It's writing you know,

The thing with writing is that no matter how much I do of it; it never seems nearly enough. This is further compounded by the fact that I do very little of it and only in times of great duress when I am trying to procrastinate. Such as now.

And it isn’t helped by the fact that with each passing day; I get more British in my way of writing. It sounds like that in my head at least. I can see someone, sitting with a cup of tea, reading this and going- Oh! How perfectly dull.

Furthermore, I don’t enjoy my fiction anymore. I call it fiction as it is mostly not real. I’d be far more depressed if I allowed myself to think that the world actually had as much violence and self-loathing as many of my characters display. Please don’t think that I actually manage to write a decent amount and try to get it published. No. No such luck.

I also can’t seem to decide on a genre I like enough, to stick to it. The only one I really, really enjoy is comedy and I am absolutely horrid at it. Which is the greatest form of irony given that I was introduced to writing in the form of a book titled- How to Write Funny Stories.

And I’m sure black humour doesn’t count. Plus, nobody wants to read about a depressed eggplant and a pumpkin tripping on acid.

That rules out almost every reason I have ever wanted to write. My friends have often read my stuff and said that it’s too depressing. Or neatly packed into 850 words but not nearly over. They don’t like my overall world view that seeps into my writing. Leaching across the pages, it seems to spread in an indescribable emotion. Greek theatre was intended for the purging of emotions- Pity and Fear. My writing seems to bring this out in leaps and bounds; leaving you feeling dissatisfied.

Someone said this to me. And though it was a long time ago; I’m not really sure I understand what she meant by that. Is that a bad thing?

It is very rare that I get a compliment saying that- I could identify with your writing. And it depresses me. Why would I feel happy about a girl identifying with my character who is the victim of abuse? I don’t think she meant it that literally but it still rankled.

My mother read the piece inspired by my grandma and cried. But unfortunately no one takes mothers seriously and that is the greatest tragedy of our times.

Another thought that my disgusting scum of a male character, out looking for sex was great. He was from Delhi which explains a lot. The character as well as the person. This brought out particularly explicit feelings of disgust in me.

These are most of the reasons that tell me not to write. Added to this, I have spent an obscene amount of time on these 500-odd characters and still can’t get myself to end this rambling.

But you see; the one reason that tells me to write is just how much I love the written word. How it explains far better than any conversation, or picture. The ability to lay out your thoughts in clear sentences, albeit with faulty grammar is incomparable.

For writers sometimes, things are real only when written down. Jotted down on a piece of paper or typed out meticulously. Everything else is but an illusion.