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My Writing Life

My writing life has had its own heights of ecstasy and depths of depression. Very usual, it happens to all writers. There are moments of extreme confidence when we believe that the creator Himself speaks through us and through our pen flows his words, and then there are fog-ridden days when nothing seems to be going right and one is filled with self-doubt and one believes this claim of being a writer is nothing but fake. Summers in Delhi are characteristically excruciating. 

I remember, when I first wrote a collection of essays with strange sense of urgency- If Truth Were To Be Told, as if, if not written then, it would go wasted with a dying man's last breath. No, I wasn't dying then and am still alive. You would have guessed it anyways by now. But then that was a huge sense of urgency there. I was scared every moment if the book would ever be written. Anyway, the book did not sell a lot, in fact, sold very few. But then it was followed by stories, and collection of poems. It set me on the path.

It was a double-life which I loved. It made my own view of my day job very objective. It was another life of mine which I lived, and I slowly gained enough confidence to call myself a writer. I was in a new world with new friends, much kinder and nobler than those I would encounter during the day. 

Marta, a dear friend and wonderful poet, decided to do a blog interview of mine and I still think that as a preposterous. But then Marta, I tend to believe, genuinely believe me to be a writer. Another one, being Julie Larson who runs a story website, on which I had posted couple of stories. Well, as it may be, Marta sent across the questionnaire and there was a question- when did you realize that you were a writer or something of the sort? How does one answers that? By that and that question alone, Marta closed any way for me to run or evade. I was a writer that was a given, question was not that, question was when did I discover this. 

Well, I did look inside to check if I qualify being called a writer. That occasioned this post. I know, I have been reading like quenching the thirst of centuries since I published the essays and poems. I also felt as if I am now obliged to blog even if there are only two people reading it, one being me and other, well, you guessed right, You. 

I started to take my run seriously, not because what it did to my body, rather what it did to my mind. I am lighter in body now as much as I am in mind, is incidental. I have started loving my one hour commute and try to travel by public commute, primarily because it gives me an hour to read. I am discovering the world of Russian greats and having great fun in it. I am now reading most stories from the perspective of the study of style. That makes me a writer. 

I am beginning to enjoy writing slowly. It is no longer journal writing, written in a rush to get troubling thoughts out of the system. I write with a sense of playfulness and a sense of intensity now. I love to sit toying with the words, in stead of rushing on the paper with them. Nothing but the most right will do. Writing is now a laborious and intense task and is as enriching. 

Thus I conclude the weekly blog post, and conclude that I am a writer. That only last week, my six year old spoke to me in a conspiratorial tone that she felt I wanted to be a writer when I grew up given the amount of writing I do, is incidental. I must say in conclusion that my conclusion agrees with her observation. I am a writer and there is no escaping this fact. 



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