Tag Archives: writers life

The Thing About Boys & Men.

I am bored. I mean not that I don’t have anything to do, but I am just bored. Bored with stressful working, with useless studying, with meeting deadlines, with assignments, with reading, with writing, practically everything. So I keep finding new things to do. Now, I haven’t been very successful with it, but I think I am obligingly eating people’s head with my tantrums. But I guess I am so bored that I get bored with that too. And hence, I keep finding things like reading short biographies of inspiring authors, what they have done, listening to music I have never heard before or going out to new places. Now, that last thing that I said is more useless than the word ‘useless’ can signify. Living in such a small city comes with its dirth of new and exciting places to go to. So, I am left to be doing only two things, reading and ranting. I could say I am just writing but I know my writing is not writing, it’s only a rant, a cribbing rant with no solutions which a set of very few loyal friends will read and tell me that it is not a rant and they liked it, but I know better than their kindness.

Just one such rant, actually, a very furious rant with a failed attempt of humor was written after an impulsive decision and was mailed without any eidting. I regretted it the minute I sent it. Honestly, I did. But very surprisingly, the local supplement of Times of India weren’t offended by my rant and they published the column all the same.

I am happy.

Today, I am not bored.

I am sharing the picture below.

Because today I am not bored.

I will rant and keep you bored.

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A Thousand Splendid Suns.

A Thousand Splendid Suns by khaled Hosseini is about a 15 year old Miriam, married and sent to Kabul without her will. Her entire life is a struggle against patriarchy, starvation, violence and brutality and a fear that lurks constantly over her.

 

While the plot sounds truly traumatic the heroism that is portrayed despite the hindrances is startling. In spite of being subjected to so much torture and hopelessness, Mariam is defiant and doesn’t give up till the end.

 

The first time I read this, I cried the entire night. The book had just come out and I was only a part time reader, the one who picks up a book when someone would recommend me, or when I’d really be bored, or when I’d come across a book and I’d really be interested in the plot. My teacher recommended me this. She had seen me reading now and again, trying to divert myself from every other stuff going on in my life. She saw me reading and she gave me this and one other collection of short stories.

 

I came home, as lost as always and dove right in. I didn’t get up even for dinner. I didn’t care for dinner when a little girl almost as young as me was being beaten, who shed blood like water form her body, who had no hope left in her life, no love; no one. Isolation was her only friend.

 

This was fiction. Why was I crying? I think I was moved beyond repair.

 

Since then I have read this book time and again. Every time I devour the pages of this book, I cry just the same. I don’t know about others, but this book does something different to me. You might not find this to be so poignant but I did then, and I do still.

 

Then, why do I keep picking this up, again and again?

 

This book taught me that fiction could do things to you, sometimes more than reality. This book taught me that somewhere between the pages I could lose myself. This book taught me that words are powerful. This book taught me so much more and it was with this book that I fell in love with reading and eventually writing.

 

Then, why am I doing this review now? Because I read Sea Prayer! by the same author a few days back and it ignited all those long lost memories of the book. I didn’t know even tears bring nostalgia. And because I read a sea prayer I was drawn to this book too, again. It took all my might to stay away from this one, only because I have been reading four books simultaneously and all cry for my attention. And among all those I really shouldn’t have started this one. Start, I did!

 

And I forgot the rest for a while. I don’t know how my self-control has gotten so weak but it has and honestly, I don’t regret it.

 

A Thousand Splendid Suns is dear to me, despite all its hardships and tears that the protagonist and I go through side by side. And I love the book. I love The Sea Prayer, The Kite Runner, and I liked And the Mountains Echoed too, but this is exceptional. It holds a different place. I am not saying this is my ‘favorite’ book, you must know me better than this, that I truly cannot pick one favorite book from so many. I can only say it is dear to me.

 

This being posted on the National Book Lovers Day is just another cherry for me. But then again what is this kind of celebration to someone who reads and reads only to be alive?

Writing Dilemma #2

One dilemma ends and another dawns.

 

I don’t mind typing, considering that it does get easier and speedier, and also, sometimes it is way better for your lazy ass for its sole purpose of auto-correct. So, as soon as I had my laptop, I have been fluent with computers and typing. And I truly don’t mind adapting to this, as I have a problem between the kindle and the paperbacks. But honestly, there are times when I don’t have my laptop with myself, or I am just lazy enough to open it and do the necessary, or better still, I am nuzzled up under the sheets in the middle of the night and I want to write. At times like these, I love; I repeat I love my journal. I just happen to open it and scribble whatever, useless but considered by me, a piece of art that came to my mind. And this has been good, so far. But now after months of doing this (as I am determined to writing something at least everyday, presumably a poem) I have filled up more journals than e-files.

 

Now, it is easier, without the temptation of Google help, translations and a thesaurus, the art that I consider it to be, is purely original. However, the problem with this is, if at all I have any hope of publishing it, I have to have them as a soft copy. So, then comes the arduous task of typing it all over again. And f I have to do so this in the end, then why not do it in the first place itself, and I will be technically not wasting paper, pens and will be saving a lot of time instead.

 

Some might give me the solution of writing it in my phone at the times when I can’t really go to my laptop and then sync it with my laptop and then the next time I open it, I can save the file…. But you forget the aforementioned fact about me being a “lazy-ass”. This is just too much work for me. And if I keep doing what I am doing I might end with more notebooks by the end of the year, than I might have ever filled. Or there is another scenario, where I could simply write a small note and then open the laptop some other time and write my poetry then. But I am a 100% sure that by then I will have forgotten my very own thought.

 

Wow! Even with writing I am powerful enough to find dilemmas, or do the find me wherever I go? Who could tell? I am sure these ‘problems’ are secretively in love with me!! Do tell me if they let you know about their crush on me.

 

Also, share your thoughts on this writing-typing dilemma, if at all you face them. Or, is it just me who is old fashioned enough in even keeping a journal?

Writing dilemma!

When you are both a reader and a writer, how do you deal with it? I mean to say, that both requires equal attention, peace and time and for me both mingles with each other. While I am reading, sometimes I get ideas of what I can write, but then as a writer, I think that somehow if I write about that particular thought, it would be duplicitous. It will be a by-product of someone else’s work and then I will be ‘not original’. But then when I do write it down, I do feel that what I was reading was just a way of an inspiration for me to create something else. Now, when I put it that way, I don’t sound like a cheater, but deep down I still wonder if it is original or am I just plagiarizing. Now, if the later is the situation, then I should stop writing with immediate effect. I have no notions of copying work.

 

In various fields of art, it has been repeatedly said, you look for inspirations; sometimes inspiration doesn’t come to you. And if we are looking for it, chances are we look for it in similar fields and even if the filed is different, it is we who are looking for the so-called inspiration, and so our options are limited. Don’t get me wrong; I am not justifying myself in any way. I have no intentions of doing so, what so ever. What I am trying to decipher is what if some of my writings are a product of something that I read? Now, if it was re-telling I would simply declare that it is a re-telling, but what if some specific idea, image, or even a line sticks with me and brings out an entire different picture?

 

I don’t know if you guys go through this, but as a reader I do face this occasionally which makes me trash some of the things I wrote, and if not trash, they remain unpublished, hidden on my hibernating folders and journals!

 

Do share your thoughts on this one. What do you think about it? Does this happen with you?

Book Nerds Will Relate #4

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Now, this kind of a baby, I can think about 😀

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Just as your stupid phone seems to be saying the same.

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EEEGGGGJJJAAAACCCCTTTTTLLLYYYY.

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Oh, this happens everyday.

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Oh, never have I known that feeling of sleeping alone 😉

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Nope, not needed!

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Didn’t I just say, I don’t need that kind of negativity!!

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The first thing I’ll find, probably in every new place!

 

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Yep!!!

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Hahaha, this one got me!

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And this is just sooo cute! I wish I’d have done this!!

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A 100%

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Oh, every time!!

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Oh, believe me this is all I do!

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Oh, I do wonder this time and again!

More nerdy stuff here:

Book Nerds Will relate!

Book Nerds Will Relate #2

Book Nerds Will Relate #3

Reverie.

In living an existence of insanity

A being of absolutely solidarity,

She found solace among inanimate objects

Amidst her life which was completely wrecked.

 

She fell in love with words.

When everyone thought her to be absurd,

She made books her escape mechanism

While her heart screamed abstract expressionism.

 

She fell in love with fantasy

Loathing her reality,

Making her miseries unconscious

She made books her life’s colossus.

 

 

White lies!

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I hate to lie,

About when I am going to lie.

I tell people that I am definitely tired,

When all I want is my ebooks to be fired.

They think the days toils have left me, arduous,

When in reality, I want to show my love,

Towards whom, I am so much virtuous.

They think they have succeeded,

In ripping me off, of my words and fantasy,

But a little more planning was supposed to be needed,

To have committed such a blasphemy.

But then again, I am happy to lie,

For under the sheets, I get to lie,

Where everyone tends to forgo the white lie.