Off late, I have been an infrequent blogger, unfocused writer, and an uninspired poet for which I am deeply apologetic. More to myself than to my (imaginary?) readership.
I suppose these slumps come and go, and God knows I've had several. 'Creative droughts', I like to call them. For inspiration, in my opinion, a writer can turn to two very dependable pools of inspiration-travel and good reading.
In the month of June, I did both.
My mini-vacation to Poona did little to help, and when I turned to F. Scott Fitzgerald and J.M. Coetzee for some literary upliftment, it only reminded me how terribly I was slumping. Hence I have decided that the only thing that can possibly be done in this scenario to correct this imaginative incompetence and inability to put ink to paper is that I ought to dedicate this entire post to confessing to my status quo (which is quite frustrating).
I have overly observant eyes, provided I'm wearing my contacts, and a mind that is more opinionated than you'd consider healthy. I see interesting things everyday; things which I want to convert into stories and save for myself. So what stops me?
Is it laziness? Is it self doubt? Is it that horrible dormant knowledge of the fact that I am not good enough for my family? That I am the black sheep that hides behind the high, mighty over-achievers that I have grown up with? Or that I expect more out of myself and am scared that I shall fall short and trip straight on my face (possibly breaking my teeth)? Or worst of all, that I am comfortable where I am and how I'm doing but worried about how that's a massive let-down for my family?
You could tell me with an impassive, dismissive wave of the hand that there's nothing new in these feelings and that they run wild in every twenty-five year old's head. And I would agree with you.
But this is my confession, and this is my release.
Hopefully, with age and wisdom, I shall gain a greater sense of acceptance of who I am and a clearer idea of who I wish to be. And above all else, I shall learn to stop allowing any thoughts or fears to be the weights that pull me down and disallow my talent to flourish and my hands to type the words that are waiting to burst out and entertain the world.
There are books to be written, poems that are yet to see the light of day, and vignettes to be conceived that shall aim to hopefully enlighten a reader's dull rainy afternoon.