Tag: writer’s block

Writing. Grammar VS Feelings

grammar vs feelings

I like to think I know my grammar. But I can’t write grammar.

For me, it’s always about writing feelings. I don’t think about grammar rules when I write. As for the conscious rules that prevent me from typing “there” for “they’re” or “by” for “bye” are just — subconscious.

But beyond that, I don’t think of balancing my words with semicolons instead of a period, or adding extra emphasis within a parenthesis. Because, when you fixate on trivialities like spelling errors — blunders, in fact — you often forget what want to say. I often forget what I want to say.

Because writing, for me, is being in the moment. It’s a calling: Just write.

But a good piece of writing is slower than spontaneous. It’s a beautiful paradox of words: writing is re-writing, whereas first drafts are just drafts.

I don’t let my mind get in the way of my writing. Everything I know about grammar and spelling just sits in my head, waiting for me spill my thoughts on to the screen.

Because only once the thought is out there, can you go about making it make sense. And that’s editing.

If I’m to edit as I write, I’ll never get through the writing phase to say whatever I meant to.

I don’t write the best gramma(r)tical sentence; I re-write it.

I Don’t Want to Become a Writer

infinite loop

There’s something finite about the word, “become.” As if you need to reach a level or a stage to become an official writer. As if there’s an achievable height in writing. As if conquering a peak, or a dream. You can’t dream of becoming a writer. That can’t be ambition. Because there’s no such thing as “becoming — a — writer.”

Anyone who claims they’ve become a writer is only losing their grip on reality. Because once you become a writer, you lose the ability — and the privilege — to be writing.

I don’t want to become a writer. Instead, I want to write — I want to learn to write better, and better — until I die. It’s one infinite loop. No one becomes a writer. Because writing is naught without rewriting.

Shakespeare wrote plays, but he never became a playwright. He wrote plays and sonnets until he died. And then, other people rewrote his plays and sonnets; they refined his writing to make it better — or worse; I can’t say for sure.

But I’m sure Shakespeare never became a playwright. Because if he had “become a writer,” we wouldn’t have the classics we do now.

So then, what’s the deal with “becoming a writer”? Who fixes the standards for a writer?

Agatha Christie is a writer. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a writer. And so are Chetan Bhagat and Ravinder Singh.

At what point did these people become writers? Writing a story, a book, or a piece of prose doesn’t make a writer. If that’s the threshold for becoming a writer, then every student who’s written an essay for their exam is a writer.

That doesn’t make a writer.

Real writers acknowledge the process. You publish a book, and perhaps rewrite the entire thing and republish it fifteen years later. That’s a writer.
A writer doesn’t just write. A writer rewrites. A writer knows her writing isn’t perfect and learns to learn from it, learns to live with it, and to write better with it.

I don’t want to become a writer. I want to be writing.

The Love Letter

He pulled the book from the shelf and a letter slipped out of its pages and fell to the floor.

Picking it up, he saw it was an old postage letter, neatly sealed and addressed to someone he couldn’t recognize. The ink had been smudged with the lack of human touch, and the paper was light between his fingers.

He turned it over in gentle hands, wondering who Dearest Josephine was. As far as he knew, there had been no one by that name in his family. Who then, was Josephine?

After a moment’s quandary, curiosity forced him to tear the letter open. A white feather fell from within the folded letter. Picking it up with a smile on his lips, he placed the feather on his desk and sat down to read the letter.

There, in slanting tiny letters, was a note —

Dearest Josephine,

I know I should have told you earlier, but I couldn’t bring myself to face you. Every time I saw into your blue eyes, my heart skipped a beat – or two. Words failed me. Your eyes drank in my youth, making my spine tingle with emotion.

I know I should have told you earlier, but you seemed beyond my reach. I was just your manservant, and though you treated me like the best of your friends, I couldn’t face myself to confess that I wanted more.

I know I should have told you earlier, at least when you prepared for your marriage with that wealthy weasel. I knew you didn’t want him, I knew of your tears, of those sleepless nights that led to your marriage. The coldness in your eyes, when you told me of your fate —

Oh, I know I should have told you earlier, not to woo you, but to offer freedom, from your father. I could have taken you, away to where you most desired.

I know I should have told you earlier — I could have saved you.

I’m sorry, Josephine. I love you.

X.

He folded the letter with a quizzical expression. “Dearest Josephine,” he whispered to himself. “What’s your story?”

Taking out a fresh notepad from his desk drawer, he began writing.

———–

“Welcome to Entertainment Now, and on top news today – renowned author breaks writing block! Mark Stephenson launches his latest novel, Dearest Josephine — A Life to Remember. Critics say, it’s his best work yet!”

For some time now, I’ve been following Today’s Author where they periodically give us one-line prompts. I’ve been wondering if I was in the writer’s block zone and so, when I opened my mail to this prompt, I decided to try it. This is the first time I’ve responded to one of their prompts – and it was just so spontaneous.

National Blog Posting Month – #Day19