I often meet new people (especially now that I have shifted continents), who in the course of current social norms, ask for me my email address and eventually add me as a friend on facebook. Hence it is not long before they discover this blog of mine. Curiosity piqued, they read through it, and end up mildly surprised. (It is my personal opinion that the surprise is directed more at the fact that a benign, cheerful and reasonably average person like me could foster a complete secret blogging world of opinions, stories and experiences.)

Consequently, I encounter interjections about my writing skills; or even an air of familiarity from a recent acquaintance, who has spent an idle Monday afternoon, reading through my experiences. If only they understood the reality – I suffer from a lifetime of writer’s block.

And I am not exaggerating. My blog home screen, often stares back at me, with a sense of despair, as I sift through the thoughts in my head – not unlike a drowning man clutching at straws.

Stepping back, I now realize that the ingredients were all there – Take two cups of a family of eloquence – generations of great writers, readers and orators, add to it a pound of passionate reading, stir in a convent education focused on languages and serve fresh garnished  liberally with a mix of travel, cultures and experiences. I think, the question then, that becomes relevant, is that how on earth have I managed to avoid writing more frequently,

It is a hard one to answer. I think that most of the battle is fought in my head. I remember thinking up elaborate plots for books, as a child. I recall writing limericks, poems (at the time I thought they were heart wrenching, now they appear more of the gut wrenching type!) and even publishing a few in the school magazine. And yet, every time the words spilled out of my head on paper – they seemed to pale in comparison to the wonderful standards I had in my head. Valiant protagonists seemed to lack depth, plots that sounded so meaningful in my head came across as sketchy and the humor seemed scratchy and strained.

And all the time, as I followed the stories narrated by my expressive family – laugh till I cried at the funny ones and was moved by the touching ones, a part of my brain was constantly admiring the gift of effortless expression that they seemed to enjoy.  I would often scribble little pieces of prose and poems in diaries – till mum once found them and read them, post which all writing attempts were summarily abandoned in embarrassment.

All those years though, I was convinced that there was a great novel in me, just waiting to be put down on paper – but I would wait till the words decided to well up and flow unabated.

One month into my Australian stint, I met Saee Keskar – we became housemates and she introduced me to the concept of blogging (her own blog, being quite a delightful read). I suddenly realized that here was a safe forum to experiment with. I could blog short sketches – so what, if they were not Booker Prize material. I could experiment with dialogues, rhyme, narratives, abstract concepts, character sketches – anything. I would often get feedback from a few readers, but for most of the part, I was just another anonymous addition to an ocean of bloggers. There were no expectations of excellence from me.

The freedom was strangely exhilarating. And when my family and friends did eventually chance upon it, I even started to receive some compliments and admiration. My parents distributed the link to my blog with a great sense of pride – it became a talking point with people I met. People started telling me that I have an easy style, or that I write from the heart and even that I write with great panache. All of this was much to my constant, genuine astonishment – I believed I was yet to achieve the kind of output that deserved such a mention. Oddly it came from the very people, whom I deemed as outstanding authors. Along with all this new found glory, often came the dread of having to live up to expectations of excellence.

Writing is the one thing in the world that I love – it motivates me, thrills me, and enlivens me.

Writing is the one thing in the world that I truly hate – it makes me feel dull, talent-less and boring.

It’s like being caught between a rock and a hard place!

It has taken me a long time to crack the mystery behind my ‘Writer’s Block’. Talent does not equate to an effortless output. Instead, it demands diligence, persistence, risk and commitment. Most of all though, it demands self confidence. Till such time as I can truly crack this mantra, my writing will stay limited to sporadic bursts of excellence on my blog. It will never translate into that wonderful book of my dreams.

And I truly believe that there is a book inside me, just waiting to be written. So, I must keep chipping away at the block

;-)

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