I am a Mad Writer

I start this narrative with a lie that I am a writer. I am not . At least I am not sure about it. What makes me say so?

Like the quintessential inquisitive young adult I got to my computer and typed in the words "Define: Writer". The result was eye-opening. The first link said, a writer is "a person who writes books, stories, or articles as a job or regular occupation." Hmm... retrospect. Being schooled in a typical school with typical teachers and typical (read: boring) academic curriculum, this thought never crossed my head. I used to write essays on mundane topics like "the impotence (er. importance) of discipline". One night, while downing my seventh cup of coffee fumbling on words, googling (again!) fancy sample essays while cursing the teacher and the clock (which again smiles and says 2 hours to deadline) I break-down. Introspect. What am I writing, why am I writing? Does writing simply means- using a system of more or less permanent marks used to represent an utterance in such a way that it can be recovered more or less exactly without the intervention of the utter-er. Ha. I laugh at this definition which in turn mocks me. What do I do now? Google again. I say motivate me Google, and like the rising sun Google shines forth this quote:

"Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”—Enid Bagnold

Almost brought a tear to my eye. I exclaimed to myself yeah! there is a metaphysical realm to it. it not just a mere conglomeration of words! It is to create a flower out of cacti. So with the keyboard in front of me and a new blogger ID, I the toiling vintner, shall grow words for grapes as they grow on adverbs and metaphors that so they can then be turned into the sweet (and intoxicating) wine. Wait ... rewind, retrospect.

“The greatest part of a writer’s time is spent in reading, in order to write; a man will turn over half a library to make one book.”—Samuel Johnson

Damn, I didn't do that! I have to be a reader first. So I march to the library and pick up "Moby Dick". Crumbling under the weight of its sentences (and the sheer mass of the book) I set it aside. As Nathaniel Hawthorne said "Easy reading is damn hard writing." Its easier said than done. Anger. Failure. Resentment.

Somehow I got on with reading the works of the greats and the not so greats. I got myself a Goodreads account and then the critic in me started rating the greats. All is well now that I've read a lot, I can write - I thought. And life has been thus, living this lie.

Being as writer and being a good writer are two entirely different things. So what makes one a good writer? Reading and writing a lot. Agreed. But you do need someone to tell you: “You suck” in your face (or on some major social forum).

But then again what gives a person the right to judge others? Not going into the ethics of it, we need writers to judge writers. Theoretically every person must have read a lot and written a lot to judge a person who has done the same. So that’s where other writers come in :

1. To provide judgmental (hurtful) commentary

2. to provide more stuff to read.

This is how I see myself in the milieu of writers today, on the keyboard I slog

I do still wait for some comments perhaps from some anonymous surfer who laid a casual eye.

As the day passes by I chuckle to myself "Writing is its own reward, Sigh."

Going by definition, I am a bard too. Kidding. I am a confused writer, the Mad Hatter. Am I a writer? Do I want to become one if not, then? . I’m troubled to answer I must admit. I’m afraid I will burst into flames at some point if I do. I’m afraid I will fade into obscurity away if I don’t. I’m uncertain if I must become selfish in order to grow into who I want and need to be. But I do know this silent solitude in me is the only thing I've known for years. And I do not wish to watch it go.I need inspiration, motivation and feedback. Arrgh... breakdown, rebellion,, apathy. I am what I am, an agent of chaos. I like being confused. It makes writing interesting. It lets me live in a different world amongst the eccentric characters away from mediocrity and mundanity where everyday is full of promise and well madness. After all
“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

Simply because I haven’t got a clue, nor do I give a damn.


Credits: Snoopy, Calvin, Mad Hatter