.
My expectations will never be the same.
And neither should yours.
For my baby Ro0, the beat to me, the sun to my sky, the vivre to our existence. Darling I adore you more than this life. But I am most grateful so much so, terribly so, I’m grateful that there’s a God, in our skip.
Darlings,  I’ll write you a story and I’ll put one on the shelf for all the petit different children in our world.

This here is a cerebral palsy tale, for my Special boy, oh I j’adore you Roo!

And for all the boys et girls that cannot speak, for you my dearest darlings, for you
your writer,

RS

Ps. A sneak … 

One million pennies for your thoughts?

Dearest 0ne million,

it’s been a long time since I had walked the other way in the eyes of the literary world on the social scene. Many days et nights hath elapsed, the clouds even bid it’s farewell to me.

I hadn’t budge, my mind won’t let me even fathom the scenic of the past. But there comes a day that even the best equestrian has to let go of her reins and jump of the saddle. Life isn’t a race to perfection, non ce n’est pas.

I had wanted and longed to say that though I treated you as an accessory, to be worn but once, you were not. You are more like a horizon of sunlight.

Though I am fully aware that I left my readers without notice. Or care. For reasons of my own, think saddle!

I lack from time to time the care to be known to the public. Furthermore I left my one million followers to the hot air balloon on a windy day, whilst I chase rabbits barefoot on the greens.

Darlings do forgive.

  I am not quite public, though I am a writer of sorts. Hence, this is my apology for leaving you without notice. Of course 2020 wasn’t any ones year!

Here my dearest diary, my letters to you. We begin again. I begin again.

  My gratitude to the many of you that I call readers, fans, some  foes, some rather great disturbances, many  I consider leaves of many branches seeking a good book to critique, most of you my dearest readers. And of course the big critics.

To you I ask, be polite in your addressing me as a person, a writer, a mother, a wife, a human being. And no I am not a pompous human, obviously I write for an exception of a crowd. If it isn’t for you, I do beg, read the works of others,  and be like Siskel would to Ebert.

  The bottom line is I thank you,  the kind rest, for getting me. For understanding that I shall pour my heart utterly et truly only into my books, with the greatest hope that one day when I’m ready to share my works with you I will. One day, not there yet. I vow. So of to the day, merci beaucoup, gracias, يحبك لك,

Dhan’yabāda, hvala ti, 谢谢你, dank je, ευχαριστώ, ਤੁਹਾਡਾ ਧੰਨਵਾਦ, Danke, shukran.    

   I am most gracious for the ability to write for you, and to mostly feel for all.  But for now, this is my only social platform. I am aware I am a queer square. Perhaps the only writer that cares not to be known or found but rather read. Oui, I said it, I mean it et I hope we all get it…. (wicked laugh)!

J’adore  you my readers.

For like ever, oui?

Good day  darlings

RS

 

Malicious victory oh oui!

 

Dearest peoples of the world,

Question of the day:

if you win a game of chess by mére chance are you still good at it?

if you win a game of chess et you cheated Would you  still be in the game?

if you win by loosing a gold piece or a king or a queen, are you still victorious, are you dame?

If you win on deceit today or any other day, by playing the game,  do your excuses pardon thee?

if I won this game et i feigned a sprain would you hand over your queen?

Questions questions I beg to pardon thee…

Answer:

“a wins a win no matter the game, dearest Mrs S your wins a win even if you feign, et still you’ll feel the very  same. Oh c’est fou.

Back to cakes Mrs Shaikh et Let’s not pretend for I’m getting late FOR Tea. Are they not Scare wee?”

 

– the Blanc Rabbit

 

katie not at all like Amelia

dearest you,

Because whatever you choose to do, you do it with your all, ton tout. No matter the price, as you see there comes a point when the price you suppose is it may never suffice. Like for instance this new book, it’s quite sad, almost as if I am always founded under the willow to retire a tale of an orphan or a young person feeling rather unloved, Unliked et mostly abandoned.

I say no publisher in this world can pay me for what I do. I humbly Say so, as it’s putting a price on art that almost drowned you, to then revive you at the shores. I noted this to myself when I sit down to write, even till the early of a new day penning my heart to a perfection of a life. Unfounded until I write them a book. Then what happens at the very end?
Hence, to answer the many questions from my readers, after I received many emails on what book is next, AND why I choose to privately publicate most of my books, it’s very quite simple:

I simply adore my characters et I tell their story as they choose.  I Don’t flow to sell, I write to tell, because it’s theirs not mine.

I feel their pain, I jump even when they do, I skip when they do et I fall simply as they do, without effort. I write it all as it’s felt. No apologies. And I design it as if they wanted it to be as it is.
There it is, and my most important of things, ever so, my books are as I want them, I have no one to answer too. No one. Not yet.

But my books, they are the grandest thing on my coffee table, with 400 pages, and I am so incredibly fulfilled as you see if I were to sell this book as is, it would cost over 250.00 per book.
c’est fou
I must confess,  I no longer linger or  yearn for you Simon. And I no longer linger for you Schuster.

I know it’s everyone’s dream, to be on their desk. Lately I fancy my very own on my desk!

So To my darling readers, I truly write to explore the lives of the many characters that find me a tale to tell. I love the broken adventures in mansions or in cottages, lost in the evergreens et terribly dark forêt,  even the story of the orphans that are so much like us, hopelessly in love with an idea, the idea of being happy…. silly ideal really.
well I must go, until we tail again.

trouver heureux!

Your writer,

RS
ps. Pages from my new book in the making

 

Broken little things

Young girl dipping feet in the lake from the edge of a wooden boat dock

Darling children,

the sky never stays grey or blue or sunset never holds on to its time forever. As your tears, it to will fade. Hold on to yesterday as today will not remain. Cry as you may, but not worry all day.

for I too was young. And I too was broken. And I too as fancy as I’m frilled, oh I too am like you.
I’m just grown up.
i j’adore you, all of you et I Vow my books will be soon in your hearts.

your writer forever,

RS

Ps, for my petit friends

Keep trotting my darling, part une

Dearest,

I’d never met a woman like her. One that loved, sat with graces, stood poised in her downfalls (many)  et sat bravely in her circumstances.

She lived. She loved. She bought. She  wept et elle a enduré. Oui she did.

She was my example of never let Anastasia and Drizella steal your vision of a ball. I told her one day after I fell on the dirt on my derrière in Lyold neck, “I cannot do this trot for the life of me.”

Grazed and blazed in her Mary Janes et her ornate embellishment of threads, she held me up to a manicured posture. “I will never let you fall but if you do when my backs shall be turned around I’ll pick you up, dust you off and get you back on the saddle.”

Have you ever had riding lessons as a child? Then you relate to being shaken of a saddle only to be saved from a brutal fall. One that would damage your security as a person for life. I bet you didn’t have a person that understood the passion you felt, la passion. No matter what, you’ll fleet down, gloves on, helmet buckled, breeches dusted, you’ll get back on. Even if grand mére trumaine was the professional trooper in ring that day.
But the hard latter is that you  kept going.
A fall when younger, well lets face the music shall we, continues to motivate even after an embarrassing flop. To the floors in your Bottes d’équitation.
Of course, your boots.
The ones no one understood the purchase. Rare to say because you ride a horse in the best of breeches et leather. Only to be attired to fall. Only so. But when I fell she made it to me, to tend to be, to help to put the Iron Lady, I was called to be put back on saddle. “You are an example of what faking it to make it is. Like Wall Street days darling, exactly like. Now back on after 5.”

Like they say you can jaunt all the way down the cobbled, pebbles part on the neck to the king, the Long Island sound. But first you need to saddle up. No trip no joie no success happens when one have fallen et when one gives up on oneself.
no one. On the floor I looked up to her prête self, with dirt over my gloves, and angst to my core, and I did it, I said, “no I shall not. Go, go home.”

Oh how she exhaled with a ravenous broken expectation, sipped her lattee, looked at me again, ”don’t let them lie to you, money has no power without conviction et true loyalty. Apparently Long Island knows very little, now up!”

I think at that moment it must of reminded her of how terrible her in laws had always done her, even after her many falls. But still, non I thought, non. I’ll get up when I feel like it is right. She gave me 10minutes 29 seconds, till she walked away et hot angered to her car. It was a rather fancy one. Almost like she were Daisy et her Gats were a ruin of a lunatic.
But honestly she was the wife of a Wall Street fox, but you knew it, oui?
I looked at her side as she drove off, easing the dirt to substantially a fog. I watched till she was gone.
she wasn’t a mother. But only a stranger could lift you up. Sometimes your own would let you fall, and offer very little empathy. But she left.
there isn’t no madame morale to say that pain will fall at sunset  et a fall is what we shall later on do, later on in your days dearest.
So fall.

Weep if you may when the curtains are down only, dust your glove off, and watch your Scarlett be sent to her quarters.
I dare not clean her hooves that day or week or month. I dare not visit her for many days and sunsets.
I listened to  her make noises from the distances, maybe she felt sorry, maybe she too was angry at the world for faltering at our heels .

I gave up that day. And I wasn’t proud. But whoever says you ought to, lied.
they lied… because my darlings trying alone will et shall never be enough.
Like ever.
I am a Shaikh, by marriage et I am Rianna by birth, I wil not quote my other names, that would be theatrical.

oh the truth aches my bones, we will continue again, oui?

 

Forever a storyteller,

RS

Expectations are simply foolish

Dearest,
To expect is quite foolish. I think so. Because when you expect a package to be delivered, often it’s ruined or the wrong item, non?

The same goes for life, when you elect an expectation, you should know it’s as simple as complicated. Absolutely no bloddy sense, I know.

I think you ought to know that people rarely change, they rarely stop et think, will this act of injuste hurt another so bad or would it make me a better human?

but, truth is a striking  yet ever so pained reality.
Rarely. Do. People. Think. About. Their. Deed. Their. Words. Their. Actions.
that doesn’t mean you have to be like them. You can be better, wiser. Greater. Nicer. Kinder.

être plus gentil…

like a certain writer wrote, you can be anything you want to, just don’t be doltish, oui?
it’s a hard thing indeed to choose your acts wisely. Because one day my dearest, your deeds shall follow you. And the gate keeper, well he may not be to kind to you as your deeds are simply Injuste. That’s how I spell it, you may choose differently.

bonne journée!

Thinking aloud, your writer,

RS

 

 

Dearest little you

If you were grown, what would you say to little you? Would you be still et would you still like you for you?

Would you allow the world a color to be blue, pink or green or paisley or maroon?

Would you run briskly bare feet and scream ice cream?

Would you allow all the noises to break down your walls of green?

Would you let the people that made you feel like a bud of non existence define your will to be the queen?

would you look your maman in her face et tell her, tell her how SHE tried to break you down, steal your crown and make you oh so dizzy all around?

would you?
Or would you grab the tail of an unmannered fox,  sit him down et let him watch you manner all his moves.
I would.

I would stand up tall et refrain all from ever hurting me. And I would be sure to eat all the pudding and porridge if I could.
If I were little me.
but I’m not. I’m ill tempered et prude I’ll even be rude if I could to get my point to you.
luckily I’m grown, you are all your own et I’m juste a writer.
well, vit vit, it’s bedtime.

bonsoir,

RS
Ps. Mr fox I have planted a jardin et I’m waiting for you

The walls, les murs

 

dearest you,

She sat in the corner pining away. She drew her yesterday on the walls that was today. Her tale sort of reminds us of what we once knew, parents who loved us from their point of view.

she was poor as most of us are within. She was unloved as the floor of tar to begin.
She was bruised in the coeur of her all. They knew not of the troubles she felt all at all.
she pled and begged that her story too, could of found a god mother that could possibly bring her to you.
Anew it wasn’t, her pain grew more.
She pained and she drew all her woes on a wall. Her father, her daddy dearest did you care all at all?

“oh pain, oh pain will you ever be a gain?”

her tears fell one by one, yet it all felt the same.

She held her valise and began to walk, simply away.
the road was long et frightful all even in the day.
She kept going till she might of had a fall. She never did stop, no never at all.
till one day she found a home, and painted the walls. The colors i saw were brighter than dawn.

The beauty of it all was that it was hers.  Mummy et daddy you ought to know, that you failed this little girl, that you made in this world.
weeping while caring she built her a home, one that no one will ever behold.
The walls, the walls, were covered in paint, she vow to never draw on them yet ever again.
fin.

Bonjour Friday et hallo rabbits!

Yours ever so,

RS

The disappointments, les déceptions

Dearest you,

Its like a hold in the heart. A temper in your steps, a fly away hair in your face, just when the photographer screams CHEESe.
its like the little girl sitting on the last step of marble, watching the crystals glisten all the above the opulent foyer, right before her parents throw her into abounds of pain. Opulence often reminds me, that there’s only so much room left to be happy. But that’s juste me.
It’s like the day when the loving Smiths adopted a child from an orphanage, somewhere in the world.
You bring her in, place her valise onto the step and then look at her, lost in the awe of expression. But she pauses, she inhales all of her little fears et pains all the way to when she felt betrayed, when mommy dearest et father not so dearest throws her into the world without a hope. She still holds on to the idea that they will too, one day find her and wrap her into a life of a petit comfort.

uneasy really. Unfortunate too much. Painful that word reality. Scorned. Forgotten. Absurd.
Relentless she felt. Holding back the tears.
But look at the way the crystals glisten, way up in the horizon of notable newness. But when she holds her hand to pull off the over worn argyle gloves that had been passed down from many generations, she feels flawed.
All the way down to her torn chaussettes.
I fear I felt her pain echo all the way on the other side of the world. My Aidia. My darling Aidia.

my most important of a tale  that was …
So dearest world, dissatisfaction et disappointments are quite the normal in a world so grey. So grande. So confus.

To my bery very petit Aidia, I hold your hands et I welcome you to warmth, love and some comfort. Often it’s the ones like you that make me feel at home. Well, at home with the great disappointments of the grande world.
pour les orphelins

J’adore the gloves that give you hope.

Your writer,

RS