Tag: writing

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.

Looking Within

I’ve been reading the Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for a while (from November, to be specific), and though I have mixed feelings, I love certain concepts the author mentions.

Like how irrelevant grades and degrees are, for instance.

“This surprising result supported a hunch he had had for a long time: that the brighter, more serious students were the least desirous of grades, possibly because they were more interested in the subject matter of the course, whereas the dull or lazy students were the most desirous of grades, possibly because grades told them if they were getting by.”

And it’s true. We’re always looking for something to point us to the right direction. We want someone to acknowledge us and tell us we’re doing the right thing. We want an authoritative figure to assure us we’re getting by.

But do we need that? Perhaps we should look further than other people to judge our abilities. Perhaps we should look at ourselves, and define ourselves, by ourselves.

“He had wanted his students to become creative by deciding for themselves what was good writing instead of asking him all the time. The real purpose of withholding the grades was to force them to look within themselves, the only place they would ever get a really right answer.”

It’s OK to be average at something. But unless we look within and accept how much we can grow, we may never understand how we’re getting by.

I enjoy reading this book. Even if it does make a good pillow.

Twice Born

I just read Twice Born, a novel by Vijay Raghavan. After having read three books of Paulo Coelho’s, I needed a break. And so, I turned to some Indian writing.

I hate it that sometimes Indian writers try too hard. They try hard to sound as close as they can to a native English writer. Which is fine, except, none of the British and American writers I read seem to write books with a thesaurus in hand.

And when I read this book, I thought of Joey and big hearts.

Maybe it’s just me, with my measly vocabulary, but to me, if a writer can’t convey her thoughts in a simple way, she can’t convey her thoughts at all.

After all, I heard it was Einstein who preached that if you can’t explain it to a six year-old, you don’t know it yourself.

But I digress.

This is a story of an English professor, also the narrator. One fine day, he realizes he’s schizophrenic, and two characters pop out from his head to help in his “conquest of happiness.” A doctorate in English, he names these characters Dr Heckyll and Mr Jyde. Throughout the rest of the story, these characters talk to him, advise him–even insult him at times–and at last, lead him to answer his own questions.

Even for someone who hates having to open the dictionary every few paragraphs, I enjoyed this story more than I hoped to. Maybe it was the effect of too much Coelho, but the plot of Twice Born ran fast and captivating. It was a peek into the life of a man torn between the Indian and the Western world. The narrative was honest in most places, a little philosophical at times, but overall — detached. I didn’t feel emotions seeping out of any of the characters; they all seemed logical, straightforward and calculative.

Nevertheless, I had my moments with this book. Moments like this.

twice born - excerpt

What If -?

what if
What if I wake up tomorrow to find I’ve hit a block so hard that there’s no coming back? What if, I can’t write anymore?

It’s a hypothetical question, but a wake up call as well. Because I don’t have a contingency plan. I don’t know what I’d do if I don’t write. I’m lucky my job involves writing and my hobby is writing. But if I can’t do the one thing I can do, what would I do then?

I would try singing. But I make people bleed from their ears.

Maybe I’d just go back to studying. I like studying, I like poring over books and reading between lines. I like reading great writers, and I’d revel in words, delve deep into the mystical world of literary puns and illiterate goons.

I’d wake up each morning, breathe in words — from Shakespeare and Milton to Doyle and Christie. I’d bury myself in fresh prints and vintage tints, reading in bed, every day — on Valentine’s too.

And while turning the pages, I’d whistle my favourite tunes — and no one can tell me it’s not a girl-thing to do .  I’d sing when I feel like it, I’d read aloud, I’d narrate, I’d play the part of the main character and test my vocals; “Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

I’d read book after book, I’d turn page after page, I’d inhale in morsels, the ink on those books, and get drunk in the pleasure of alliteration and word manipulation.

And then I’d realise romance isn’t my forte, and I’d pick something closer to my heart; because I know, “something wicked this way comes.”

And once I step over my Rubicon, there’s no return. And I’d be for eternity under the influence of the greatest drugs known to mankind; “words, words, words.”