Saturday, September 17, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Mumbai Musings
It is only recently that I realized the true subconscious reason why I did so was to actually save money on all those installation charges and monthly rents which, though guaranteeing online access 24/7, can turn out to be pretty heavy on the pocket of a guy who is currently struggling to make ends meet with a sole part-time job as the only redemption from being completely unemployed.
That’s right. Am working as a part-time assistant script writer now. Know that sounds exciting, and well, it’s a good start, but that’s all that can be termed as “happening” in my life right now. Otherwise it’s the whole day spent alone in my 1 room kitchen apartment here in Goregaon now. Am sharing it with two other former SPW classmates, but since both of them have gone home for indefinite periods, so the place is pretty much to myself. It’s not that bad. One thing I have realized is that I really don’t mind living alone. Kinda helps me concentrate, and I seem to be one of those human beings who are naturally immune to loneliness. Plus, if the rent gets too heavy to manage, then I could always sell some of my absconding flatmates' luggage and mattresses. Hee, hee.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Reflections on turning 24
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
... 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.