Talking to friends after writing

Writing can be such a draining experience sometimes.

You have to create something out of nothing, draw a world out of a void, wear the mantles of all your characters, and live and feel through them.

It is exhilarating and exhausting at the same time.

And then you talk to someone who understands you.

Who may not necessarily know or understand your work, but can listen to your pretty or ugly stories about yourself, your life, patiently and without passing judgment. A friend.

There is nothing more restorative after a tiring day than to talk to a friend who really, really deserves the term. Three cheers for good friends! If you are a stressed writer, I highly recommend that after a tiring day, you have a chat with a good friend about nothing in particular.

I have been writing about books every now and then, books I am reading, books I wish to read.

Back when I was a student, and sometimes did not know where the next meal would come from, I would still buy books. Books sold by weight on Indian pavements, because in those days in India they wasted nothing, and I could not afford shiny new books.

But now, when I can afford to buy any book I might possibly want, used books still call to me.

I tried to write about this love affair (in prose, mind you!) but I can’t help it, I think each books speaks to me in verse, in words which are garbled prayer and temptation,  so here goes (sigh, again, “a poem”!!!! Rick, you are laughing, aren’t you?)

Thumbed, dog-eared,
cover torn in places
names written, forgotten
crossed out, passed on.

I come with a tang
of lazy afternoons,
of mildewed bookshelves
falling apart,
of cheap colognes
on a young man
looking for a start,
of pungent desires
shakily denied,
salted airs in a
pickle factory where
I almost died,
of this dusty pavement
where I am to be sold
made into packets, bags,
my story untold.

Come pick me up
take me with you
and you shall know
of whispered confessions,
innuendos, half-written
poems, and shattered
dreams, as I talk
to you and you listen
with your eyes closed and
an open heart.

For my best secrets
were not printed
on my body
but written
into my soul
by all these years
I spent waiting,
waiting for you,
my love.

In my last post, I wrote what came to me on gazing at Rick’s painting for a long moment indeed.

Thankyou, Rick, for letting people like me scribble about your paintings.

It is slightly embarrassing to confess that today when I started on my morning writing, a poem came out instead of the usual prose. I could not stop it or change it, it came and insisted on staying.

I am posting it here. My request to you Rick.(..er..I am not sure it is not asking for too much) is to draw me a sketch or painting based on it. I can see it in my mind’s eye, but since I am no artist, I cannot paint. If you have the time, and if you can see into the poem, can you draw out an image for me?

I do not know any other artists on the blogosphere, but would be quite happy if any one else takes up the poem. Ouch…this is embarrassing. Out with the poem now.

I call my poem “In passing“

The sky outside is clear, cloudless, precise.

Much like the dying thoughts, perhaps,
of the young sailor before he died
or like his pale brow as he was lashed ashore.

The street lamps stand tall, dark in the bright sunlight.

The road is clean, stark, shining, solemnly awaiting
the funeral march heard, but not seen, down the valley.

The road echoing the mourning wail
across the alleys and across the hills
that are ponderous, transfixed.

The hills, mute in thought for years, beyond memory or reckon.
Waiting for the end, which though now far shall surely
draw close some bright low noon in amorous March
when the earth shall tremble and call death to herself.

For now, the tender breeze would cool the salted necks
of the pall-bearers that stumble up the cobbled path
to carry the sailor for his final rest.

The burial done, they will troop
to the bereaved house, to the mourning widow,
and the mother driven mad with grief.
They will drink, and talk of death and dying.

Soon the ale and beer and the salted meat
will soothe and the talk shall turn
as they eat, to the year’s fishing,
to the coming polls for the council.
Even the widow will breathe
between her tears, ask for her child,
and feed him on a bosom still heaving
with sobs every now and then.

My friend Lofter, at Life at the Foot of the Stairs has given me an award.

The award is for Daily (W)rite, and I am so grateful my sporadic posts have stayed long enough in his fav list to actually win an award !

I am quite sure I don’t deserve the award, but it shows I have at least one appreciative visitor, so I have gone ahead and accepted it! Thank you Lofter, you usually leave cheery comments, but the last one was the best so far

I have a few other loyal visitors as well, and I am ever so intrigued at what brings them back. You know who you are, and I feel ashamed every time you guys have visited and been presented with a stale post.

I hope to do better this month, both on this blog and my other one!

To follow the requirements of receiving the award, I list below the actions it requires upon acceptance:

1. Pick 5 blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.

2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog.

3. Each award winner (upon acceptance) should show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award.

4. Show the link of Arte y pico blog , so everyone will know the origin of this award.

5. Show these rules.
To follow the first requirement, I present the Arte y pico award to the following bloggers:

• Kym
• Darc
• Ovidia
• Turkish Prawn
• Annie girl

I love going to these blogs, and if you visit them, you will know why

Writing has become increasing more difficult over the past week, because all I can think of is packing, hanging, arranging, decorating. Moving into a new house does that to you, I guess.

One particular thing on my most-desired list right now: gecko tape.

I have so many things to hang, and pristine walls I don’t want to nail and damage. Gecko tape would be just the thing….*sigh*

Writing has come to a standstill, how about some gecko-tape to carry the load of guilt as well? Yeah, right!

Having the time to write, to photograph, to think and doodle at your own fee will is surely worth something. I do not know if I can live in cramped confines like this man, but there is surely something to the idea of limiting your physical horizons so you can look inwards.

I did not have the time or the energy for the 1000 words yesterday, I did not put my writing on priority, and I am missing my writing class this Saturday. So, Good Morning World, and 2000 words, here I come!

I was doing my 1000 words of morning writing, when I stumbled on a very helpful Character Writing Idea. As a beginner at characterization, it helps to be able to describe the characters in deep detail, how they look and what they eat, how they talk and what they wear.

You can choose to write about a friend, an ex, yourself, a partner, a spouse or an acquaintance —-as the guinea pig. Since it will all be in your private journal, you will never need fear them seeing it, but it would give you the practice you need to describe the people you already know, so when it comes to an imaginary character, things would go smoother.

I made one up today, and it went like this: (I needed a character for one of the stories I am writing, and though the description will never itself go into the story, it helps me that I can see her when I write about what she is doing)

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I have not done my 1000 words of the day, so tomorrow it is 2000 words. I was idly browsing around and stumbled upon this site.

Creepy, eh?

Now that I have creeped myself out, and have done my work for the day, it is time for bed.

I am now reading Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, so maybe I will read myself to sleep, bodies floating in the darkness notwithstanding.

I went for the first session of my creative writing course yesterday. After much searching, my husband found the place for me, and the sweet soul that he is, dropped me inside and only left after making sure that the class was on.

The teacher is a bookstore owner who also runs a small publishing firm. I already knew most of the basic stuff we talked about yesterday, and the exercise we have for the 10 week, 20-hour course is common enough as well.

Write 1000 words a day.

I am sure this sounds familiar to all aspiring writers.

But the interesting part is that these 1000 words have to be deeply personal stuff, an exorcism of inner demons, a purging of whatever has been bothering us. Being intensely private, we are not required to show our writing to anyone, but the teacher tells us that if we are honest with ourselves and wake up early each morning to write a 1000 words, it would make a difference.

This is supposed to be useful in a few ways:

• We can use this later as a resource for our writing (somewhat like in method acting where you call up a particular emotion from your experience for the camera), when we have to write about an intense emotion in our characters.

• It is somehow going to unlock the doors, and unleash the writer within us.

• It is writing practice, a way to develop a habit of writing consistently everyday.

I am not sure how this will work, or if it will work at all, but I have decided to take this seriously. Even though I was late waking up today I did not get on with the day till I had finished the 1000 words.

Somehow, they were surprisingly easy, less than an hour and I was done.

I am not sure I can keep the discipline for 70 days, but there is certainly no harm in trying very, very hard. I am traveling early in the morning tomorrow, but of course I plan to wake up earlier than required and finish the 1000.

I was at a shopping mall in Singapore yesterday, waiting for my friend at lunch. The open restaurant is by the pool, with a nice smattering of what is called “Western food” here……..everything from Bangers and mash, Caesar salad to Tagliatelle.

As I sat watching people walking into and out of the restaurant without walls, I took to making notes of them. Here is what I wrote:

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