Category: Thoughts uncut

Writing When you Can’t

I’m in the middle of a dry spell. I can’t write. I’m stuck.

But I’m guilty too. I know the block is real but I also know that it can break — if you hit hard enough. And that’s what I’ve been trying to do.

I’ve been writing random stuff, both long form and short, trying to get through to that point where words would just flow like a melted candle. Not happening though. I spent about four hours writing one of my recent posts. It was less than 400 words. And there was a time when I wrote an average of 1600 words in three hours.

It is real. I am blocked.

But I’m trying, and that’s what matters. After all, what am I if I don’t write? It’s the only thing I can do, the only I want to do, and the only thing that pays for my lunch. So what would become of me if I don’t write?

And that thought terrifies me more than anything. It chills my bones to the core that I can’t sleep without the guilt gnawing at my chest. I can’t sleep without writing something. Even if it’s not worth a reader’s time, I wrote.

After all, having something to work on is better than not having anything at all. Don’t you think?

Life Cycle

I get paid to write. But there’s a price to it too: I write not for myself. I write for a business that sells to other businesses. And because I make it my business to deal with all this business on a day-to-day basis, I have opinions about the way people do business.

And I realised this only last evening when I was busy being busy. After three years, I realised it on a Friday the 13th. I was writing a blog about the various businesses that people do nowadays, about how the nature of money-making has evolved from traditional ways, and how people find creative methods most of us haven’t even heard of.

Like that common saying — “there’s an app for that,” — it’s amazing that every “app” is a business in itself. If you can imagine it, you can earn out of it. It’s a part of human evolution, and now we’ve begun to see the monetary value in every thing around us.

Whether it’s a tree with roots extending to the pavement, a sloppy drinker who couldn’t contain his wine to the glass, or a woman too lazy to clean her own nails, there’s a business for that.

But the weirdest thing of them all is that these businesses aren’t monopolies. They have competition, and heavy ones too.

As we grow lazier, and long for an extra beanbag to prop our feet up while binge-watching the latest in House of Cards, there’s always a businessman (or a few) caressing fresh bills. The more we choose comfort, the more businesses opportunities pop up. We once managed with one pair of shoes. Now we need one for running, another for weight training, and yet another for indoor sports. After all, we earn it, and we can afford it.

The more we earn, the more we want. The more we want, the more choices and business opportunities come up. And that just means businesses fighting more to outperform competition.

And here I am, writing for one business, against another business, so I can earn more and want more.

A vicious cycle, if there ever was one.

Live, Learn, Pass It On

I’ve always loved to talk about formal education. Or the futility of it, rather. And I enjoy people who talk about it too. But Sir Ken Robinson isn’t just another person talking about how education ruins our lives.

He’s British. That matters, but only because the accent mesmerises me. There’s more to this TED talk than a flawless speaking style.

John Lennon said, “Learn to smile as you kill.” Perhaps, Sir Ken Robinson took this to heart. Because throughout the video, he never once stops smiling. He’s not angry; he’s not biting his tongue to keep himself from swearing — though I would’ve enjoyed it — at schools that forbids children to dance without thinking, making them memorise theorems instead.

His words are brilliant.

“The education system has mined our minds in the way we strip mined the earth.”

Defining the body: “It’s a way of getting their heads to meetings.”

Here’s a small request: Please spare 20 minutes of your day for this talk. It’s so good, you’d never regret it. And maybe some time, even we could influence a child to draw out of the dotted lines.

Over the Block

One day, I woke up, got ready for work, walked all the way, and switched on my computer to realise I couldn’t write a word.

the office

And that depressed me more than anything else.

Because I was stuck. It wasn’t a new feeling, of course. But when you’re getting paid to write, you can’t complain of bad days. I couldn’t bear the creeping guilt that gripped my throat forcing me to stare at the page that refused to fill up by itself.

Every new mail was torture. Every new chat message, every request added to the burden. I hated myself for being at work and not working. For not being able to work.

Some people played carrom in a corner. Their “boss” had taken the day off, so they had a field day too. They triggered my already-short temper; they laughed in high spirits while I tapped away on my Mac trying to make something sensible.

Yet some others packed their stuff, calling it a day. They had worked for eight hours straight scrutinising their code, evaluating, and reviewing their program. And here I sat too guilty to even open Buzzfeed.

Then there were the others who always had too much to do than they could ever manage. They had their eyes glued to their screens, shoulders hunched towards the black (square) hole that seems to vacuum them into its depths.

And here I was, wondering if I should add an extra tablespoon of peanut butter in my toast every morning. Even after four cups of coffee, my page was still blank. One of my friends understood. Or at least thought he did.

“Shit happens, dude.” he said, ruffling my hair and winking at me as if that should reassure me. That never reassures me. Not being able to do the only thing (I pride) I can do is not a case of shit happening. It’s more like the case of my entire life becoming a pile of shit.

Still, nothing. I looked through the window. We were high up on the twelfth floor, and the minuscule world below me seemed immaterial. Hundreds of vehicles, carrying thousands of people, trudged their way through jammed streets. Each honking as if the world blow up unless they had their way. But I slumped like a blob of pudding without the inspiration to write even a rhyming couplet.

I turned to the heavens for a hint. For a flash of enlightenment, something to help me unstuck myself, and restart my work. I saw what I see everyday: The sun giving away all her glory to anyone who cared to appreciate. It was cloudy like any other day. Yet the sun shone through all that clouded her vision.

And I wondered: Why couldn’t I write a piece that would shine through the same cloud that protects it?

I wondered. Still, nothing more than this.

The Taste of Freedom

freedom.jpg

Who can resist perfect strumming? I surrender.

It doesn’t blare; the music doesn’t hurt my ears — even if I’ve turned up the volume to maximum.

What is it about this song? It has no extraordinary opening. Perhaps it’s the crescendo that comes later on— with notes so high and complementing drums.

Or, maybe, it’s the way it changes — no two seconds are same. It rises, and it falls, with unmistakable, yet subtle transitions.

The sound of the music makes me delve within myself, to find that hallow space deep down and do — nothing. It reaches that space just to remind me of its existence.

Every time I replay the song, the tunes scratch the surface of my deepest emotions. It leaves my insides tingling so much that I want to shout, dance, and cry like a maniac — all at the same time. Without looking disturbed myself. Because I don’t feel negative. Just insane peace. Like a slumber in a crisis. Or in the eye of a tornado.

A silence engulfs me just before the ending, and as the final tones die down, the world glares at me again, with its teeth barred.

Same call it escapism. But don’t we all seek art to distract ourselves? To get away from everything — even if only for a while — and enjoy a speck of calm?

I’m most alive when I listen to this song. My mind reels, and even does a tap dance at times. My body lives without my mind’s interference. I feel myself, the real person underneath the messy hair and shabby spectacles.

It’s freedom unlike any other.

Music cuts the leashes that restrain my mind. Once free, I am unaffected even in a throng. I can sit for hours straight caring naught about anything.

I’m above it all. I wonder, I wander.