Confessions of a Writer

I would like to confess something on WordPress today.

I’m not a writer; yes, that’s true I’m not. Wondering who gave me your address.
Not long ago, my sister introduced me to WordPress and through WordPress I came to meet so many talented writers. Yes, they are writers. In reading their blogs I have known them to have this writing habit right since childhood. Some started to write at the raw age of five and some seven and yet others at the age of eleven.

I’m still novice and if I compare (just an expression, I would dare not compare myself to these talented gifted writers) myself to them I’m just a toddler. Writing is a very recently acquired habit.

If I try to look at the root of this cause I will find “reading” to be its answer.
Many people love to read and many start reading at the age of ten or twelve. It was not untill graduation that I started reading books. Before that I only used to read my subject books. But when I started to read, I read and I read and kept on reading and am still reading.

In school I loved to hear others saying “I love to read books”. Everyone in my family was into reading and so books were found everywhere. I was often told “you should read books or maybe newspapers”. To save myself from any embarrassment in front of friends and family members even I started harping…“I love to read books”. When asked which book is your favourite or anything related to books, I would tell a story and escape the conversation.

When I was staying alone while working I really wanted to read books. While talking to a friend of mine I said, “Even I want to read a book”. The next day she got Da Vinci Code for me. Yes, you have guessed it right, this is how long I’ve been reading books, which is not too long.

The book was too interesting and controversial. How was I to take the book? I took it in the spirit of reading a novel. It was just a novel to me and I had to finish it. After that I read other books by the same author. Then walking one step at a time, I moved to other authors like Jeffery Archer, Stephen King, Ruskin Bond to name a few.

I didn’t realize that I was infected by a reading virus. I started reading books from various genres- self help, fiction, non-fiction, classic and spiritual. Only recently I realized that there is no cure for this “reading disease” of mine. Looking at my intensive reading habit I came up with a cure- read for atleast half an hour every day. Yes, I have to read for at least half an hour everyday, maximum hours can vary. Although, I cannot read for an entire day (it makes me dizzy and confused). Too much reading is like over stuffing my mind.

All this while I did not know that this habit will impact me to such an extent. I was feeding my mind with knowledge; after some time it was not able to take it anymore. I could almost hear the buzzing of my thoughts. At first I didn’t know what to do? After observing myself and consulting with the creative me, I came up with a solution. I started to write my thoughts.

I was amazed to find out that these thoughts proved to be the base of some story or prose. Sometimes they were roughly scribbled poems.

After writing and reading it out to some of my family members I was encountered with a much known question “So, am I a writer?”

I started ruminating. I realized that I’m as much a writer as a child is a painter. If a child loves to paint he/she doesn’t become a painter. So, much so if I write I’m not a writer. I love to write but I’m not a writer. The passion holds me firmly to a pen and paper but I know there are too many things that I need to take care of- grammar, punctuations, vocabulary to name a few. But I also know that I’m learning at every stage and with every step I’m enhancing my skills.

I write because I love to share my views. I write to express myself and more than that it is a cure for my buzzing mind with non-stop thoughts. So I write. I write as I’m not a writer but I know to write.

In response to: Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections

The thinking game

Human mind keeps on ticking all the time. We think during our sleep, when walking, while sitting, playing, talking to others and the list goes on and on.

I guess thinking and human mind goes hand in hand till the time we are alive. I might not be thinking but there are times when my mind is doing it (and I’m not even aware of it). I might be involved in other activities like cooking, shopping, watching, listening and driving but I’m still thinking.

I can say that I would like to sit by the brook or perhaps sit at a comfortable spot at my house or may be in a library or a study (don’t you think that would be cool) and play the thinking game. But I think I’m getting confused over here, for the 21^st century person that I’m to an 18^th century poet, writer or a philosopher. They had the liberty and an additional ambiance to ponder over their ideas and thoughts.

I….I’m just a normal person. I think (there I go…. again thinking) today I don’t have the liberty but somehow the silence element is missing. So, I just take the advantage of who I’m….a brain bomb ticking all the time, amidst the chaos and confusion that is always there. Sometimes it could be a simple thought of what should I cook, where should I shop my bag from, what should be my mom’s birthday gift or when is the electricity bill due, when can I replace my old fridge for new….tick tock tick tock and thinking goes on and on. During all this time, all of a sudden I could think about a poem to write or maybe a flash of few words hit my brain (that becomes my next story line). So, I guess I take a little advantage over here and don’t limit myself with a particular space to think. Over here I’d like to claim the whole world as my BIG THINKING GROUND (and thinking happens where ever I go).I guess thinking just follows me like a loyal pet dog (demanding no action….it just stays with me all the time).

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/06/daily-prompt-best/

Match made at the desk

Inspired to write when the writers didn’t have a friend named Google and helpful gadgets like iPhone, computers and laptops. All they had were thick dictionaries, books and newspapers to get help from (and of course people).

The year would be somewhere around early 1800’s. A time when the writers would have used the old method of writing; when the typewriters were soon to be invented and laptops were far beyond anyone’s imagination (and even if introduced to the “then” people would seem like a magic box).

The writer sat at his desk. There were many things on the desk a pen stand with a bunch of pens and pencils, a pair of glasses, a steaming coffee mug, lying next to it was an ink bottle and right at the centre was a pile of blank sheets.

The writer had been sitting there for an hour uninterrupted, until George served him a cup of coffee. All his observations and thoughts were being marinated in his mind bowl. Then suddenly he was drawn to the vapours of the coffee and smell the aroma of hot coffee made his brains tick a little faster than before. He thought it must have been his domestic help George, who would have kept that mug on the table for him. He also realized the hour in the clock as it must have been 6 o’clock in the evening (he has always had coffee at this time in the evening).

After sipping the coffee, his mind started racing like a horse. The ideas started visiting his mind from the gallery of his observations. Soon before he could forget he took the pen and started to paint the picture with words onto the sheets of blank papers.

Scratching the words, tearing the pages and throwing the sheets the untidiness had spread its hands from the desk to across the room. The writer was equally frustrated as he was missing something that he could only sense but not put to words.

In the meanwhile, there was something else that was happening amidst the chaos. The pen filled with ink was still standing like a gentleman to hold the hand of his bride to be in white sheet, but the luck was not playing strong for them. Too many times they were engaged and broken off (the papers lying on the floor suggesting their unsuccessful relationship).

The writer couldn’t take it any more. He went to the park. There he became a silent observer of people, trees, flowers, sky, dogs and other small and big thing at the park. He sat on a bench and inhaled some fresh air. Something just struck him and he ran back home like a mad dog. He went to the desk and took out his pen. This time he knew it, the feeling was wonderful, strong…. something heavenly.

The pen was ready to kiss the bride. The blue ink oozing out strongly, bled its heart out all across the white paper. They now saw their future shaping up as the writer was writing across the pages. The marriage was successful what started as few sheets had now become a successful booklet of stories.

The writer had managed to give his feelings and observations some words. He was finally able to make a “match made in heaven” or to say match made at his desk.

Art is where the heart is

I found myself gazing at a wooden frame which was at a display and had amazed the art lovers. It was not a work of some world famous artist; however, the novice artist had managed to gather some appreciation for his work, locally. The artist had played very well with the colours and made the canvas come alive.

The colours were playing in the garden of canvas as the children would play in the school play ground; each with a unique character of its own breathing the life in the wooden piece of canvas. Like others I found myself staring in admiration at this beauty. And as awestruck I was I just uttered, “What a piece of art”.

So, what is art?

Is it a mere canvas on a wall or only the work which is respected and paid in hefty amounts?

And, who is an artist?

Well, I simply believe that anyone and everyone have an artist at work within themselves.

Art doesn’t have a specific address. It can be born anywhere: on the streets, at shops, at homes just anywhere. I also believe that an artist can be born when true dedication burns in one’s heart.

A mother is a dedicated artist; she is the only one to take care of her children without wanting anything in return. Since the day she becomes aware of the fact that a life is being nurtured in her, she becomes an artist. Every day she might paint a picture of how her child might be. She gives an identity to her child by not only naming her but from now on she would dedicate her life in the upbringing of this child; the child who is her creation.

A confectioner is really patient and passionate about the sweet delicacies that he makes. Ask me, how?

In the greased canvassed tin he would gently lay the sweet children of cookies. After years of perfection (or maybe he would still be new to the business) he would inspect each cookie, and then he would decorate it with rubied cherries. Finally giving them a gentle brush with egg glaze, which would give them the perfect smile for the baking photo shoot. At last when they march out, he would gently powder them with a little flour dust. Thus ultimately he has created an art.

I can see art and artists everywhere; the only thing is sometimes we are aware and the other times we are just oblivious of the fact that we are creating an art.

The truth is, everyone is creating an art form: from a simple gardener to a cook; from a school teacher to a copywriter; from a sculptor to an architect all are busy creating art.

If you ask me, “what is common between these renowned artists and disguised artists as common people?”

To me “the passionate heart” sounds as the only answer. A true artist would never worry about the returns (monetary or non-monetary). He/she would just create from the core of his/her heart. Driven by crazy ideas from the mind but fuelled by passion and dedication from his/her heart.

Hence, I believe that art can be found anywhere and everywhere. All the things that we see reflect some form of art;as a creator would have created it with a true dedicated heart.