Daily (w)rite

Writing about being a pen with ears

Writing is always such a tricky thing to do. The minute you decide you want to write “about” something, in a “particular way”, you feel strained. I have often found that it is easier to permit myself to write rubbish, to accept that one cannot produce works of true genius all the time, and in the cases of some writers, maybe never at all.

It is the same with all art I suppose. You are trying so hard to create a masterpiece that you forget to relax and let things come to you. At the end of the day, it is important that you listen to what comes to you and take it down, instead of trying to “make” something.

I wish I could treat writing like I treat my reading. I read, and read too much for my own good, but not so I can sit for an exam, or gain something material. I do not have to be good at reading, and I can read anything, from manuals to menus, completely uncaring of what “quality” I read. I have read Harlequin romances and Goethe on the same day and enjoyed both. They were both worth my time, and I am not ashamed to say it.

Maybe I am not destined to become a great writer, I just don’t have it in me. But that’s alright. As long as I am enjoying what I am doing, or following a compelling need within, I should not complain.

Here is hoping that I get the “I” out of my system in this and my other blogs, and when I write otherwise, am able to forget that an “I” exists. A giant pen with ears— that is who I am, simply taking dictation from somewhere up above, or deep within.

I am not a writer, but a secretary to Someone Who Knows, taking dictation.

Now I have to make sure I write that down on my writing-desk!

Writing happiness

Writing about being happy is not something I have been doing much of lately. It is mostly rants on the anonymous blog I have started  (won’t link to it, naturally, lol).

But today I am happy, and was happy writing. That is a rare thing for me. It is a blessing, and I am busy being grateful!

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.

Wordle for

Writing short stories is what I have wanted to do for quite some time. But it is a difficult genre to master, and I am not entirely persuaded it is the right genre for me and what I have to say. While the writing comes easy, I am not so sure it flows as well as some of my poems.

Here is a prose-poem kind of vignette I had done some time back. I call it “Hell Found Me” :

Hell found me. I knew it would, sooner or later, but did not know it would be quite so soon. I had become quite an artist down the years I spent here. But now I am caught.

It is here that I have to stay, chained for all time, in the middle of this mindless desert, acres of salt, and little else. The cracks left by the wind on this never-ending salty stretch are mirrored by the raw cracks on my feet. Someday the cracks on my bleached bones will mirror them. First the birds, and then of course, the sun, will have their turn. It is a long wait.

But today as I lie scorching, I am flesh and blood. I can feel the heat under my bare body and the pain from the many cuts made on it to attract vultures. For years I have traveled these lands where no man dare make his home, where there is no soil for a blade of grass. Only salt, white, grey or dirty, meets the eyes, no matter how many miles one walks.

This was my home. I was a wanderer and this entire spread belonged to me, for it was I who would guide the trader who risked his life walking into this wasteland of salt. In exchange for things that took my fancy, an amulet, a carved box, or a piece of embroidered cloth, I would offer to lead him to the best place, where the salt was pure, pristine, and so white it hurt the eye. I would guide him in and out in a day, he would not get lost in this salty desert. He would come once, twice, many times, and grow my hoard in the caves I stowed them in.

Unknown to him, it was not his possessions I was after, it was his flesh. Ah, human flesh! Salty as the air I breathe, smelling of salt as the water I drink, and warm, so warm. No animal flesh can compete, and I should know, I have tasted most I could catch. I have hunted in jungles, and I have hunted beside farms. Crippled at birth, I knew no mother and the only herd I was ever part of was a group of beggars by day and thugs by night. I have loved human blood since then, it quenched my thirst and killed the dull ache in my belly. Most nights I went hungry. There were rats to catch of course, but rats can be quick.

Besides, hunting men is far more rewarding. They are more intelligent. It needs great cunning. I earned the trust of many, and when I decided the time was ripe, my meal never knew what hit him. I hate struggles. I do not like wasting precious energy in this desert, and trust is the perfect weapon. I would always ask them, on what was to be their last trip, to bring me some good wine. I would, as always, be quiet; I do not know much of talk, and it does not amuse me. They would be merry, and drink more than I. Most of them died in their sleep, dreaming happy dreams, which ended with a quick, firm, blow to the head. It is as good a way to go as any.

But as with all good plans, mine had a flaw. News of my unseen hoard grew with each small merchant that gave me a trinket. Then, you came, the robber in the guise of a merchant. And when the robber met the hunter, the robber won. You are now a speck in the distance, carrying away all the trophies of my hunt. They do not mean much to me, and you are welcome. I am chained outside my cave, from where I can see all the bones I tore flesh from, and I am content.

As birds tear at mine, I shall think of the poison I smeared on all my treasure and how you will be writhing in agony soon. You know, I have begun to like my hell. The way I see it, it is just a few vultures having a good meal, and I do not grudge them that.

For some reason I have always wanted to turn this into a poem. Today I got an idea how. I was on Sharon Bakar’s blog when I saw this intriguing link to Wordles, a free software that lets you create word clouds of whatever text you choose to feed in.

This is the link to the Wordle I created from the text of the vignette here. (Click it to see a bigger image). I like the way all sorts of unlikely words join up in the Wordle: “chained, hunted birds”, “years drink”, “scorching treasure”, “walking pristine”….I know random poetry generators can give you much the same kind of unlikely word combinations, but I like to see the Wordle do it so visually.

writing about living a dream

Writing about all sorts of stuff for the last few days, from belly fat to ballet dancing….the boring freelance writer’s life.

Some people live their dream, some are at least talking about it. Others, like me, have the dream at their feet, and keep kicking it around instead of just stepping into it.

I wish I would stop toying around with my dream life and just dare to live the dream!

Writing about the Sun and the Sunflower

I turn so you are in my eyes and I in yours.
You stay far, for to come close
would singe me
and I would be as ashes
to your flame.

From the distance you send me
warmth, color
and all that is life and love.
You give me sustenance and I give
you one more reason to burn
so we may live and love far apart:
you, the Sun,
and I, the sunflower.

Writing has been a bitch today. End of another tiring, tiresome, tired day. Time to retire. hopefully it is not a case of “re-tire” tomorrow!

Sigh.

Writing about reading is something I do often, but this is the first time I have examined books I have read so far. This was a book-list I found on the blog by Darcness, and felt I should check out the list through a post. So, here goes:

The Big Read, an initiative by the National Endowment for the Arts, has estimated that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they’ve printed. How do you do? Leave a comment if you feel like it or simply do a post of your own.

1) Look at the list and bold those you have read: 49
2) Italicize those you intend to read: 10
3) Underline the books you LOVE: 12 (I marked them with asterixes)

Here is the list. Happy Browsing!

(more…)

Writing about personal stuff is something that comes up around me from time to time. I have touched upon it in some of my posts, I have wondered about it in my head, I have talked about it with friends, writers or otherwise.

The other day, I heard someone ask a published author on how to go about writing about personal stuff, painful things, toxic things, hurtful things. Especially when the writing would involve not only the writer’s own life but that of others. What happens if you write about people who actually recognize themselves? What are the ethics of the situation?

Such writing has been done, time and time again. But a majority of writers, like Susan Breen, for instance, would not think of lifting a character totally out of life, and leaving him or her as is.

Let us admit it, most fiction writing starts from fact, from personal experience. But most writers use that experience as a springboard, as a platform from where they can ask the “what if” question, so that the resultant people and world they create in their work is “faction” if you like, “fact + fiction”. I belong to this category.

Very few people are as talented and as honest as Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, who could create enduring works out of their often somewhat squalid and relentlessly experimental lives. An open life is not very easy to lead.

If you are a writer, how do you incorporate personal experience in your work?

Writing a journal seems to be a favorite preoccupation for people, cos it is one of the top searches that lands people on this blog. Even though I have not mentioned the word “journal” in quite some time now. Maybe it is just students with journal assignments?
So, I thought, maybe we do one of my journal entries today.

It was a busy Sunday, um, a busy weekend. Make that a busy month. Even a busy year so far. Only problem is, I have been busy doing everything other than the stuff I’ve been wanting to do. All the things that would have been on my New Year Resolution list (I stopped making those when I was ten and one of my resolutions was “grow taller”) I have left undone.

Life has a weird way of taking over and dictating its terms just when you have the biggest urge to control it.

Maybe just let go, huh?

Not on. I just can’t let go. Of Anything. I am like one of my cousins who always had one raw wound somewhere on himself, because he had to, just had to, pick at the scabs. Couldn’t let go. He was eleven at the time and did not know any better, but you’d think someone my age would know better, right? Apparently not.

I have studied Wu wei, written sporadically about it, but there is a big gap between knowledge and practice. To spend your time in inaction, acting only at the right moment and only as much as the moment requires for the restoration of universal harmony— seems like too many high-flown words.

But Wu wei is a lot about the essential nature of our being.

I like to imagine that inside each of us is a beautiful, blue calm lake, surrounded by snow-capped mountains on all sides, where a morning-fresh breeze unceasingly blows. A shimmering blue lake that reflects the pines on its banks, if only we let it stay that way. Instead, we throw stones, create ripples, shout out loud and break that majestic silence, the silence of our soul.

I try and visit this lake every once in a while, and find it surprisingly easy to let go of all the noise of my existence around its tranquil waters.

Perhaps I should want to do something, but then not try too hard (ouch, whatever happened to try, try again?), bring my desire as a prayer to the azure lake and wait for it to be granted—stranger things have been known to happen.

My inner lake, here I come.