Writing, not writing, not being able to write: everyday frustrations for a writer. Being able to write like a spring gushes water: aspirations of a writer. But frustrations and aspirations are so radically different for different people: Radha in this post by Anouradha Bakshi has such different frustrations and aspirations.
Cooking is as much a creative and fulfilling process as writing, and in the past few days, I’ve found cooking the easier of the two:).
I cooked over the weekend, and spent seven straight hours yesterday, cooking for friends, and did not mind it in the least. Cooking can be such a sensory, even sensual act: your ability to smell, touch, and see count as much, if not more than your ability to taste. I have written before about how therapeutic it can be.
You can have it all too, never mind if you stay in a seedy loft at the other end of town. You can do it. Remember, I started off just like you. Just pick me up from the news stand and let’s go home, where I’ll tell you all my secrets.
As I wrote in my last post, I have a lot of time to kill and breaks to take in between writing sessions, for dreaming, blogging. Blog browsing as well.
I have been trying this morning to catch up on the posts on blogs I follow, and this one made sense. With so much of made-up beauty around me, it was refreshing to read about souls without artifice.
I am not writing about Venice, but about The Venetian, a casino hotel in Macau.
I have been here since yesterday, and so far, I’m quite taken with the experience, attracted and repelled at the same time.
The casino, of course, is out-of-bounds for cameras, so I have no pictures. To me, the overwhelming first impression was of a colorful fish market, only without the stench and the noise.
I have been writing everyday for the past six months, just not on this blog or the other one, but on pen and paper. Of course, there have always been good arguments for why one should write everyday, but this article puts all the reasons together so very well. Enjoy!
I have been writing about my decision to translate paragraphs at random into Italian from books I have read and liked, and here is the second of such posts.
The book is the originally Spanish bestseller The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón, which I picked up about two months ago, and found intriguing, especially because it is a thriller about a book.