Forefront of an invention

One of those days when my blood has garnered ample rush to force me down on my laptop actually writing about nothing but myself. There have been many important discoveries, life changing experiences in past few days, setting the tone for my own “private revolutions”. Self-expression in words is such an evolved art that no matter how good you are someone has beaten you already. But first, a few lessons about virtues of patience.

I believed in great ideas, ideas glowing like the flash of a thousand suns. Ideas, which jump off the page and stick somewhere in reader’s consciousness. But such ideas would never occur to me. Why?
Am I not imaginative enough? May be not scholarly enough? The answer is rather simple. Not patient enough. It can’t be overemphasized. One of key motives of keeping one alive and poised is to be able to wait for the right moment. It may come or it may not. You might be delayed for several hours. But when it finally does come, you know it’s worth the wait. So why do they call it a block when it’s as natural as a flowing river. Well I guess those who called this block may only be thinking about the block of productivity during those lapses.

Great ideas from great people are highly inspiring. They act like a fuel for your writer’s soul. You got to keep the engine running. The body needs to be oiled regularly and that requires constant work. You work while working and you work while resting. The nature is at work all the time around you. You are a part of nature; hence work comes naturally to you. By work, I mean keep your mind busy and active all the time, because if that machine cranks up, you haven’t got any business being a writer. Just accept your fate. You wanted to be a writer, a writer you will be. But not without its tribulations; long cheerless hours where every tiny metaphor takes ages to scoop up only to be discarded at a later point in time if not by you then by your readers, if not by your readers then by your critics.

Sometimes I ask myself, who and what am I writing for. These are important questions, with no satisfied answers. I only tell myself that you have to write because you have to write. And like all endeavors of artistic pursuit, you will take your own time and energy to reach that state of seamless flow of energy from your brain to the blank screen in front. And no matter how good it feels to write the first time, it will always feel less good, even mediocre the second time. I don’t pay too much attention to “who am I write for” question simply because I feel too trivialized by my own trivial existence. I know it might sound like too much of an existential crisis for an aspiring writer. After all writers are supposed to be Gods and Gods don’t have existential crisis.