MOOD --------------> At Peace
POST TYPE : THOUGHT
LISTENING TO ---> Clint Mansell - Summer Overture
What IS being a writer?
Yes, I DO think of it often. I wish to think I'm moving toward being a writer...in other words, conforming to some definition of the word 'writer'...for someone like me who is repelled by conformity...this is (hopefully) a singular aspiration.
Unlike most of my brethren in the blogosphere, who have no inkling or no intention of being writers, or who do, but still conceal that motive in their writing.. I believe I need no humility, nor am I pseudo-self-effacing. The writer has nothing to be proud of.
There is a little fire in me that burns through every day and night, flickering flame and light in every action I do, reminding me that my purpose is not just to get a job, a career, a livelihood, thus becoming a cog in the economic machinery of the human race, but to communicate with myself - To write down the incoherence of my brain's thought patterns, and maybe, with the hazy clouds of thought spread out before me as sharp letters and suitable punctuation, find the pattern and the coherence in them - To make sense of why I think what I think, and why some of it was never thought before.
For me it is a personal task, a thing I must do.. for myself. And so, I write. Being a writer, therefore, is the final and highest level at which I can do this task - that's my definition of 'writer' - The most efficient and meaningful way in which I can make my thoughts reassemble and fit into each other...and probably, reveal the mysteries that baffle me, sadden me, excite me.
The writer is not a gifted being. The real writer is however, a differentiated being. Someone who chooses a different way to resolve the voices inside his head.
At another entirely different level, I write for the reasons every blogger writes or has ever written for -
Self-worth,
Outlet,
Popularity,
and the sheer joy of having words fill up pages.
Actually its all the last reason for me. There's an overwhelming feeling...almost like looking at a crowd of people listening to a speech....each letter, each word has its own character, and it either shines bright...like a face full of pride, or bows down...hiding its hurt, repression, shame, or just a stifled giggle. I look at my assembly of words, citizens of the country of my writing.
Words that form families, communities and sects.
Words like friendly letters getting together for a drink, a talk, or the gift.. or curse.. of shared silence. Thus, when I communicate, when I speak, it is not just to them...but through them. As much as I may say to them , I can never be anywhere near how much they say for me. I love my words.
I've conversed with many a kind of...writer.
And some of them have said to me how they have to rack their brains, looking for the perfect word.
The perfect arrangement of sentences that tells the reader, with no approximation whatsoever...what the writer feels.
Occasionally, the little quirks of human behaviour that are exploited in literary devices.
Yes, I DO think of it often. I wish to think I'm moving toward being a writer...in other words, conforming to some definition of the word 'writer'...for someone like me who is repelled by conformity...this is (hopefully) a singular aspiration.
Unlike most of my brethren in the blogosphere, who have no inkling or no intention of being writers, or who do, but still conceal that motive in their writing.. I believe I need no humility, nor am I pseudo-self-effacing. The writer has nothing to be proud of.
There is a little fire in me that burns through every day and night, flickering flame and light in every action I do, reminding me that my purpose is not just to get a job, a career, a livelihood, thus becoming a cog in the economic machinery of the human race, but to communicate with myself - To write down the incoherence of my brain's thought patterns, and maybe, with the hazy clouds of thought spread out before me as sharp letters and suitable punctuation, find the pattern and the coherence in them - To make sense of why I think what I think, and why some of it was never thought before.
For me it is a personal task, a thing I must do.. for myself. And so, I write. Being a writer, therefore, is the final and highest level at which I can do this task - that's my definition of 'writer' - The most efficient and meaningful way in which I can make my thoughts reassemble and fit into each other...and probably, reveal the mysteries that baffle me, sadden me, excite me.
The writer is not a gifted being. The real writer is however, a differentiated being. Someone who chooses a different way to resolve the voices inside his head.
At another entirely different level, I write for the reasons every blogger writes or has ever written for -
Self-worth,
Outlet,
Popularity,
and the sheer joy of having words fill up pages.
Actually its all the last reason for me. There's an overwhelming feeling...almost like looking at a crowd of people listening to a speech....each letter, each word has its own character, and it either shines bright...like a face full of pride, or bows down...hiding its hurt, repression, shame, or just a stifled giggle. I look at my assembly of words, citizens of the country of my writing.
Words that form families, communities and sects.
Words like friendly letters getting together for a drink, a talk, or the gift.. or curse.. of shared silence. Thus, when I communicate, when I speak, it is not just to them...but through them. As much as I may say to them , I can never be anywhere near how much they say for me. I love my words.
I've conversed with many a kind of...writer.
And some of them have said to me how they have to rack their brains, looking for the perfect word.
The perfect arrangement of sentences that tells the reader, with no approximation whatsoever...what the writer feels.
Occasionally, the little quirks of human behaviour that are exploited in literary devices.
And they made me laugh...a worried laugh. Amusing as it was, my writers talking to me out of their little books.. also told me that I didn't have that skill. The manipulation of a human mind, subtle though it may be. It worried me that though I was moving towards some sort of writer-dom, I wouldn't be accepted as one.
The talented writer, undoubtedly is the one who can manufacture a vision, a person, a thought with breathtaking life-likeness, and then tear it apart, dismember it limb from limb, giving it a birth and a life expectancy not more than that of a soap bubble - in your plain sight. But he can also reassemble the pieces, giving you beauty as you have never seen, and smiles -one of wonder and glee for you, the reader, and one of contentment for him.
The talented writer, undoubtedly is the one who can manufacture a vision, a person, a thought with breathtaking life-likeness, and then tear it apart, dismember it limb from limb, giving it a birth and a life expectancy not more than that of a soap bubble - in your plain sight. But he can also reassemble the pieces, giving you beauty as you have never seen, and smiles -one of wonder and glee for you, the reader, and one of contentment for him.
The accomplished writer, justifiably, feels like a conjurer, a sorcerer, a wielder of destinies and minds.
But...I am not there.
Because when i finish writing something, my visions, my thoughts, all become people, and I can do nothing to change them.Maybe they could've served some purpose better, had they been made without faults. Good or evil, I love them. They are what they were meant to be, flowing from mind to pen in one clear, undiverted stream of creation.
But...I am not there.
Because when i finish writing something, my visions, my thoughts, all become people, and I can do nothing to change them.Maybe they could've served some purpose better, had they been made without faults. Good or evil, I love them. They are what they were meant to be, flowing from mind to pen in one clear, undiverted stream of creation.
The letters, the grammar, the punctuation for writing, have always existed.What I have done is give it form, and what I've written is something new and alive. I wanted them alive, and so they are.
When I look at what I've written, I feel, faintly, the presence of the mind of God - Not endorsing, Not correcting, but watching.
When I look at what I've written, I feel, faintly, the presence of the mind of God - Not endorsing, Not correcting, but watching.
I feel HIM like the shadow cast by my pen on the paper.
The feeling that..when HE creates us, HE realises that, as much as HIS creation is a part of HIM, its beauty is also in being independent of HIM.
HE, I suspect, does not mould us..as if physically sculpting us...nor does HE sit and meditate, willing us into being.
HE wants us made and so we are.
HE is not a talented or accomplished writer.
HE is the writer I want to be.
HE, I suspect, does not mould us..as if physically sculpting us...nor does HE sit and meditate, willing us into being.
HE wants us made and so we are.
HE is not a talented or accomplished writer.
HE is the writer I want to be.
I don't want to be a writer. I want to be The Writer.
