I haven't posted much of late. Haven't written much of late as well. Actually have reached a stage where I'm in the middle of things and we, the things and yours truly, could see each other till the end or just part ways.
Once a day, every day, I surprise myself. I like to surprise myself. I like surprises. I come up with a thought that quickly transforms into an idea and then the blocks start falling. A few minutes later it doens't matter. There is no novelty in the idea anymore. It just seems like some pages glued together.
So what's the deal with the uninspiration?
Somehow time seems to be the only thing standing between me and writing. In my line of country one needs, more than anything else, to figure out the dynamics of time. Time has been flirting with me of late. It shows itself on my door and at that moment that would enable it to be friends with me, walks right out on me. Why should time be teasing me? I read somewhere that in a writer's existence time is of the premium. Time's the only thing that decides for a writer what to read and what to write. The thought of investing time (in addition to coffee) into something that might end up looking like a telephone directory is a tough one. Why'd you still want to do it?
a. You won't know till you do it.
b. By doing it wrong you might ultimately figure out the right way. Remember Edison?
c. There is nothing else grabbing you attention and
d. How bad can it be?
I was negotiating with a client once and we exchanged a series of mails over a period of one week. The client decided to hit me where it hurt; we were not sure about the word count of the prospective work and the mails that I shot off longish mails to him. He reverted saying I'm being an idiot sending long mails and if I could resist replying on one occasion, I could save enough words to meet the desired word count. In addition he suggested I save time as well. In case you are wondering he flew the coop and a quarter of the payment is still pending. The guy was high on saving.
Once a day, every day, I surprise myself. I like to surprise myself. I like surprises. I come up with a thought that quickly transforms into an idea and then the blocks start falling. A few minutes later it doens't matter. There is no novelty in the idea anymore. It just seems like some pages glued together.
So what's the deal with the uninspiration?
Somehow time seems to be the only thing standing between me and writing. In my line of country one needs, more than anything else, to figure out the dynamics of time. Time has been flirting with me of late. It shows itself on my door and at that moment that would enable it to be friends with me, walks right out on me. Why should time be teasing me? I read somewhere that in a writer's existence time is of the premium. Time's the only thing that decides for a writer what to read and what to write. The thought of investing time (in addition to coffee) into something that might end up looking like a telephone directory is a tough one. Why'd you still want to do it?
a. You won't know till you do it.
b. By doing it wrong you might ultimately figure out the right way. Remember Edison?
c. There is nothing else grabbing you attention and
d. How bad can it be?
I was negotiating with a client once and we exchanged a series of mails over a period of one week. The client decided to hit me where it hurt; we were not sure about the word count of the prospective work and the mails that I shot off longish mails to him. He reverted saying I'm being an idiot sending long mails and if I could resist replying on one occasion, I could save enough words to meet the desired word count. In addition he suggested I save time as well. In case you are wondering he flew the coop and a quarter of the payment is still pending. The guy was high on saving.
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