Writing about Plagiarist Alok GOgoi


Someone  called Alok Gogoi is a plagiarist who is ripping off content from both my blogs, this one and Amlokiblogs.

I have tried to contact this person, but he has no contact email on his blog. I will file a DMCA complaint against him, if he does not take down the posts immediately.

Since Alok Gogoi comes here to Plagiarise, I’m sure he would be notified.

 

Writing, reading, Margaret Atwood


Margaret Atwood Blind Assassin

Margaret Atwood's Blind Assassin

Sometimes I write down an excerpt from a book I’m reading, and in reading Margaret Atwood‘s Blind Assassin, I feel like typing out the whole book on my blog.

Of course, I can’t do that, so here’s a para I read last night:

She did understand, or at last she understood that she was supposed to understand. She understood, and said nothing about it, and prayed for the power to forgive, and did forgive. But he can’t have found living with forgiveness that easy. Breakfast in a haze of forgiveness: coffee with forgiveness, forgiveness on the buttered toast. He would have been helpless against it, for how can you repudiate something that is never spoken?

Writing in vacuum without an argument


It is nice sometimes to be able to pick up a pen and write about nothing in particular. A river of writing, brooking no argument, obstacle, or dead ends. And years later, to find those lines and realize they were about something, after all.

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Visit my website: Amloki.com

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Writing, philosophy, writing


Philosophy and Fiction

Philosophy and Fiction: Writing Ideas

“It has been traditional in much of our culture to view God as omnipotent (all-powerful), omniscient (all-knowing) and perfectly good. The existence of suffering poses a tough challenge for a theist who believes in such a God. How could a God who is perfectly good, can do absolutely anything he wants to do, and knows everything there is to know, possibly create a world in which so many of His creatures suffer so terribly?”—from Omnipotence and Contradiction, an Introduction to Philosophy by Thomas D. Davis.

I’m going through all the arguments and counter-arguments, and find the whole process quite engaging. The best part is, some of the theories are explained through fiction, and that opens a whole new world of possibilities, i.e, possible stories.

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Visit my website: Amloki.com

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A Dream is like a River


Pablo Picasso's Woman Dreaming

Pablo Picasso's Woman with Yellow Hair

Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.

—Anais Nin

You know a dream is like a river, ever changing as it flows.

And a dreamer is just a vessel, that must follow where it goes.

—Garth Brooks, “The River”

Writing about Revealing the Personal


The Fascination of Autobiographies

The Fascination of Autobiographies

Often, when I begin a post, I have this urge to make it a really, personal, intimate confession. I want to make it about the way I feel now, things I’m happy or unhappy with.

But I know this is not the place for it. My personal, private journal is.

I can’t understand how so many people can put so much of their life online. For the same reasons, I do not understand autobiographies.

While honestly written autobiographies can be intensely fascinating, I always wonder about the cost to the author.

Personal revelation has always taken courage, we humans are nearly not as personable as our personas. But in an age where criminals thrive on identity theft and more, I disagree with people who blog about personal lives, upload hundreds of pictures on Facebook, and generally live a public life when they don’t really have to.

There is a certain beauty in looking inward, rather than continually flowing outward. I don’t want to lose that. And in some cases I feel my fiction lets me do both: look inward and introspect, and flow outward as I write. So back to the story-writing board, and happy writing to all.

Writing Daily Writing Exercises or Not


Writing Exercises

Writing Exercises

While writing on writing the last few weeks, I have been caught with a dilemma: to write everyday or not…

If you listen to writing coaches, writing everyday is elementary, the more you practice, the better your craft will be, you can be your own best teacher, and so on.

To me, I’ve been writing more on the inside, sometimes for days things would float about in my head, connect and disconnect, like atoms hitting against each other, randomly, attracting, repelling. And sometimes, most times, they form something. And then all I have to do is give myself a pen and notebook, and watch myself write.

I know that one part of me suspends itself while the other is writing. This part, that suspends itself, can write everyday, and mostly come out with inane scribbles or articles for my bread and butter.

The other part, which only comes out when the first part is suspended, which makes all those connections in my head, is where the real writing comes from, and I have about as much control over it as I have over my bloodstream. It comes out once in a while, and not daily, like clockwork.

Is the idea for daily writing meant to coax this one out on your bidding? Not sure.

For now, I try to scribble something everyday, not worrying too much about word count, also hoping the part of me that really writes comes out of hiding more often.

Oh, and I’m also hoping  I’m a plain old writer, not schizophrenic. Thoughts?

Writing about hiatus, paper notebooks, posting


Writing, notebook, blogging

Writing, notebook, blogging

This blog has gone to sleep. Try as I might, I can’t get back the enthusiasm, when I used to post, if not daily, as the name so ambitiously claims, but at least a few times a week.

Life has taken over, maybe work. Sometimes I feel my notebooks have become the repository of all the things I see, the way I remark on someone with a fly-away hairstyle, try to think how that mannish-looking woman, short hair, bra-less, in a loose t-shirt and cargo could become a character, or how a run-down palatial hotel I visited could be the setting for my ghost story.

Life has become about writing and work, and most of the writing gets done in the umpteen notebooks I keep buying, unlined, crisp. I even found a sketchbook with thick white paper, and when my pen runs on it I feel alive, so in there in my head, connected. Someone asked me, why do you even need such paper? Try writing on it, I replied, go ahead, just try it.

I wish I could write my posts on my paper notebook, and they would appear on my blog, flying out of the heavy white pages, and settling on the screen, like flies settling down in neat rows. Sigh.