This time for me
Is one of hope for dreams.
For dreams to come true,
For hurts to mend.
For words to flow.
It lights-up and flickers
Almost dies down
And then burns bright again.
And so goes this living-writing journey…
“Let’s play,” he said.
“Let’s dance!” she said.
And they ran, laughing and stumbling, falling into each other, onto the midnight starlit beach.
Read all about a radical and effective approach I’m espousing towards tackling the dreaded Blank Page and the natural outcome of doing so – first drafts!
Catch the article on my main website:
Apparently (according to a recent blog post and book I read) one should just gush, almost vomit a torrent of meaningless words onto the blank page. No matter one’s state of mind. And then wade through the dross to mine a few nuggets of gold one may have left there.
But what if that work is being done elsewhere? One does not always need to spray the page with nonsense to arrive at sense, does one?
Read in full: The Challenge of The Blank Page and First Drafts
Let me know what you think, ok?
I live in a space of endless outlining.
So many story ideas – they are anywhere you focus on for even two minutes!
And so proto-stories pile up.
Piles upon piles…
And I want to write all of them!
Will a lifetime be enough?
When will even the first one come to fruition?
For the past month or so, I was in Bengal, where I am from.
It was an extraordinary month for nature’s beauty and bounty.
(Mangoes in August/September, what unexpected richness!)
And on the way to the airport, it was as if the land and skies shone especially bright. (Dare I say for me?)
I hadn’t seen such a crystal sharp, luminous, laughing sky in a long time.
Another rewarding experience was browsing through the airport bookstore and discovering they’ve stocked two books edited by me!
So this is a thank you to Bengal (and my Mom!) for a wonderful trip and an amazing send-off!
People who play the roles of terrible, despicable, venal villains on TV or the movies, have to have a good sense of humor, right?
I fear the fading of words
And the diminishing of my light.
This writing journey of stops and starts.
There was a bright flare in the beginning –
Now I face the slow hard climb back,
Which is almost slipping.
What do I hold onto?
Thoughts dissolve into ether—
Of the mind, the soul, the web.
The contrariness of my writing spirit
Is partly to blame.
It crowds my mind with longings and ideas
Exactly when I have lots of other work.
Now that I’ve cleared space for it to blossom,
It’s off, cavorting with the fairies!
And so between me and my words
Me and my unwritten, massing, relentless stories—
Of years and aeons
And that one spark…
There is a road all writers must take—
Stark, terrifying, mystical, mystifying, exhilarating.
Lashed together precariously by inspiration’s evanescence,
That never coalesces for long.
This is a road all writers have travelled, but each alone.
And the loneliness is palpable,
An intolerable pressure!
Of being alone is this ocean of people…
Yet strangely, it is only in the self, alone,
That one can strive for mastery over words.
Strengthen the visions that only one can see.
Only the self, all by itself, has the deepest answers.
And the road gleams on…