Someday, I will write a post that would make you want to follow my blog. Someday, I will complete the two-page book that’s somewhere in my computer. Someday, I will meet you in the line waiting to take my autograph on the first page of that bestseller.
Or maybe, on a Someday, I would still be dreamily typing posts like this.
~ Just another Wannabe
With body under cuffs
from days of unrest
and mind poisonously stale
from guilty nights spent
away from my wooden,
I bend over sheets,
for time – the wanted,
the suspect, the robber –
is caught in my grip.
I look for light
for my mind wants to fly,
but in the night that sits
I only see empty white.
Parker point scratches
while my eyes stare walls.
I look down for words,
but what I see
my baby could have done.
Another wrinkled ball
joins that hateful bin.
My wife’s aroma kindles
the cement doorstep outside.
Surprise rents her face, for
with paper and pen I sit.
‘A story? A poem?’ escapes,
but not from my mind.
A weak smile. She gets it.
Four little paws crawl
eagerly to my wife. She,
brightening, picks the doll.
Sounds she makes, names
she calls. More Joy is the reply.
When their eyes meet,
I know something happens.
But what it is, neither says.
Evening. Flowers. Music.
Freshened from their sight
I begin again. Words seep:
‘With body under cuffs…’
A tumbler of coffee sits by.
Purity lies on love’s lap.
As two eyes close in peace,
the lullaby carefully shrinks.
Our eyes meet. I know this.
Night.Mattress. Silence.
‘Ancient‘ may mean a lot. Nokia 1100, Yahoo and Barack Obama after this November. But presently, to me, my writing here has become ancient. My followers I am proud of are not finding new words on my site, thanks to my weakening will. Some poem I wrote a long while back is receiving likes from people who had by mistake stumbled upon it.
I know for a fact my will is shaking at the knees, ready to buckle down anytime. And this is why I made it a point to type today. This random collection of words may not make meaning to you, but finding the time, and the elusive creativity, to open WordPress with a purpose is meaningful and gratifying to me.
I may sleep today without the guilt that blankets me every day I don’t write. Nevertheless, I must mention, my eyes always close upon a mental promise to write something the next day. But tonight is different; the will has resurrected and the blanket has been shredded.
My writing is no longer ancient. Let’s call it contemporary cult.
Thanks for being a loyal reader; I don’t know why I am saying this, but I want this to be a post from my heart.
If you are here, you either must be a (
not-always) passionate writer, or an avid reader. You can read on if you are planning to write a book in the future, or are already holding the pen poised over the intimidating blank sheet. Has your personal life intervened and stopped you in the middle of your magnum opus, and you realise that after all you don’t like your story? Read on. Because, we are here together for you.
Just to ease you a little, we have undergone all that! Your writing career or path may seem nebulous because of personal problems, but believe when we say, it is treaded by similar folks. And they had also stumbled at all the places you have. So when you feel lonely and miserable, know that it is natural, and tighten your grip on the pen. Your book is soon going to come out of your creative womb, and for now, all you need is some getting-to-know of the life lived by successful writers and bibliophiles.
Whenever you fall down, the advice is not to try and get back up, but to search for the marks of others who have walked and fallen before you. Google about your favourite author. Wikipedia would spring up most probably within the first three finds. Click the link and read about the writer. Go through the Early Life or the Biography section, and you will know that these writers have lived a life very comparable and relatable to your own. They weren’t/aren’t aliens from Ridley Scott movies.
If you have read the Wiki pages, you would understand that the writers whose books you adore and keep on your bedside table are just people who would have been no different hadn’t they written the book. Guy de Maupassant, master of the short story form, had to live without his father because of his mother’s early divorce. Tolkien was forced to abandon his love life temporarily and concentrate on academics; and the man lived for five years without any correspondence with his lady. Dickens had to leave school and work ten hours a day at a warehouse when his father was taken to debtor’s prison.
Now that you have understood the core point that rules every writer, it is time to get back up and keep walking with head high and mind focussed on your book; but not continuously. A short pause in your journey to reflect on the road you are on and your predecessors is essential now and then for an assessment of yourself and for the reaffirmation of the fact that you are not alone, but the masters are just before you.
Who is your favourite author? What were the tribulations he had to face? Does his path resemble yours?
Google about one or two random authors who have attained success in the realm of writing, and read about their early and personal life. Try to find that point of inspiration that had uplifted them, and see if you are feeling differently after reading it. Pick your pen now and write a short piece on how the life of an author had an impact on his writing, and yours.
Arjun Shivaram 