Every time I write here, I’m beset by curiosity since I have no idea what I’m about to write. The previous post was about Burnt Orange, because I happened to read something I wrote long back that mentioned a burnt orange couch. So it’s anybody’s guess as to what patterns the words decide to etch out when I write.
Every advice on writing admonishes the amateur writer to sit your ass down on a chair and write daily. I am seized by a surge of enhusiasm when I read such advice, and I look forward to the next day when I will sit down and churn out beautiful edgy sentences. This thought propels me till the moment I actually set my posterior down on a chair and look at the computer screen. There’s the initial panic regarding what to write, then it morphs into a pleasant numbness, and I gaze and gaze at the screen. There has been a couple of outpourings that later made me question my desire to be a writer. Then I scurry back to the comfort of a good book, trying to convince myself that it’s preparation for the brilliant writing career that’s waiting around the corner.
So when do I write ? The answer is that it happens mostly when I’m least prepared for it. At a favourite cafe, while I look at the darkening sky and see leaves twirling down in a last glorious dance; while lounging in the soft brown couch in my balcony and hearing the faint strains of a favourite song; during a drive when gorgeous smiles and bright colours catch my attention. These are the moments when I desperately want to spill my thoughts and watch them take the shape of stories or poems.
I have started carrying a notebook with me and sometimes I do write in it. But the case more often is that I am loathe to leave my thoughts and put pen to paper. So half-completed poems and unfinished stories take residence in my mind, looking to find closure when I give them their freedom.
I live in the hope that one day I will write the way it is meant to be done.
