"I am a master of my craft, a master craftsman,
Respectable in my field, a masterclass on pen,
But interest in my words is scant among men,
Snatch their attention, in nine seconds, maybe ten,
Plagiarised bit of poetry can make them content,
Words can't heal like time, so I doctor scripts till then."
I am a writer. I make things up. Even my afflictions are invented.
I’ve called myself a writer for about 13 years. It started right here. I wrote things. People read what I wrote. I made some money from it. I will continue to carry that tag to my grave despite the fact that I spend more time writing about being a writer than writing fiction. I don’t write fiction at work. I just write untruths there – No I don’t really believe that your micro loan is a responsible decision or that high-end chocolate boxes are “thoughtful” gifting. But 125 characters are not enough for me to include admonitions and personal opinions on Wonka Celebration Hampers. Yes, Hemmingway and I – same.
I do insert little nuggets of truth into the comedy writing. Much to the dismay and shock of the spare audience members who still frequent open mics. All three of them are uncomfortable with my revealting my favourite narcissist – they want me to say <insert politician name> and instead I disappoint them by saying it’s my mother. Even stand-up comedy, despite its political freedom, whatever little is left of it, draws boundaries. You can say ‘my boss’, ‘my buaji’, ‘my father’ even – but God forbid you attack all of motherhood. It takes discipline and devotion for those 10 – 12 minutes of stage time to stick to a subject nobody wants to hear about. I persevere most days. Writing that bit, however, is challenging. Because, here, sitting far away from the source of my chagrin and dispiritedness, my thoughts are washed in nostalgia and pity. It’s a writer’s block and a daughter’s love and a little bit of amnesia. “She didn’t really call me a whore, she just asked me if I was one – I shouldn’t be harsh on my mother, she has had a hard life – and nobody in the audience will relate to it. They are men. Men love their moms. You don’t want to be the unlikeable woman on stage droning on about that thing they don’t like to hear about.”
OK, that is enough stream of consciousness for now.
Which brings me back to my subject line – not a click bait. I am never really on vacation even when I am on vacation because that’s how much writing I am supposed to catch up on. I have to do something concrete even when I am on a break. I am crippled by the anxiety that the window on my ‘creative age’ is closing and if I don’t create what I was supposed to now, I never will. A faint outline of a web series continues to feel stupider and stupider as it lies drawn out in a pink floral cover diary I purchased from ‘Marry Me’ – that store inside Candies, Pali Hill. And I am afraid that tiny universe I invented will die unlived inside those handmade pages scribbled with turquoise ink. So I must replace this fear with a little ‘something’ that must be done. I am writer, I invent. So I’ve invented little tasks that simulate productivity. This 750-word essay is one such exercise. It’s the feeling of having completed something that drops the Dopamine.
Crafting words together in short sprints is also rewarding. Crafting those words with rules and restrictions is somehow quicker and releases you from the burden of freedom. I use a random word generator to put together words. I do a reset first – a brief mediation, a page of reading and then, I allow the writing prompts to guide me through structuring a complete story, haiku what-have-you. That strange verse right on top is an example woven from words arbitrarily picked from me by an Artificial Intelligence. I’ve underlined them. I’d like to title it or improve upon it. There is always room for improvement. But right now I want to let it be a relic from my Writer’s Block Era. It won’t last, I hope. When it’s over, I’ll come back to all of these bits and pieces of purging. Perhaps use them as supers on opening slates for films and web series. I take comfort in knowing that the original True Detective wasn’t even supposed to be a procedural. Nic Pizzolatto wanted to create a story about two men driving around Louisiana, discussing Nietzsche and Thomas Ligotti. Pray that my universe in that pink Marry Me diary evolves just like that.
I spin yarns 