It’s dicey typing on laptop now. The screen keeps jiggling, apparently office madness made me plonk it around a few times. As exciting as it gets around here. Beat you, didn’t I.
Few things on mind.
Gentlemen, progress has never been a bargain. You got to pay for it. Sometimes I think there’s a man behind the counter who says, “All right, you can have the telephone; but you’ll have to give up the privacy, the charm of distance. Madam, you may vote; but at a price; you lose the right to retreat behind powderpuff or petticoat. Mister, you may conquer the air; but the birds will lose their wonder, and the clouds will smell of gasoline.”
Just as this character launches himself into this speech, it gets me wondering about the changes around. Take a second off my coffee table at the café, it’s a rare sight to see people talk amongst one another without lifting an eye from their tiny screens for a even a moment. The lost art of devouring books, or conversations on vacations.
Ps. I’m a wreck with technology. FYI, tonight I also learned I miscalculate the ‘right-left’ directions too.
That’s not what all this is supposed to be about.
Recently, had the urge to go off the face of the earth, socially, obviously. While deactivating facebook, it asked if I wanted to do the same for the blog page I created. Got me wondering why I created it in the first place. I remember my first publication. My first article. My blog wasn’t it. It was a dream come true. It was published. For people to read. Something I had written. Nightmare come true. Eventually as time passed, frequency of publications increased, I got a hang of the critiques’ taste. What I actually write is till date only up for selective few.
Don’t mind me. I am awed by the ones who can write when asked to, whatever asked to. Amazingly impressed with the ones who can cater to the taste of their audience and themselves. I think I've tried. I think I aspired for it secretly once. To impart that burning vision. To share the true brilliance of the truth.
You know? The ones, they are the ones who put thoughts to paper, and not start to wonder, ponder, scheme only when they face the blank canvas. I envy them. It’d be insane to have a market chase you for a book signing, to be a huge success. To be a writer?
Why do you write? Why do the others write?
What’s my, or anyone’s relation of writing to being a successful writer? Is that what’s the ultimate goal is?
I write, like I choose my music. Chaotic, erratic. Random. Experimental. Thoughtlessly flirting with words. Festival of jumping from one feeling to another mood. Tenor in some, alienated in the others. The freedom is thrilling. The rush is exhilarating. (I may often miss the sweet spot or two, but..freedom is petrifying).
As I think about the next blank paper, endless thoughts and questions fill my mindspace.
picture credits: Gauree Sharma