I’ve had too much time to think. I don’t do too well when I think. I’m the type of person who should never think. ‘Think before you act’ should be banned from my book of phrases.
But after all that thinking, do I have a story to tell?
We all have a story lurking in our heads, hidden in our hearts. But not all of us have the art to tell it. Some of us pretend to be orators during Saturday night binges, punctuating with umms and ahs. It is not the world of commas and full stops for those. It is the Shatabdi tunneling through the night, bursting out through alcoholic fumes, hoping to regale. And when the story is told and lauded, another one takes the podium with a “that reminds me of the time…”, “speaking of which…” or “listen to this one!”
And there’s the other lot. The writers. Ah what would one do without this class of people, the clique of literary intelligentsia? I write therefore I am. I am what? Intelligent, clever, gifted, special? I can put words down on paper and when people read these words they are moved. Even the penniless failed writer has his muse and his readers. The writers who openly claim to be so tend to be prolific. They will gladly tell the world “here take a peek at this…”, “this is something I feel strongly about”, or “dude, I was completely stoned the other day and…”.
And then there’s the third set of people. I cannot write, but my fingers itch, my brain is brimming with ideas and I don’t know where to put it all. Maybe, just maybe if I tried to put it all down. And then the fear, the doubt, the perspiration which makes your blood run cold. The brilliant ideas that not two seconds ago were full of promise seem to withdraw into the darker corners and wish to be forgotten. There’s nothing to tell, there is no story, just some evil ramblings, incomplete and inconsequential. A story should change lives, should remind of emotions felt, or should simply affect.
I have no story. So therefore, very conveniently I have ‘writers block’. The one excuse afforded to writers and pretenders alike. Poets have poetic license, and writers can claim this as their very own license to not stand at the precipice of a blank page. So what do those thusly ‘blocked’ do? They read. And in the works of other they seek inspiration. They develop a sort of critical flatulence but never go so far as to suggest writing a review. Why that would mean writing, all over again. So they read and they trash or praise.
And they forget. Writers block eats into their erstwhile fertile head and leaves it barren. The fingers loose contact with the brain, the strings are cut, the eyes don’t see what they once saw, and the ears don’t ring with the music of words strung together. Realization, true geniuses don’t suffer so. Fame and glory are meant for other people. Me? I did write once, but unlike swimming, cycling, and honesty, it’s a lost art.
That’s my story. It's about me.
