I have been afflicted by what all writers – the real ones and the wannebes like me dread. It’s been going on for quite sometime.
It’s a very simple phenomenon – the words just don’t come when I need them to come. There seems to be some kind of an inner vacuum and I can sense an eerie silence that gnaws at the walls of my soul.
My phone is filled with half attempted scripts on a variety of topics which never saw the light of day.
The thing is it makes me restless. Every night, when I go to bed, the thought that floats around in my mind is that yet another day has gone by without me writing.
You see, I know the sense of elation I feel each time I complete a piece of writing. I may later scoff at it or tear it to bits with my over analytical mine, but when it’s freshly written, it’s mine – a part of me, straight from the depths of my being. I have lived with it from its inception and seen it tottering towards the finishing line, from where it then embarks on its new journey, searching for readers. The joy is infinite.
And so when I can’t write, I am bereft of that Nirvana moment. I honestly am not sure how long this is going to last. Sometimes I feel it’s going to be forever. Or perhaps there may be these sudden spurts of creativity that will find their way into a poem or a story before they get lost in the humdrum of daily life.
Meanwhile, I have been pondering over solutions. I could write a little every day on random things, perhaps. Or eke out more time to read. I could try to create a “me time” to put my thoughts together and draft them. Most importantly, I guess I should stop feeling hassled about not being able to write.
I really have no idea if these ideas are going to work. So I have just decided to rant and rave. At least it will take away a bit of my frustration – and go to bed knowing that I have written something.
Image : Steve Johnson ( Unsplash )
