... of a struggling writer

When you get down to writing a story, it starts with a bang. You feel like you have something to say to the world. You feel you’re the next big thing after Dostoevsky or Fellini. Then, midway through the journey, it’s like “Oh God, where did the oars go? How do I row this boat anymore?” Leave aside fame and fortune, the very thought of completing the work seems like a stretched fantasy. Characters start getting lost, plot lines appear thinner than before, some things emerge, some things vanish. And all this while, you are trying to remember what really inspired you to tell this story in the first place. Such is the frustration of a struggling writer. It’s not just the occasional writer’s block attack I am referring to here. It’s more of a sense of feeling lost, uncertain, insecure.

Earlier, I was merely a reader, a consumer, a guest into the fictional worlds of different authorial voices. I could like them or dislike them as was my privilege. But now, the very fact that someone out there actually completed a work is enough to earn my admiration. Such are the revelations of a struggling writer.