“Writing is easy; all you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead.”
– Gene Fowler
Continuing the dead-writer series and predicting that the resurrection is nowhere near, this is me complaining.
Good writing is difficult. In my case, I give up before the blood forms on my forehead. I keep explaining myself to not be overwhelmed, take it page by page. But I reject the first sentence itself. I wonder how anyone completes a book surviving all the self-criticism. To think of a plot, the characters, how they feel, to decide what kind of a narrator you are, what will they talk about till they reach the climax, etc. etc. Man, it’s such a chore. I start out to write something and it ends up becoming something else. Violent becomes erotic. Erotic becomes mushy. Intellectual dialogues become philosophical. And that vicious cycle goes on.
My desktop wallpaper reads- “Writers write. Everyone else make excuses.” A voice inside me is cheering me to write. Those words added up to nothing much but a FB status; which in turn was liked by few. All this drama only so that it gives me a push to write. But if you know me, you’d also know that I am a quitter and a shameless one at that. So what do I do? I remove the wallpaper and keep something abstract. My thick-skinned heart has felt no inspiration yet!
So I do a little introspection. My conclusion is that I am a ghost. I am a ghost uninspired to be born again. A ghost that sees no point in anything. A ghost that has stopped ‘believing’.
I reject stories before they’re completely formed. I make ideas and crumple them with violent passion and renewed exasperation. Reason- it is not up to the standards. Damn it, what standards?! I never had any. I am writing for friends who don’t read anything, forget this blog. They don’t have any standards either.
I am telling people (who never asked me in the first place) that I want to be a writer by some point in life. What desperate stupidity! I don’t even believe that anymore. So what else do I do?
I am in a hurry to find the point of my life. The clock is ticking with no mercy. And I don’t know what to do!!!
Go universe, Go conspire for me!
“It’s none of their business that you have to learn to write. Let them think you were born that way.”
– Ernest Hemingway