Could it be that Iam in such a state that I could be rambling too much, particularly to myself? But something has shifted after the actor's death and my anger at the hypocrites that followed. Since that, I haven't been able to write really. Too distracted I guess. But here, even if I'm disturbed after throwing away my phone and resorting to just laptop ( I made a couple friends embrace Emails ), then something else is off.
Beginning seemed to be the hardest part, until a point after it wasn't. The idea of beginning itself is enough to go back to bed and sleep. Apart from all of it, I think as someone writes, it's possible for them to get stuck between the beginning and the end of their own story, trapped within itself. I began writing a novel just as therapy, somewhere where I could distract myself. When I began writing and outlining, it began to dawn on me that it made me happy and I got addicted to the feeling of sleeping at night after writing a chapter. And yet, in this two months, I have only written 21 chapters. So, 21 nights of peaceful sleep it is. The rest of the nights are insomniac, as I mull over the ending. That's when I saw that I had never begun writing in my life because I was afraid of how the novel would end. It's an unspoken truth that whatever we write, a part of us would be in that character. But if I finish that story, I will start to wish that my story should end like my protagonist's life. Now, that I cannot see anything ahead of me in this dense fog before me, I stand stranded. I need nothing from life but something that triggers me to finish that ending in a particular way, because it ends in the future. Would I give my protagonist the right ending or be truthful to reality, or will I alter it and change the ending there because I don't like what would happen in reality. 90,000 words done, that's about 250 novel pages. Only 25,000 more to go, that's about another 100 novel pages and 6 chapters more. But the only thing I see is I can't see anything at all. All I can sense is that writing a novel is a long journey, a lot of commitment.
As George Orwell had said, 'All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. 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. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality.'
I wonder why I need the things I need in my life, including this. I had someone who was an amazing critic. I would send them one chapter every night, and the next morning I got a review. But, somewhere down the lane I had stopped sending them anything after chapter 18, for reasons I don't even know. Maybe opening up had become too hard as the intensity of opening up increased so it had to be stopped. Maybe I had grown phobic to the idea of opening up after a few experiences in life. And here Iam, rambling to myself, only that the ramblings have a structure.
I think of what will happen even if I finish the story. What else would the purpose of my life be. I made a decision that I will make for myself, only one piece of work, that is complete and singular. The other writing I will do will only be for the others. So I'm afraid of finishing this and I am even more fearful of letting people see this, even one or two. Even the person I sent the first 18 chapters could easily say who in my real life are the characters in the novel and it fucked me up I guess. Now I understand fear for the first time. Now I face the choice of overcoming this fear or doing it with fear. Fear is not going anywhere I guess, so I have to live with it.
There are so many dilemmas in this that keeps me awake. What about the millions of stories I can't tell? Having decided that I would only produce one work, how much of the world can I fit in it? Iam truly horribly limited like Sylvia Plath has said but all ramblings aside I don't want to end up like her and I don't think I will. Will you end up in an asylum just because you relate to Sylvia Plath? Maybe not me, because Iam too clear in my head, lately. I can even see where Iam not clear about and what I can do.
The biggest issue is judging your own writing. The chapters that I felt was absolutely shit was liked and appreciated by the person I ask this opinion to. And the ones I really like, has been called as not that good by them. Now, how does one judge it for themselves, when the writer itself is not reliable?
The most delicate of the issue would be finding a critic that matches your taste. The person I used to send it was in a way perfect choice. Not because we watch the same movie or books, in fact we stand at two extremes of taste. So I've learnt that this 'taste' doesn't depend on just watching the same shows, movies and books. It's beyond just that, more like a psychologist - patient Dynamics. Even little things like the patience and kindness and the ruthlessness has to be taken into account and each of this is very useful. Ah, it seems I had been too lucky, but even that faded out from me.
As time passes, I have started to believe that not writing doesn't mean that Iam not productive and what is the need To be productive all the fucking time. Perhaps we can also enjoy the summer rain that is falling at this moment, and sit simply. This summer rain is ever more beautiful, the sun is shining and yet, there is rain here. The same smell of the soil, and to add to it, the joy of mild sunshine. This must be the in between.
Romba eadho therinja Maari scene podromo? Therla sari poduvom.
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