Tag: looking back

You Won’t Be Read, and It’s Ok

Writing for a living is tough. Not everything you write will see the real world, and you have to be ok with it.

Becuase when it comes to writing for someone other than yourself, you have to say what they want to read or need to know.

There’s no darlings in professional writing. You don’t have to like what you write. If it works, it works.

And it’s hard. For someone who wants to write drunk and publish as is. For someone who wants to write just because she wants to write. It’s hard when a personal blogger starts writing for her company’s “business-class audience.” You’ll have to make sacrifices you don’t want to. Talk to people you’d rather avoid. You have to smile as you accept their pin pointing as sense — though, most of the time, it is.

Rework becomes your watch word. Deliberate word choices, phrases, and jargon become your world while a clever pun takes the backseat. Because, remember, remember, your audience isn’t pun(n)y.

An official “content writer,” has no balance. You don’t know where the “need for content” ends and where the love for words begins. It’s constant juggling between contrasting worlds, and it puts you off, it blocks the writer within, and scoffs at the crouching figure at work staring deep into her laptop screen.

But somewhere along the way, you realise it’s ok. Sometimes, someone who knows better will cut off most your content. It takes time to see the big picture, or think for the greater good, but you’ll see it. You’ll see that nothing matters more than seeing your audience satisfied. And, somehow, those sleepless nights of tapping away at the keyboard fades into thin air.

Then it’s yet another day at work.

Let It Go

November 24th 2013. The day I felt most proud of myself. It’s still unmatched.

let it go

That was the day I finished my first draft of my first full-length novel. I had taken on the National Novel Writing Month challenge and succeeded. We went to the beach that day, and I soaked my feet in the salty depths of the ocean, while my heart soared beyond the setting rays of gold.

I had completed the longest writing project I had undertaken. And every one else my age was shuffling about, preparing for the semester exams. Fifty thousand words in less than thirty days — I still look at it as my biggest achievement.

And like every NaNoWriMo participant, I pledged to myself not let go of my work. I promised I would edit my draft, and then edit it some more, until it’s good enough for the eyes of a professional editor. I made a plan, I sketched out how I’d work and planned to get my novel published within a year.

In the days that followed, I tried editing, but I kept dozing off on my laptop. I kept telling myself I deserve some rest. Three years later, I’m still editing my draft. But I rested way too much. Now every time I open up my draft, I stifle a yawn.

I’ve come to a bitter realisation. My novel is boring. If I can’t get through it myself, how’re others supposed to?

So I forced myself to make it more interesting. I tried reworking one sentence in one chapter at a time. But it was hard. I had put it to rest for far too long that I had changed so much from the person I was when I wrote it.

I had been in a writing job, and when I look at my draft now, I can see all the blunders I couldn’t see before. I had grown as a writer and an internal editor, and as the person I am now, I can’t revive that piece I wrote three years ago.

I am now a mature writer, I know the perils of using too many passive sentences, the rules of a semicolon, and the effect of an adverb-stuffed piece of writing. And then I see my own work, and feel dejected. I see all the mistakes I now try to avoid. And when I set out to correct them, I feel like I should rather scrap the whole thing and rewrite it. Even the plot seems too weak for a reader to get through third chapter.

So now, it lays there. Taking up most of the my storage space on Evernote. I don’t think reworking the story would do any good. Perhaps I should just let it be. As a reminder of my dedication. As a testament to my ability to show up everyday and write. It’s one of those things you don’t brag about but swell as you think of it.

So, I’m ready to let it go. I tried publishing it on my blog for National Blog Posting Month. I got a few regular readers, a handful of likes, and a couple of comments. But that’s all. Maybe it’s time to put it to sleep, and try again. I’ll try another NaNoWriMo, another story, another fifty thousand words. And maybe this time, I’ll write it proper and edit it sober.

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?

The Le Café

I’m quite skeptical when it comes to government institutions, but even I was amazed when I visited the city of Pondicherry.

It’s an infamous French Colony, yes. But it doesn’t end with that. The great thing about the city is Le Cafe, a government-run coffee shop. As for the best part — it’s open 24 hours a day.  le cafe
I would have liked nothing more than to sit on one of the stone benches, stare at the raging sea and cross off the stuff on the menu one thing at a time. But my father woudn’t hear of it, and I had to retreat to our hotel.

Nevertheless, I heard the waves calling and sensed the caffeine luring me. I woke up at six the next morning and went out to the cafe — boy, what a sight.

Le Cafe stood like a rectangular block of mud cake, with another smaller block perched atop. The vintage-looking menu board, and its flowing handwriting, the accolades the cafe had received over the years, and age-old photos framed in clear wood all seemed to testify to one thing: this cafe is the best one out there that an Indian government manages.

It was just after the monsoon, so the weather was cool enough without being chilly, and warm without the heat. And there was plenty of flowers that accommodated the previous night’s dew, reflecting the early morning sun, while looking to the skies for some of the daily bread.

flowering pondy
The first time I had walked into the cafe had been the pervious night. It was half-way through to the full moon day and the entire sky seemed illuminated by the half-moon that only elevated the beach view. But I had missed the little ponds homing fish the size of half my finger and flowers almost as tall as my knee. Those I noticed the following morning.

stone bench
And then there were the stones themselves. I’ve never seen anything so solid, and so inviting at the same time. After the cold night of sea breeze, the benches jarred my teeth as I took my seat.

And all the while I walked around, pointing my camera in random directions, the waiters didn’t bother me at all. I went to one of them and wondered aloud of I could take photographs. He smiled wider than anyone else I had seen there and gestured his approval with wide open arms.

No matter what anyone says, for me, Le Cafe will always be the most important tourist attraction in Pondicherry. Because everything’s better with a good dose of caffeine.

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.