Some days you feel like giving up, like nothing is worth it any more. This happens in real life, as well as writing.
When this happens to me in writing, I have to bend down and pull myself up, lift the head from the toes, slowly peel it from my shins, coax it up my hips and stomach, catch it back when it rolls down again, uncurl it from its foetal position, slowly make it face the sun and make it see the light again, make it light up again.
Today is one such day.
Physical and mental exhaustion take their toll on the creative self, and the challenge is to create through the fog of tiredness, of frustration.
I’ve been uncurling myself since morning and now that I’m back in my study, the books on the shelves around me a sort of cocoon, I can unfurl myself and begin to write.
Someone very close to me said today that to me, my work is more important than everything..all else be damned.
Though I argued back, I know that on a day to day basis, this is true. The days I can paint with words inside my head or on the page, I feel I have lived, others are days wasted.
I do not know how it came to this, I do not know how I came to be a writer, not just in the worldly sense, but also in the deepest part of my inner world. Well, for better or for worse. We’ll see.
For those who have followed the life of Kartar Singh, I have news. His place has been taken by Lalwant Singh, a dark grey and red (who was getting his fins nipped by a host of baby angelfish, so I call buying him a ‘rescue’.) I guess I’m heartless.
Or a stupid masochist. Despite my last lesson, I’ve named this one again.