Writing is fun only when I am
in the process of writing, creating a world, conjuring some kind of magic. It
is such a liberating feeling when the ink flows unhindered, words come tumbling
over welcoming white pages. But at all the other times, my life as a writer is
a life of absolute miserly. The periods are fraught with self-doubt, gasping in
a sea of insurmountable emotions, searching for one write word, one perfect
phrase. Some evenings are filled of such blankness of mind, I worry if I will
ever write another word, let alone construct another story. The build-up to a
story and the settling down after the release of a book- such miserable
moments, and a haunting question, the Damocles sword- Will I ever write
anything worth anything ever again?
It must be so very hard for
anyone who is a full time writer. But even for someone like me who is not a
full-time writer- one question keeps coming back- Will I be read? To quote
Julian Barnes from Flaubert’s Parrot, my companion on commute to the office these
days- “Is there a perfect reader somewhere, a perfect reader?” as he comments
on a critic of Gustave Flaubert’s Madam Bovary, who questioned how Flaubert
mentioned the color of Madam Bovary’s eyes- different color at different places. Writing is something which begins
innocently as a little vice and eventually captures all your waking hours. One
always wonders and is filled with self-doubt about the quality and content of
one’s own writing all the time. My own stories are like my kids and I cannot
not love them, but at times, I do pause and wonder, am I spoiling them out of
false love, which they might be totally undeserving. I read further in Flaubert’sParrot, Barnes writes- “My reading might be pointless in terms of the history
of literary criticism, but it is not pointless in terms of pleasure.” I close
the kindle and contemplate- Will someone read one of the stories of The RudeTenderness of Our Hearts, close the book on his or her lap, and whisper to his
or her own soul something such from behind her closed eyes? where art thou, my perfect reader.
This weekend there was a good
half page write-up in the newspaper about the struggle of Rana Ayyub, a vehemently anti-government, angry journalist, and her self-published book. The story spoke about how her
father invested money in her venture and how she was left alone to fend for
herself, with no help to promote her book. But then, this was a half-page
article in a national daily. She is a prominent journalist, got airtime on TV
channels as well owing to her strong network of fellow well-wishers (read celebrity opinion-makers on the television) who
continued to come on public spaces, recommending her book, lamenting how the
poor lady was fending off all by herself. Nothing better than a poor celebrity.
It is even inconceivable for those champagne-soaked sighs lamenting over the imagined plights of the well-connected journalist to even contemplate
for a moment the difficulty of an ordinary writer, who might have just written
because he could not contain the words anymore. It is horrible, it is unforgiving and it is humiliating. One cannot
ignore easily the snide smiles of the people, looking at you, doubting your professional
commitment as a bread-earner of the family, your proven caliber in your day job notwithstanding, as if you are some
sort of moron, or a lazy escapist. One only hopes and waits for the perfect reader. For
someone like me, it is even difficult. I am a hell of an introvert when it comes to talk about my writing, in person. There are young people writing nowadays,
what we call chick-lits. They are young, good looking, well-connected writers,
who knows the ropes of the game and do know how to do it. While I write old-fashioned stories, true on emotions and true on the power of written words. I cannot betray words, though they oftentimes make my stories heavy to read. But then those few who do read them enjoy the beauty of words placed there on those pages with immense affection and respect.
Promotions of books is so exasperating for me.
You tell people about your book and you just hope they would just read what you
written through so much of pain and difficulty, pushed in a metro, panting to
catch breath as you settle down in the aircraft, staying awake on the weekend. Some
read it, some don’t. Saddest is when people will want to get the complimentary
copy, which is no trouble when your next day’s bread is not going to come from the
royalty of your writing, but when you give the book and find that it lies
unread. It is crushing when someone tells you that they could not find time to read the book- across days, weeks and months. It is sad an humiliating. You want to ask them, “Why? Tell me why?Why can't you read the damn book and grant me the satisfaction of having been read?” but one is constrained by manners
and norms of society. You do not want to sound pushy, and you are thrown in the
dark maze of self-doubt over your capability and adequacy as a writer. You, at such moments, want
never to tell people that you have written, ever; pledge to yourself, never to, in fact, in some weaker
moment, write another word again. You want to be a Salinger and hide in
anonymity and want to destroy all your work like a Kafka. You curse yourself
for thinking these lines and for the blasphemous act of comparing yourself with
such great legends. Time passes, you read The Great Gatsby and you realize that
by your age, Fitzgerald had already put in his best work for the world to
cherish after him and moved on to another. I think of book release, but I can
never bring myself to do it- not on my own. There is an air of surrender. In
Flaubert’s Parrot, Barnes write about a writer who found Flaubert’s letters,
who he is certain to slip into anonymity, without having accomplished anything
of literary value. I read it yesterday, “His
air of failure had nothing desperate about it; rather it seemed to stem from an
unresented realization that he was not cut out for success and his duty was
therefore to ensure only that he failed in correct and acceptable manner.” Why does it feel if he was writing about me?
Will I give up writing at all, will no other true word will bless my pen?
But
then I read by evening W. Somerset Maugham, The Summing Up which cheers me up again. He writes, “We do not write because we want to. We write
because we must…We must go on though Rome burns. Others may despise us because
we do not lend a hand with a bucket of water; We cannot help it; we do not know
how to handle a bucket. Besides conflagration thrills us and charges our mind
with phrases.” When I read it, I know I will pick up the pen again and write again and push
myself through the whole cycle of self-inflicted humiliation. I write because I
must. I do not have a choice. I have things in my mind which are to be told. I must write.
( I have just published collection of stories - The Rude Tenderness of Our Hearts. It is available for sale on Amazon India (Amazon India Link) and Amazon.com (Amazon.com Link)

Comments
In any case, it's all very hard for me as well and I became so reclusive, because of various very weird unfortunate happenings the past ten years in my places of work as a music teacher, but also reclusive by my own choice and financial hardships, to be able to focus myself on my writing at the moment as I get so exhausted in real life, that all my energy drains away and then I'm not able to write at all. I am and always was a deeply introspective person. I have to make up my own stories, my own original work in other words, so I can't be involved or influenced too much... one starts to live very much in one's own imagination, your own mind, when you write creatively. That's the hardest thing of trying to fly solo as a novelist... like the famous author Yann Martel explains as well. You and your words and your words and you. And don't think most people (especially colleagues, friends and family... not usually the general reading public) understand. Because they don't. They start ignoring you as if you've turned into a sprite and maybe you have… turned into a big-eyed sceptic little sprite. So it is then.
But, of course, once you (one day maybe ten to one hopefully one might be discovered) 'transition' from a poor unsuccessful novelist to a rich successful published novelist, they'll suddenly say: "Oh, but we've supported you all along." It is known that these things happen. That's life. And it hurts. So, one must stop beating yourself up about what 'they' think or say about you, and believe in your own work. If you think 'they've' written you off as a nutcase who writes silly stories, you have to rather think to yourself: 'But my stories (and yes they are a teeny bit autobiographical) are not silly to me. To me is has become a wonderful way of living. Even if I never find a publisher, it is no reason not to live happily writing, researching and translating away today.’
Anyway...
Writing on the Internet has become my passion over the last ten years (2006 - 2016) and I find it (because I’m such a loner) intellectually and spiritually stimulating as it is alive, motivational and an outlet for the creative artist in me, although it was and still is, utterly exhausting emotionally to write about difficult topics that have a personal effect on me, but the escape do create humorous situations and dialogue sometimes. :)
Still, it is difficult for me. It's just difficult.
Annora Eksteen (September 2016)
annora.eksteen@gmail.com
https://dawnandstarwind.wordpress.com/
My music: songs, voice, piano, keyboard, and midi arrangements are on SoundCloud: