The art of writing

WHEN TO WRITE


1) When ill, but not very ill

this apparently is a good phase/time. You have been ill for two days, with innocuous cold, or fever, and you are incuperating. What better time to write. You have been in touch with your sub conscience, and all that hours of churning and thinking, will now ooze into thick byproduct. (as it is happening right now ūüėČ

2) When at vacation

This is also excellent time, especially if you are at sea-side, or lofty hills. Nature works on your right brain in strange ways. Didn’t Wordsworth had his epiphany next to tintern abbey. Period.

3) When travelling

Be it in bus, train or air, its all fine if you are the one not driving.  The new places, new panorama provides with ample opportunity

4) Some awesome read

Its usually when you are reading some great work, and it hits you all of sudden, damn it, I can also write, I have to write. And lo, you are on !

5) Late night, in wee hours of morning

Usually happens when your aim is a night out, after 3 most of the world in your part is asleep, except you. That is a strange yet strong feeling, you feel like you are the one, the chosen one, the enabled one.

6) When not in love

It is like the Juliet missing romeo, even before she met him. Its pretty ideal situation, your imagine love, and your imagination is your ink.

7) When in love

Now do I really need to elaborate this. Best time to write poetries, love letters mate.


8) When out of love

This is also a strategic time, your are brimming with feelings. You have memories, and you don’t know what do with them, Jot them down. Simple


9) When making love

Well…well..well…really, you want to?


10) When Nostalgic

Nostalgia for homeland, nostalgia for someone. Wipe that heavy nostalgia off your face, and paint your words with it.

11) When Lonely

It is must, you do not need any personal chatter to break your chain of thoughts. Believe me it is pretty brittle and fragile. One small chit-chat, and you have lost it.

12) When you got epiphany

Ask Gautama Buddha ūüėõ

WHEN NOT TO WRITE 

1) When intoxicated/high

Contrary to popular believes, writing your thought when you are high does not works for me. It always seems an excellent idea to do so, but next morning either the writing in unintelligible, or the word doc is pathetic and incoherent, with some new unheard words.

2)  When extremely happy

Again this being the crest phase, I do not feel at all like grabbing a notebook and writing something. You can of course jot down later whenever it pleases you.

3)  When extremely sad/angry

This can be a tempting time, but again the output is more like spew of anger or sentences of self-loathing or self depreciation. Writers discretion is advised.

4) When not alone

This one is fairly simple, unless you have trained your mind this kind of multitasking- whereby you can chat-chat-chat and also write-write-write.

 

WHERE

1) In office, weekday blues

Take out small ten minute out of schedule if you can, and key them on microsoft outlook.

2) Coffee/Breakfast Table @cafes

It serves as one of the best place to jot down. There is whole live film going in front of you. Ask JK Rowling

Paraphernalia for writing

i)                    Table lamp

ii)                   Fountain pen

iii)                 White crisp paper in notebook

iv)                 If not #(iii), then awesome keyboard, big screen, fully charged, light notebook

v)                  Suitable music, preferably with no lyrics

vi)                 Typewriter , oh boy !!

PS: the writing mentioned above, is not writing paid blogs, or tech blogs, or startup blogs. It also does not includes writing notes that teachers forced us to take, or writing technical conference papers on some abstruse topics.

The last song of Dusk

It remained incomplete even though Author gave an acknowledgement. It was like as a child, me and my sister, waited for “the end” sprawled across screen, which denoted end of movie.

I was reeling in logical, technical world for too long, and needed a break, and yes “the last song of dusk” provided just that. (and for the record lets just say ,I stumbled upon it providently.) Dabbed in emotions and love, it was the missing piece of jigsaw. Like I was discussing with a friend, no one captures emotions and moods better than Indian artists, be it bollywood, art ot novel writing, last s.o.d. is perfect example. Siddharth Sanghvi does that again on behalf of India. (may be it my roots have to blamed, whereby I can¬†correlate¬†much better with a good Indian writer, not someone like Mr. Chetan,please !) Although yes there were few moments which were¬†over dramatic¬†like some Indian SOAP, and some equally improbable, but writer is writer. Sab maaf.

It captures the imagination vividly, with flowing words and alphabets. Set in pre independence era of India, it captures life of Anuradha. I would not say it is a tragedy, but rather an averted tragedy. And with poetry of Yeats coming in time after time, who would mind not delving in this. ¬†Which means I am onto the next novel of Snaghvi, which is…umm… ek min…last flamingoes o.B. ¬†Thanks to google , and not so much thanks to my university library portal which says “No catalog results found.¬†Did you mean:¬†the ferns of bombay? ” Dafuq !!Anyways it is someone opportunity for a b’day gift.

I should reiterate that am still not fit to write reviews, I always get careen away. One day, until some starts paying me off for writing reviews. May be. Until that day I will try to find/give words to feelings after finishing a masterpiece.

And last words to the Irishman

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, 
And nodding by the fire, take down this book, 
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look 
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

– from¬†‚ÄúWhen You Are Old” by WB Yeats

Recuperation…

 

“How can I claim my old bills”, that was all his coorporate slave friends could conjure up as a caption for a dp. He was dissapointed, and wanted to run away from all things corporate and shenanigans. He wanted to see the pure, unadulterated world free from dull shimmer of make-up.
There were times when he absolutely hated all things digital and electronic. He was the sad victim of altercation between his right and left brain lobe, like a silent child who shies away in a dark corner seeing his parents fighting. He delved in that corner for quite a long time, refusing to come out of his recluse. The harsh light from the bulb was scalding his eyelids, and however hard he clenched his eyelids he could not help them invading his privacy.
Thoughts flooded in like a well planned attack on an indomitable stone castle, and once inside they shattered the bricks and hoisted there ugly flag dark and high. His mind was not his own, for the army of thoughts devoured his silence, he laid there forlorn and helpless, like a last king of his goneby generation.  He struggled, he twitched , the more he resisited the more they deluged in.

He was on banks of Maa Ganga, sitting all alone and in his own silence on the desolate steps. It was getting dark, and sun succumbed and fell into the gentle waves of river. There was sound of water lapping and he remembered lines of Tennyson. “I heard the¬†water lapping¬†on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds”.

The book store at the entrance of ghat was his solace, the sweet aroma of paper, and rich history enticed him. He sat there looking dreamily at the books around him, imagining the cirsumstances under which they were wriitten, deciphering the reasons behind 100-200-300 pages and pages of words. What were they thinking when writing this particular page. Given a chance he could have written a book on the why a book was written.  He wanted to be elucidated on the story that led to story.   She recommended books in her accented yet flawless hindi,  he was piqued. The neat turquoise sari that she adorned added to the aura around her. She was recommending works of Ishiguro, and Murakami. Awed, all he could do was nod, and ended up getting two more books of soon-to-be-favorite author.

The unclear noise of the mic, bought him back from the bookstore. The click-clack of some construction work was monotonous and philistine. The hurdled voice that came over from fourteen floors down were unclear and clamorous. He wished to get back to cemented, forlorn stairs, and remain there undiscerned and at peace.

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