I was never a good writer. I never really got an A in my years as a student. At least, never English. I yearned for it, but it never appeared; the highest I ever got was a B+. Somewhere along someone encouraged me to read up. It started with Readers’ Digest, then Teenage magazine, eventually The Philosopher’s Stone, His Dark Materials and so on.
I thought I’d improve. But I never really did. At fourteen, I didn’t know what a synonym was. At seventeen, I couldn’t differentiate a verb with an adjective. At nineteen, I couldn’t understand what ‘irony’ meant, much less ‘paradox’. At twenty, I was still making simple grammar mistakes.
But I am no longer my fourteen-year-old self, nor am I in my seventeen or nineteen. While, quite unfortunately, certain grammar mistakes still persist, I have come to a realisation of my little accomplishments – like knowing the local literature scene, having one of my poems published and grabbing myself a writing internship.
Things are changing. I’m sure of it. I’m sure six months down things would change even more. Maybe I will write a book. Maybe I’ll be somewhere. And I am going to hold those hopeful thoughts. I will need them.
But one thing stands in way and I am greatly sleep-deprived and immensely moody because of it. Writing is easy. Knowing what to write is easy. The challenge is getting down to business.
I’ve had strands of thoughts coming and leaving at weird, irregular timings. I’ve had ideas that fleets pass too quickly. I’ve had moments when I wanted to write, but nothing would appear.
There’s only one statement, I’m willing to make – Writer’s Block is real, and Procrastination ain’t helping.