Leila Abu-Saba 1962-2009

At the VONA Voices Writing Workshop, I sat with one writer in my political content class and heard the familiar complaint. "I don't feel like I have the time to write."  That day she was crowned with a red knit cap, hiding the skinned head beneath. Everyday, a new lid, brilliant in color, a jewel radiating an aura on her face, a little gray from chemo. I knew she was a mother, was battling another round of cancer, but she seemed to be astonishing doctors, nurses, technicians with her progress. Acupuncture vitalized her organs and had effect on the growths that no one could believe. She ate well, walked as often as she could. And at VONA, she survived the long days, taking naps on the couch when she needed them. I was convinced the cancer was nearly behind her.

"I feel like I don't have the time to write."

I raised my eyebrow at her. "But Leila, you're on line all the time. Whenever I get to Facebook, you've contributed tons of entries. What about that time?"

She figeted.

"How many other networks are you on?" I pressed.

"Um, about 6 if you count my groups and stuff."

I used to say that Tetris was the writer's worst enemy; now i believed it was Facebook, My Space, Twitter, and all the other "cool" stuff one could read as well.

I shifted into push mode. "Here's the deal. That is writing time. When you come back tomorrow, I want to hear that you've closed all those accounts but one. I'm letting you have one."

She drew a breath, shook her head. "I know, I know. I know you're right. But my readers will miss me."

"Not if you have  a book to show them."

She did it. Came the next day, opened her computer and showed me the closed notices on everything but Facebook. We made plans for her to send me her novel-writing timeline, her plans, the writing groups and dates that would happen. The  move forward was on. I was happy. I believed that writing would be as helpful to her body as acupuncture, that finishing her important novel about Lebanon would contribute a vital perspective to the stories from the region, that she would find the attention from having a book so much more lifegiving than the blah blah blah of the internet chatter.

I believed it. I did. The past year I had given a paper at the MESA conference on the blog presence of Arab-American Writers and highlighted her blog, A Dove's Eye View, http://bedouina.typepad.com/. Along with one or two others, she was the first blogger to hit the national scene with perspectives on Arab American everything, from writing to cooking, but most importantly strides toward peace. People who have never met her know her through this blog. I was sure that when the book hit, all those readers would line up at bookstores for her readings. She would shimmer.

Here's another interesting fact. We live a block apart in the Laurel district of Oakland. She was a student at Mills, although at that juncture our affinity wasn't in place. More importantly I saw her walking around, taking the sun, going for coffee at World Ground,  in the car with her husband and sons going somewhere. After the workshop, there she was, where she belonged, healing and walking the neighborhood, and I hoped writing her ass off.

Then blank. Among friends and colleagues, we were asking, "what's up with Leila?" Facebook became the towncrier for all of us. First she posted, I have to go back to the hospital...still upbeat, happy with what the doctors were deciding, then the messages came farther and fewer between, but they were still there. We found our her liver failed. Then the most frightening post of all: Does anyone know about lymph drainage, my life may depend upon it. I imagined us all asking, researching, not wanting to fail Leila or her life.

Soon after, a new post, there would be a prayer circle for her...she wasn't posting anymore. Her friends at her side took over. Leila wanted to be with her community one more time. After that we watched Facebook like it was the stock market ticker on black friday.

The announcement came last week. She passed, her best friends with her. I was at my dad's 99th birthday party. Leila was 47.

When I think of the part Facebook played in this story, I'm grateful. Some of her friends joined just so they could keep up with what's happening. And now, the memorials, the scholarship fund, the volunteers to help are all exchanging through facebook.

Still shaken and probably for a while to come, I wonder about her writing. Someone will finish her novel. Perhaps some ofher other works will get tied together. Then i am grateful for the electronic archive of her voice. A Dove's Eye View will have this weird electronic life that anyone can access without going to a book store or needing to stop by the library. Her various postings serve as a selective memoir of her writing and life-living days. And even the facebook from her voice to her friends tells the story of a writer's life, her alliances, about how much people love her and who is carrying her.

I'm glad she closed the other accounts because she did make important progress on what will be a memorable book, but i'm also treasuring the other ways I can visit her, hear her voice and see her eyes, her hats, her arms around Joseph and Jacob, her husband David's wide-eyed glance at her behind the camera. I can bookmark them and page through this electronic album for years to come. I can look at this video of her last reading. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mApeX1DFO0

And share this notice with you http://leilaabusaba.wordpress.com

Writers have left the attics and the corner rooms, their archives take up more ram and less paper. From invisible to visible, from visible to animate. Your image can be googled when your book comes out, readers want to see your website, read about you, interviews and blogs, steal your friendship from the six degrees of separation of Facebook. While you are more visible, more strangers snatch an imagined intimacy with the writer. Someone in the audience of a reading films with a phone camera; suddenly that reading is on YouTube.

It's a mixed bag. While this network community can buoy a writer into a different stratosphere with buzz, it also has a teeny papparazzi effect if you don't want to be connected in these ways. Now writers have to work as hard at anonymity as they had to work on visibility in the past.

On the other hand, work is recorded and saved. Your library is automatically accessed with a google search, the archives show up with the entry of your name into the Yahoo! box.

In the meantime, I am weighing in on the positive side. I think about Leila, who's book has yet to come out. No one would have known she was a writer if she hadn't created an audience with her blog and postings. She was ahead of many writers on the technology tip and that knowledge gave her access to her community while she was sick, healing and moving on. Many of us will visit her time beyond this moment of grief and worry. Others who had never met her will miss her too. She was their unseen gift and she knew that and cared very much about them. After she closed the accounts, she showed me the computer again to let me see the messages from fans who were protesting her departure from particular networks. "See, they miss me."

Yes, Leila. They did. And do.