Every day I
sit at the typewriter. With the keys of the typewriter, I spin galaxies and
labyrinths. I paint colours and create memory books.
I split
into fragments, disappear and reappear in a new form. I carve castles and
fortresses and loose myself in their dingy explorations. I evoke fairies and
demons and dinosaurs from the pandora’s box, and pack them in my bag once they
have uttered their spells.
With every
piece I write, I delve into a journey of treasure hunt. Sometimes I end up
discovering mines of gemstones while sometimes I have to make peace with a
trunk full of crystal baubles.
As the
typewriter scroll rolls and pulsates, I paint new landscapes with watercolours,
I draw crayon portraits and sketch ink doodles.
With every
description I write, I open the cupboard consisting of jewellery boxes of
words, and like wearing an ornament, I decorate my pieces with the rhinestones
and sequins and pearls of aesthetic words.
While other
people have two eyes, I have infinite. I hop from one eye to the other, seeing
things that most others miss and discovering worlds that no one had heard of.
Sometimes I
write because I am falling in love, and I have a desire to paint the picture of
my lovable sweetheart with the words. Whereas at other times, I write to talk
to my shadows and bring them to the light of my sun.
My
notebooks are filled with jottings of moments and descriptions of monuments,
quotes from books and notes from everywhere. I write down anything and
everything. I make wordbooks for vocabulary, ideabooks for ideas and flashcards
for thoughts. My notebooks are decorated with sticky notes, washi tapes and
stickers for inspiration.
Talk of a
writer’s notebooks, and you’ll find chronicles that relate to everything from
mundane concepts of physics, mathematics and chemistry to expository worlds of
fantasy, magic realism, vintage vibes, hot advertising and science fiction.
Look at a writer’s search history and you will be puzzled and surprised at the
same time.
Writers
spend their days filling notebooks and curating documents of their researches,
story ideas, descriptions and swipe files. They keep an eye and an ear open and
dedicated to nibbling the tidbits of everyday life and secretly slipping away
to scribble down their thoughts that arise in their mind like wavelets and
ripples from their subconscious storehouse.
Writers
carry ghosts on their shoulders, and they let these ghosts dictate their pains
and sorrows and concerns which they, quite sincerely scribble down in their
notebooks, just like a curious child writing an essay on their first school
picnic, writing about the school bus and the sandwiches packed in the tiffin
box by their mother.
A writer’s
life is full of medleys of glitz and glamour and oodles of whims and fantasies
and dreamlike worlds. Here they create constellations with words and spark fire
with the words too. With poetry I direct an orchestra and with a prose I create
a new world. With a description I paint layers on a canvas and with expositions
I open my third eye to let my mind wander into enchanted magical forests.
A writer is
a toddler who uses pen and paper to cry and laugh. A writer is a child who
imagines new worlds and takes others to tour these worlds. A writer is an adult
too, who inspires and educates and shares their greatest inspirations, and
trigger joys and ecstasies into people’s hearts.
Every day
is a new day. Each moment is a fresh moment. A writer’s life, though, is not
free of sorrow and grief, but it is also full of wonder and marvel and
playfulness and gusto.
A writer’s
life is uncertain and unpredictable. One moment there is stillness and in the
very next moment, there is a gushing storm. But a writer keeps on recording
every transformation, every resurrection in their log of words and notebooks of
worlds. It wouldn’t be an understatement to say that a writer’s life
encompasses the infinity, from stillness to storm and everything in between.
Comments
Post a Comment