“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”
~George Orwell, “Why I Write,” 1947
Why? Why should good writing come from conflict? Why?? Aaaaaargh! I can’t stand it.
What happened was… I had promised a friend (pyar se nicknamed Rishi :P) a poem especially for him on his last birthday. When I sat down to write it, I was left staring at the computer screen and then conveniently drifted away to lip-syncing songs (that in the first place were supposed to inspire me).
Point being: I had nothing to say.
How do I romanticize about a friendship that is smooth-sailing and unromantically without conflicts?
I promised him “Next time for sure” with puppy eyes and also with the hope that we may fight and create some necessary drama for inspiration.
Yes, my boring life offered me nothing, save gossip that strengthened the friendship. (Yes, look down upon us! :/)
(Blurting out the following confession faster now!)
And and and, I’ve written poems for sillier people who don’t even care and might’ve not even read what I’ve written for them and even if they did, didn’t realize it was for them. Aaaaaargh!
And he is going to hate me for being such a “moody artist” but after all this; he might just as well call me a ‘bitch’.
Yes, this post comes following even more sickly giddy-headed poems I posted. That’s why I distance myself from my poems. I sometimes can’t believe I write such insane crap. Where is this coming from??? Aaaaaargh!
So this post basically disowns the three poems I have posted before this.
Why did I post them? Because I hate to see my Blog Stats so low.
And this insignificant rant is the 70Th post, babe-eh!!
Also, I’ll go on to add that those are old poems written months back when I was even more immature than I am now. Hard to believe, na?
With a promise to write more happy crap,
“Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.”