When I start for work in the morning, I notice the blinding sky. It is a regular day – with sheer sunlight. No clouds. I see mud holes in my yard. The bunnies are feeding on tulip bulbs at night. It is a cycle I cannot avoid just as how ideas come to me in morning and disappear by night. The general thaw in the temperature has improved my sullen creativity but I am not there yet.
Today I wish to stray from my usual commute – take a different road – go past closed and half-open shops at this hour – stop and watch people at a gas station as they stoop a little, doing a chore. I think simple tasks bring clarity. I want to avoid the high-rise buildings, I wish to go past fields, worn out signs, neighborhoods peeling with wild flowers and rampant yards. I want to grow dense and undisturbed with ideas, characters and everything in between. Like painting a red, rusty Ferris wheel with even the minutest detail. Clear and oiled, moving and throwing kids into a jubilant scream.
But I know I have to wait – not for observation but for the right idea to come along. I am not one with my writing. We are two parallel rails running side by side. I have to wait for us to intersect. Until then the writing crayon has to stay still by my side.
Writing is something that I am still exploring and experimenting. I hope I always feel this way that it is not final. That it can be better. To say, it is my love, is partly true. A piece of art can be an original reflection only if you give yourself over. That is never the case when you love someone. You always expect to be loved back. I don’t think I have that liberty with writing. All I can do is surrender completely – because if I don’t, the reader will smell it all over the place.
Writing is also a craft to feel connected. It is transmission of thoughts into the universe. It is waiting to receive a response. It means to rearrange the lives of ones I create, throw in a crisis or two and resolve it by a meaningful reason. Something that gives purpose to our existence. It is a reaffirmation, a testimony that all stories end well, and if they don’t, they are still going on.
So let me wait. Let the concrete settle in and form shapes of places, people and things. Let my plane fight gravity, take off and cruise in the sky – free and graceful. Until then it is a lot of coffee and mindless gazing.
Part 1 is here: on fighting my writing woes.