07/12/2012 by Siddiqui Fayesal
For those who haven’t read Journal Entry One here it is!
So, like I said, I listened to this shubh-chintak of mine and began writing a little more seriously. I had a blog which I ignored for a long time. There was a year, 2008 I think, where it was barren. Like totally barren! Not a single post. Zilch!
Even when I did write it was very sparingly. And because it was rare that I wrote, it so happened that when I did, my thoughts tumbled out. They just fell out of my head and onto my computer screen, taking the best route not to be intercepted by the all knowing self corrective feature in MS Word. I can see it now when I go back to the year 2007, 2008 and 2009 (maybe even now. I have no reason to be lax about grammar and punctuations but It still happens sometimes). I realised my syntax errors, my structural mistakes and my penmanship. I haven’t corrected it yet. I don’t think I will. Don’t ask me why as I really don’t know. It just feels like a memorable benchmark for me. It feels like a brand new page in a book. Unwritten and totally virgin. It’s a clear demarcation from where I took off to a little more seriousness in what I write and how much I write!
It was during these few years where I actually realised that wanting to write and knowing how to write do not necessarily go together. No matter how much one wants to write, it won’t help unless he has mastered the art. What it takes to master the art of writing? I have no darn clue man! If I did, I’d be an author of a few books already. Not to mention I’d prance around giving un-wanted advice to every rookie writer and look down upon them with a sinister disparaging smile every time they made an error. Also, I’d have my own visiting card which clearly mentioned my vocation as “writer”. Heights I tell you!
On my part, in retrospection, I wasted a lot of time on things that weren’t relevant at that point. The very first day I sat doodling on pages forcing myself to come up with a name. A name for my book. For some reason I was under the impression that a name is what I should begin with. I thought that without a name I wouldn’t be able to write a story. The name is what a story is all about. I was judging it all wrong! I was going backwards and I didn’t even realise it until one fine day I threw my pen in disgust (broke the nib, ruined the bed sheet and my mam’s mood) and told myself these few words. “*%$*&%“, “*^%!@” and “@#$%$“.
Surprisingly, it worked. I started with what I called Chapter 1 and went on to write 4 more! After a few months of staring at it I promptly ripped it out and threw it away. Why would I want to write a cheesy drama between a single mother and her eldest son when I’m not even, remotely, interested in it? Why does writing come so difficult to me? I’m sure it has happened to most of us who write, one day your work seems to be awesome and after a few days the same thing sounds so putrid and foolish that you start doubting your capability. It keeps happening with me, I tell you!
I remember how hard I had worked for those few chapters. I had painstakingly made a timeline to properly analyze the age difference between all the characters to make sure it wasn’t weird. A 20 year old son to a 27 year old mother!!! I know I’m not that stupid but I didn’t want anything to be left to chance.
I reminisce those days with pleasure. How I had the audacity to sit at a cafe and do nothing but write? The quality of my writing notwithstanding I always had too many ideas. I penned them down with alacrity hoping that I’ll use them with surgical precision later to tie my stories. It rarely happened. I still sit at coffee shops and write. I write a lot. Some of the chapters are really good. Sometimes I’m too darn proud of myself.
The details of the rigmarole I will dispense when my frame of mind is a bit more pliable and my mama a bit less vocal!
Journal Entry One