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Describe your latest book.

My debut novel, The Centre, is about Anisa, a Pakistani translator living in London who stumbles across a mysterious language school where you can become absolutely fluent in any language in just ten days. For Anisa, a bit lost and striving for something she herself can’t quite discern, this seems like a dream come true, but of course, entrance into the Centre comes at a price.

What was your favorite book as a child?

As a very little child, my favorite book was the Three Billy Goats Gruff. Later, I liked Matilda by Roald Dahl. I also enjoyed Enid Blyton’s The Famous Five and things like that. And then Fear Street and Sweet Valley High. On the one hand, these books were enriching and stimulating to me, and also offered a kind of escape from everyday life. On the other hand, it’s a good thing that we are becoming more aware, now, of the problematic elements of the books we were reading at such formative ages, and that we are starting to revisit them with a more critical gaze, to untangle the effects on our psyche from the racist, ableist, patriarchal, and classist currents in the books we consumed as children.

When did you know you were a writer?

It’s strange, isn’t it, that that question is mostly reserved for people in the so-called ‘artistic’ professions. It seems to contain an assumption that we are born ‘writers,’ that it is a kind of implanted gift that we discover within ourselves, and it further elevates the writer in an industry that seems to rely on individualizing and exceptionalizing. Something in me feels trepidation at the label itself. Writer. I’m not sure what it means.

I think writing is a powerful tool, with which I can dig beneath the surface to explore my unknowns. And it is rewarding when the writing resonates enough that it is shared and published.

But what I can say is that I have loved reading and writing since I was a child. I think writing is a powerful tool, with which I can dig beneath the surface to explore my unknowns. And it is rewarding when the writing resonates enough that it is shared and published — this doesn’t happen often; it’s mostly rejection in this game. But yeah, maybe, at some point, I deepened my commitment to trying harder, to investing in my work and really giving it a go. I do see it as a commitment to a certain part of myself, and one that is not always easy to keep.

What does your writing workspace look like?

I’ve recently invested in a standing/sitting desk, and I love it! It’s in a corner of my main living space, which also consists of an open plan kitchen and a sitting area. The space is quiet, and sunny and the kettle is close by — that’s all I need, really. I’m there now, while my cat lounges on the balcony.

Have you ever made a literary pilgrimage?

While at university, I was once giving a paper at a Thomas Hardy conference in Dorset. While there, I went with a group of Hardy scholars to his home, where he slept and wrote, and his garden, where he buried his many dogs. I found the ‘pilgrimage’ strange, kind of cultish. And it reaffirmed in my mind the danger of turning men into gods. People seem to feel the very air in such places will somehow sanctify their own writing, and objects like pens and typewriters and reading glasses become particularly fetishized. Even the term ‘literary pilgrimage’ evokes the holy, the sacrosanct, in a way that I think can prove detrimental, because if we turn writers into deities, we either start to believe we can never be one, or we pump ourselves up with narcissism believing that that is what the role requires. Also, we cut off the possibility of being critical of these writers, when perhaps the greater act of love is to look more clearly.

If we turn writers into deities, we either start to believe we can never be one, or we pump ourselves up with narcissism believing that that is what the role requires.

At the same time, there is one literary pilgrimage that leaves me awestruck: it is the one that Adrienne Rich made to the home of Emily Dickinson and describes in her essay ‘Vesuvius at Home.’ Her analysis of this visit brings together the personal, the political, and the creative so deeply and seamlessly that I begin to see the point, somewhat, of a literary pilgrimage and find myself thinking that I would happily trace the steps of Adrienne Rich one day.

What scares you the most as a writer?

I wrote a long list here but I have now deleted it, because there is something in Islam called qabooliat ka waqt, which translates to ‘the time of fulfillment’ and is a certain moment in the day when whatever prayer you utter will be granted, so I don’t want to accidentally voice my fear in the moment that God is listening in a ‘yes’ mood, but I think you can imagine what my fears are, somewhat. I am filled with them. I’ll phrase them in the positive, like my mum says I should, and then you can infer: I hope my book does well and that I write many more. I hope my writing fulfills a higher purpose. I hope I can write well. I hope that on my deathbed, I am surrounded by loved ones and have written and done many meaningful things, and that I am able to tune into the deeper purpose, the bigger picture. I pray the journey into myself and the world around me only deepens.

I hope my writing fulfills a higher purpose. I hope I can write well. I hope that on my deathbed, I am surrounded by loved ones and have written and done many meaningful things.

If someone were to write your biography, what would be the title and subtitle?

Ayesha: An Unauthorized Biography That She Said, Specifically, She Did Not Want, in That Powell’s Q&A

Describe a recurring or particularly memorable dream or nightmare.

I often dream of toilets and of other bodies of water like oceans, swimming pools, showers, etc. I also dream of airports, ships, buses, and hotels, and in those dreams, I am frequently lost or rushing, or my luggage is gone etc.

Do you have any phobias?

Yes, it’s a very common one, of a kind of animal, but I won’t say which because I’m afraid if people find out, they’ll bring one to me for their own amusement, as my siblings used to love to scare me when we were children. So I guess that’s two phobias.

Name a guilty pleasure you partake in regularly.

I sometimes watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians. And not ironically. Like, I truly think there is something fascinating about that family and what they have made of their lives. Particularly Kim and her mother, Kris. However, the new season on Disney Plus is quite boring.

Share a Top Five book list of your choice.

It’s difficult to do a top five, because different books, from James Baldwin to bell hooks, Virginia Woolf to Frantz Fanon, have been instrumental in my understanding of my own insides and the world around me in different phases of my life, so for this list, I’ve chosen the five books that have moved me most in the last few years — books that have felt pivotal, monumental, recently:

On Lies, Secrets, and Silence by Adrienne Rich
Your Silence Will Not Protect You by Audre Lorde
Living a Feminist Life by Sara Ahmed
The Copenhagen Trilogy by Tove Ditlevson
Pure Colour by Sheila Heti
Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi has previously published short stories, reviews, translations, essays, monologues, and poetry. She has also worked as an editor and a playwright. Ayesha was contributing editor for the Serial Productions podcast The Trojan Horse Affair, and has been anthologized by Tilted Axis Press, Peepal Tree Press, Influx Press, EMC, and Oberon Books, and published in The Independent, Ceasefire, The Theatre Times, Wasafiri, and Media Diversified. Her plays and monologues have had rehearsed readings and stagings at venues including the Rich Mix, Theatre503, and the Tristan Bates Theatre in London, and the Impact Hub in Birmingham, and she's also written for BBC Radio 4. Ayesha is from Karachi and lives in London. The Centre is her debut novel.