Friday, 31st May, 2013. 8:55 PM.
It's 8.15 PM on a Friday. The office is almost empty except for a few workaholics straying around. The pantry is shut. Cleaners are around brandishing their vacuums in full swing. The overhead lights are dimmed except for a few.
I finish the last dregs of my green tea wondering how do I wash my now dirty cup. But that is the least of my worries as I stare at the screen, lining up one story after the next for the weekend. There’s a few lines of my favourite music sifting through my consciousness. Workaholics in an aisle somewhere are playing music to stay awake I guess. The volume is soothing and as they’re co-incidentally playing my favourite songs, I decide to let it pass. Focus on the screen, eyes drawn together, biting my lip I’m trying my best to finish the list and leave. That is when it happens. Suddenly I see it..
That one unobtrusive headline among the multiple tabs open on my screen. Tab one reads Google (only the Go visible thanks to multiple, overlapping tabs). The tab right next to it reads Ph. Doesn't take a genius to figure the words out. Google and Phone. Logical conclusion as I write for the Tech section and I’ve thought of nothing else pretty much all day.
All it takes is a fraction of a second and instantly a brand new headline pops into my head. Google to Launch Multiple Phones This Year? And the damage is done. The itch is generated. I have to do this. I have to write this article.
Research begins once again with me rushing through a couple of articles on the topic. Working for the print media is very different from working for the online media. There’s no editor. There’s no hierarchy. You do your own research. Write your own articles. Edit your work. Upload it. Make it LIVE. The work, is in true sense, yours. Your own.
I begin writing not realizing how and when time flies by. 20 minutes. 20 minutes is all it takes and the article is done. Approximately 550 words and my article is complete peppered with facts, rumours, specifications and my opinion. It’s a sigh of relief with which I hunt for images to accompany the article, quickly upload, hit the publish button and lean back into my chair. And then it happens again. I see another news and it’s a brand new itch…
Fortunately or unfortunately, my phone rings and it’s my mom asking me where the hell am I and by when will I be returning. It’s 8.45 by then. Bag packed, PC shut, Green Tea mug washed, head-phones in my ears, iPod on; I finally am ready to leave. I see the security guard cast me a look as I punch my card. 8.47 PM reads the time on the swipe machine.
Friday, 31st May 2013. 9:10 PM
The train is relatively empty. I manage to snag the precious window seat and I sit with my head leaning against the window sill, eyes closed when the day rushes through my mind. My phone pings and as I begin chatting to a friend, I know I have to write. Again. Something. Anything. It is this urge I have. I’m addicted to it. It feels like I am an addict. Writing is my very own, personal brand of heroin.
I’m not the owner of award winning, best-sellers. Nor am I an avid blogger. My articles have not won me laurels. At times, people don’t even understand my writing! But I’m a writer. Did I always know I would be one? No. I never in my wildest dreams thought of being a writer. I wanted to be loads of things. A teacher, an astronaut, a dance choreographer, a psychiatrist, a house-wife (yes, seriously!), and so forth. Writing was not by chance but it was not a planned career.
I always knew it was easier to write. Things could be expressed so beautifully. Books have been my constant companion since I was a 9-month old bratty baby (ABCD books and picture comics) and they opened a new world to me. It was easier to imagine the pictures books painted than to listen to someone or watch it in real on TV. Words had a kind of magic in them. They were so versatile. They evoked memories, joys, tears. Just one sentence, one word could take you from smile to tears. There’s nothing more beautiful than words.
It was in college that the seeds of me being a writer were sown. And then, there was no looking back. I had found my passion and I knew what my career would be then. A writer.
I’ve heard many things about writers. They’re eccentric. Moody. Stupid. Selfish. Egoistic. Slightly off. Cracked. Mysterious. Etc, etc, etc. Are we all of this? I don’t know. Perhaps we are. If the urge to wake up in the middle of the night and work on your latest idea is eccentric, yes, we’re eccentric. If swaying to and fro in a crowded train, trying to finish that one article which is stuck in your mind is stupid, yes we’re stupid. If feeling irrational anger towards that editor who butchered your piece is egoistical, yes, we’re egoistical.
Writers don’t have a time. Yes, we have 9 to 5 jobs but hardly ever is any work done in those hours.
Inspiration come” is definitely not the mantra we chant. Inspiration comes when it has to. Be it midnight, a funeral, when your boss is screwing your case, in the loo, on a summer evening, anywhere. Anytime. It comes and equally quickly, it slips away…
Sunday, 2nd June 2013. 7.30 PM
2 days have passed. And am still writing. This is exactly what it means to be a writer. Yes, it is true that once writers begin to write, there’s no sense of time. It was on Friday, 31st May 2013 that I began writing this piece. It was in a local train. And today is Sunday, June 2nd. I have played with a precocious baby, slept a day away, caught a movie, cooked dinner, chatted with friends, planned a trip, etc, etc in these two days. But the article was with me. It was present at the back of my mind. It did not desert me. It stayed. And thus, despite a 48 hour break, I did not desert it.
There are 100s of errors I make. This very piece might not be perfect. The next line might be riddled with errors. But is the essence lost? No it’s not. I get irked with spelling errors. But if it’s an unedited piece, written at the speed of thought, do I mind errors? No I do not. Does ’misteak’ take away the meaning of the story? It still does not. Let the editing be done by the editors. And let a writer and his freedom be…
It is the first rains of the season. There’s thunder. There’s a light drizzle. I can smell the earth. It is beautiful. All I want to do at this moment is be alone in my cocoon with my words, my pen and my paper. I just want to write. Not on that beautiful orange sunset. Not on the parched call of birds. Not on the tittering leaves or the rushing kids. I just want to penn my thoughts. Just like this article. I want to feel one train of thought. No distractions. No second line of thoughts behind the first. Just pure, unadulterated longing to be with my words and my stories. Is this meditation? Intense concentration? Perhaps it is. Writing is my nirvana.
What does it feel like being a writer? Do we feel proud? Do we feel weird? There are times I come upon an article or a piece written by me long back and I balk. What is this shit?! Did I honestly write this? And then, there are times when going back to an article and reading it, I’m filled with a strange satisfaction. A quite pride that I’m the owner of this brilliant piece. I’m filled with more pride than a mother whose child has won the first prize. My writing is my baby. Created by me, honed by me and it will always be mine.
I recently read an article on FB which a friend shared. It was by some eminent writer (I’m very, very, very bad at names) which said all writers are bad writers. Is that true? No it isn’t. Yes, we are all insecure. Will this story work? Is this idea good? But the success of a story does not determine it’s beauty or it’s value. If you gave birth to an ugly child, do you throw him in the dustbin? No. He’s still yours. You nurture him. Just like that being a writer is a full-time job of being a mother, a wife and a daughter.
Your words are your owners. They have you in their grasp just like disciplinarian parents. Try as you might, you will not get away. You can break your head for hours in hunt of those perfect words but they will not come to you. However, you’re there chatting away to someone, when your mind gets distracted and in a slip the word comes to you.
You’re married to your stories. Like a wife you have care for them, trust the ideas, nurture them, love them. One slip, one tiny chink of doubt and the story crashes. Just like a successful marriage, there’s no room for insecurity in a story. You begin shakily but as it progresses, you get more and more confident. Sometimes mid-way you know it won’t work and you part ways. But it is there with you. Those moments you spent together, are always there.
Writing is a writer’s baby. It is his. The words are his. They are the window to his personal world. There’s nothing that enables you to understand a person as his writing. His words express everything. His mood, his anguish, his joy. The question mark speaks of doubt or worry. Exclamation is shock. Just a simple ‘hi’ has so many undercurrents. A tentative ‘hi…’ or a confident Hi. A moody Hi? or a excited ‘Hi!’. Words are a writer’s baby and there’s nothing more dear to him than his story.
You cannot force yourself to write. Just like you cannot teach some writing. It is in you. Present. You just unleash it and slowly hone it. Following your heart and being true to your thoughts is being a writer…
I don't know any tricks to writing. Nor do I have tips. I know just one thing. Listen to your heart. And follow that urge...
It's 8.15 PM on a Friday. The office is almost empty except for a few workaholics straying around. The pantry is shut. Cleaners are around brandishing their vacuums in full swing. The overhead lights are dimmed except for a few.
I finish the last dregs of my green tea wondering how do I wash my now dirty cup. But that is the least of my worries as I stare at the screen, lining up one story after the next for the weekend. There’s a few lines of my favourite music sifting through my consciousness. Workaholics in an aisle somewhere are playing music to stay awake I guess. The volume is soothing and as they’re co-incidentally playing my favourite songs, I decide to let it pass. Focus on the screen, eyes drawn together, biting my lip I’m trying my best to finish the list and leave. That is when it happens. Suddenly I see it..
That one unobtrusive headline among the multiple tabs open on my screen. Tab one reads Google (only the Go visible thanks to multiple, overlapping tabs). The tab right next to it reads Ph. Doesn't take a genius to figure the words out. Google and Phone. Logical conclusion as I write for the Tech section and I’ve thought of nothing else pretty much all day.
All it takes is a fraction of a second and instantly a brand new headline pops into my head. Google to Launch Multiple Phones This Year? And the damage is done. The itch is generated. I have to do this. I have to write this article.
Research begins once again with me rushing through a couple of articles on the topic. Working for the print media is very different from working for the online media. There’s no editor. There’s no hierarchy. You do your own research. Write your own articles. Edit your work. Upload it. Make it LIVE. The work, is in true sense, yours. Your own.
I begin writing not realizing how and when time flies by. 20 minutes. 20 minutes is all it takes and the article is done. Approximately 550 words and my article is complete peppered with facts, rumours, specifications and my opinion. It’s a sigh of relief with which I hunt for images to accompany the article, quickly upload, hit the publish button and lean back into my chair. And then it happens again. I see another news and it’s a brand new itch…
Fortunately or unfortunately, my phone rings and it’s my mom asking me where the hell am I and by when will I be returning. It’s 8.45 by then. Bag packed, PC shut, Green Tea mug washed, head-phones in my ears, iPod on; I finally am ready to leave. I see the security guard cast me a look as I punch my card. 8.47 PM reads the time on the swipe machine.
Friday, 31st May 2013. 9:10 PM
The train is relatively empty. I manage to snag the precious window seat and I sit with my head leaning against the window sill, eyes closed when the day rushes through my mind. My phone pings and as I begin chatting to a friend, I know I have to write. Again. Something. Anything. It is this urge I have. I’m addicted to it. It feels like I am an addict. Writing is my very own, personal brand of heroin.
I’m not the owner of award winning, best-sellers. Nor am I an avid blogger. My articles have not won me laurels. At times, people don’t even understand my writing! But I’m a writer. Did I always know I would be one? No. I never in my wildest dreams thought of being a writer. I wanted to be loads of things. A teacher, an astronaut, a dance choreographer, a psychiatrist, a house-wife (yes, seriously!), and so forth. Writing was not by chance but it was not a planned career.
I always knew it was easier to write. Things could be expressed so beautifully. Books have been my constant companion since I was a 9-month old bratty baby (ABCD books and picture comics) and they opened a new world to me. It was easier to imagine the pictures books painted than to listen to someone or watch it in real on TV. Words had a kind of magic in them. They were so versatile. They evoked memories, joys, tears. Just one sentence, one word could take you from smile to tears. There’s nothing more beautiful than words.
It was in college that the seeds of me being a writer were sown. And then, there was no looking back. I had found my passion and I knew what my career would be then. A writer.
I’ve heard many things about writers. They’re eccentric. Moody. Stupid. Selfish. Egoistic. Slightly off. Cracked. Mysterious. Etc, etc, etc. Are we all of this? I don’t know. Perhaps we are. If the urge to wake up in the middle of the night and work on your latest idea is eccentric, yes, we’re eccentric. If swaying to and fro in a crowded train, trying to finish that one article which is stuck in your mind is stupid, yes we’re stupid. If feeling irrational anger towards that editor who butchered your piece is egoistical, yes, we’re egoistical.
Writers don’t have a time. Yes, we have 9 to 5 jobs but hardly ever is any work done in those hours.
Inspiration come” is definitely not the mantra we chant. Inspiration comes when it has to. Be it midnight, a funeral, when your boss is screwing your case, in the loo, on a summer evening, anywhere. Anytime. It comes and equally quickly, it slips away…
Sunday, 2nd June 2013. 7.30 PM
2 days have passed. And am still writing. This is exactly what it means to be a writer. Yes, it is true that once writers begin to write, there’s no sense of time. It was on Friday, 31st May 2013 that I began writing this piece. It was in a local train. And today is Sunday, June 2nd. I have played with a precocious baby, slept a day away, caught a movie, cooked dinner, chatted with friends, planned a trip, etc, etc in these two days. But the article was with me. It was present at the back of my mind. It did not desert me. It stayed. And thus, despite a 48 hour break, I did not desert it.
There are 100s of errors I make. This very piece might not be perfect. The next line might be riddled with errors. But is the essence lost? No it’s not. I get irked with spelling errors. But if it’s an unedited piece, written at the speed of thought, do I mind errors? No I do not. Does ’misteak’ take away the meaning of the story? It still does not. Let the editing be done by the editors. And let a writer and his freedom be…
It is the first rains of the season. There’s thunder. There’s a light drizzle. I can smell the earth. It is beautiful. All I want to do at this moment is be alone in my cocoon with my words, my pen and my paper. I just want to write. Not on that beautiful orange sunset. Not on the parched call of birds. Not on the tittering leaves or the rushing kids. I just want to penn my thoughts. Just like this article. I want to feel one train of thought. No distractions. No second line of thoughts behind the first. Just pure, unadulterated longing to be with my words and my stories. Is this meditation? Intense concentration? Perhaps it is. Writing is my nirvana.
What does it feel like being a writer? Do we feel proud? Do we feel weird? There are times I come upon an article or a piece written by me long back and I balk. What is this shit?! Did I honestly write this? And then, there are times when going back to an article and reading it, I’m filled with a strange satisfaction. A quite pride that I’m the owner of this brilliant piece. I’m filled with more pride than a mother whose child has won the first prize. My writing is my baby. Created by me, honed by me and it will always be mine.
I recently read an article on FB which a friend shared. It was by some eminent writer (I’m very, very, very bad at names) which said all writers are bad writers. Is that true? No it isn’t. Yes, we are all insecure. Will this story work? Is this idea good? But the success of a story does not determine it’s beauty or it’s value. If you gave birth to an ugly child, do you throw him in the dustbin? No. He’s still yours. You nurture him. Just like that being a writer is a full-time job of being a mother, a wife and a daughter.
Your words are your owners. They have you in their grasp just like disciplinarian parents. Try as you might, you will not get away. You can break your head for hours in hunt of those perfect words but they will not come to you. However, you’re there chatting away to someone, when your mind gets distracted and in a slip the word comes to you.
You’re married to your stories. Like a wife you have care for them, trust the ideas, nurture them, love them. One slip, one tiny chink of doubt and the story crashes. Just like a successful marriage, there’s no room for insecurity in a story. You begin shakily but as it progresses, you get more and more confident. Sometimes mid-way you know it won’t work and you part ways. But it is there with you. Those moments you spent together, are always there.
Writing is a writer’s baby. It is his. The words are his. They are the window to his personal world. There’s nothing that enables you to understand a person as his writing. His words express everything. His mood, his anguish, his joy. The question mark speaks of doubt or worry. Exclamation is shock. Just a simple ‘hi’ has so many undercurrents. A tentative ‘hi…’ or a confident Hi. A moody Hi? or a excited ‘Hi!’. Words are a writer’s baby and there’s nothing more dear to him than his story.
You cannot force yourself to write. Just like you cannot teach some writing. It is in you. Present. You just unleash it and slowly hone it. Following your heart and being true to your thoughts is being a writer…
I don't know any tricks to writing. Nor do I have tips. I know just one thing. Listen to your heart. And follow that urge...
very nice :) have u considered writing a book?
ReplyDeleteHopefully someday :)
DeleteLovely piece of writing! :)
ReplyDeleteThanks bun-pav! :)
Delete