For a 09.30 to 05.30 pen pusher, writing is no easy exercise, even if indulged in leisure. Undoubtedly a skill, it requires not only time but a mindset poised on serious and deep introspection. Rather rare, one may say, in times of excessively cluttered schedule and unruly routines.
Still there are moments when the urge is so strong that it knows no restraint and whatever is piled up inside tumbles out in a rush of black and white prints, sometimes on paper and at others on the electronic page.
Somebody once said that writing is a lonely vocation. I’d go a step further and say it is not only a task in isolation but also a very, very personal one at that. Loneliness has spurred realizations of the highest order. The entire creativity is founded on an ocean of unfathomable silence. How lonely God must be when he created the Cosmos! How deeply He must have felt when he painted the Universe! Likewise, we feel what we write. We write because we feel. In every word, therefore, we find ourselves, a little or more, however, we may hide behind facades of philosophical rumination and supposedly detached ponderings.
Like the eternal Creator, a writer also has his/her own dilemmas. Given the fact that writing is a creative activity, the question that always looms large in the minds of the writer, therefore, is not what to write and how to write but how much to write. Again, to quantify thoughts, feelings and musings is as much difficult a process as imputing tangibility to an abstraction.
Sandra Fowler, the World Poetess, commenting on one of my poems, had once said “You give yourself away in words”. God Bless Her Soul! How ecstatic I was to receive such magnanimous appreciation. But soon ecstasy had given way to dread. Do I really expose too much of myself in my writings was a hounding worry that made me conscientiously struggle to change my style of writing. I suppose every writer is that much vulnerable where baring one’s soul is concerned. Then why write at all? I suppose herein lies the dichotomy. We want to speak but remain faceless.
I remember when I first started blogging how scared I was of intrusion in my privacy. It is one of the reasons why I wouldn’t maintain a diary. If somebody by chance got hold of it and came to know what I secretly felt about things.
I laugh to myself as I write this today. A writer with all his/her fears still wants to be read, recognized and talked about. And the pleasure of getting published is one lifetime’s dream come true howsoever inconsequential the writer be.
Having said that, I do wonder whether I have come a long way stumbling over my inhibitions or coming to term with my inner handicaps. Well that’s debatable and would require a longer discourse.
The good news here is that one of my short stories has found the ‘light of publication’, so to speak, in none other than CLRI, i.e. Contemporary Literary Review India, a prestigious e-journal. I share the link below with the hope that my readers and blog-followers will find the time and inclination to read through the story and offer suggestions for improvement.
The story was written and submitted a long time back. For online publication, it may seem a little lengthy because the intent was to get it printed. The other reason behind its length is, whether online or the print version, a story should flow subject to the requirement of the narrative. Random editing or abrupt ending spoil the charm of story telling. After all a story is a story is a story that has to be told well and as long as it enthralls rapt attention, whatever the length is justifiable. More so, if its about vampires and run-down castles, lonely nights and narrow escape from tasting blood. Now, now, here I go again.
Before I give in the rest in a garrulous mood, here’s the link :
Happy Reading !