Love, Life & Happiness

Marta is a prolific writer and a noble soul whose acquaintance has blessed the writing of many a writers, including the yours truly. I, a moonlighting, conspiratorial writer, have often been inspired out of the non-creative phases by work of Ms. Moran. I know, people like Marta have some inherent catalytic features which can induce mere mortals to turn into creative intellectual powerhouses, if only they have a rare spark in them. I requested Marta to share her writing life which I am certain will induce many to write and also forewarn with the hard work which such a choice will impose on those who want to write believing it to be an easy profession. Writing is an art of hard work. It needs you to want to speak truth with such intensity and urgency that it far outbalances the chilling nights of loneliness. It isn't a fancy occupation, and not everyone gets multi-million dollar contracts, but still people go on writing. People, who have a heart with innocence which has a story to

Non-fiction and fiction make different demands on the writer. One takes spine, the other -heart. There is no character to hide behind in non-fiction. It is the writer speaking in active voice and risks being wrong, and that is an eternal danger.  The words you write are etched in time for eternal ridicule, hatred or rarely- adulation. You cannot and must not deny having written them. Even if wrong, you hold on to them like a wayward child of a loving father who is blinded by paternal love. It is worse, you cannot disown them. When you find yourself wrong, you have to bring to life another child of yours as a counter-point.  You can't disown and simply walk away. You can't claim never having  written it , you can't claim mis-interpretation. You have to pay for your words with sadness and shame. You are a writer, not a politician. You are a step away from sainthood. You have chosen for hard life and hard punishments in exchange of a right to speak out truth as you s

Prologue: This post takes life from my interpretation of The Great Gatsby Book Review of The Great Gatsby  which I read recently as an Optimist's manifesto, my own stupefaction of the incorrigible hope which lives with me and a response in the morning indicating hopelessness of hope.   Hope is a magical word of myriad meanings. It stands right in the middle of a mad man's fantasy and the cruel realities within which he survives. It hangs in the narrow space between improbable possibility and probably impossibility.   We die every moment that we live, every breath pulling us into the chasm which stares at us with the hunger of centuries roaring in those feral eyes. The eyes are dead, without passion which doesn't shine even in the kill.   We laugh, we sing, we dance and we love in the midst of this morbid pathos, and hopeless ennui which stretch before us like a road riding into nowhere.   We sustain this sadness, outlive this numbness which this life hands

The year began with unsure steps. An unsure day steps in with an unsure Sun. I have not blogged since quite some time, though I wanted to. What I wanted to blog on was very commonplace and usual for the moment- the New year Resolutions. The exercise of New Year resolution made no sense for various reasons. For one, New Year in itself is an absurd concept. New year occurs as the Earth completes one revolution around the Sun. The idea of New year is hypothetical, to put it kindly and absurd, to put it bluntly. We are trying to invent to the starting point of a circle, what can be more stupid than that? But we still, in spite of foretold stupidity and absurdity of the idea, celebrate new year. We not only want a New year, methinks, we need New Year. It is the foothold on the slippery slopes of time which looks into the abyss of infinity. A time to pause, to think of what we have been doing wrong, correct it and to ponder over what we have been doing right and to throw all your weig