A few days back, Ideasmithy asked a few people about their thoughts on writing. I didn’t respond for a while, not because I didn’t have the time to, but it suddenly brought back a whole new word back into my vocabulary – “writing”. I love blogging, especially when I feel mildly creative and stories hit me out of the blue. The instant feedback is wonderful. Blogging is perfect for my short attention spans. I grab a story, shake it by its collar and make it sit still for that one passport-size photograph.
But blogging has actually killed several of my stories. I strip them off the details in an attempt to be pithy. In a way the story is perhaps better. But it never really lives up to its potential. On the other hand though, blogging has brought my poetry alive. Verse that would otherwise be forgotten in the backpage of a school notebook finds a place and an audience.
Do I consider myself a “writer”? Probably not. But writing helps me keep my sanity. In the middle of all this introspection – I came across a post by Radhika at Entelechy.
am i again going through that clumsy phase, which, like most young girls stepping out of their sheltered lives and protective families, and into the wide world for the first time, leave them so naively attracted to the idea of love? now that i can sit back and laugh at how confused i had been, how almost-annoyingly innocent, i can’t help but suspect if the i-want-to-fall-in-love affectation has just been replaced by another syndrome. i-want-to-be-a-writer.
So, am in love with the idea of becoming a writer, without quite doing anything about it? Is it that I am smug in the knowledge that some people think I am capable of writing a novel, and rather not risk actually attempting one. Is there something called a failed writer? Would I think far less of my ability to write if I found out that I have a mental word-limit of 2500 words? Of course, I could focus on short stories, but the rules aren’t that different. It involves a risk of finding out that you’re not that good at what you think is a big part of you.
While I am still confessing, let’s face it – I am not particularly creative. I am however, relatively good at observing. And I am even better at making it seem like my observation is a figment of imagination. I steal regularly from life. Could I pull that off in an entire novel?
I don’t think the Universe is conspirational. I think the Universe doesn’t really give a rat’s ass. So whatever needs to be done, will have to be done by me. Like sitting for longer than ten minutes in one place.