Flow
The monsoon has retreated and with it, the words. All through the summer, the words raged out of me. There was so much to say, it felt a bit like vomiting out all the hurt and anger and grief and betrayal. I have been reliably informed that betrayal is an old fashioned word and an outdated emotion. Embarassing even. Who betrays anymore? It’s much too dramatic for the stale lives we live. Still, it is something that cannot be mistaken for a more mundane experience. And yes, it certainly fuels the writing. That first surge of heat receded with the rain. A steady downpour outside my window, and the words kept coming – now cooler, gentler. I am nothing if not clichéd. I wrote all through the monsoon – of people and places, food and emotion. I dreamt the dreams that mediocre writers do. Of a book, with illustrations and acknowledgements. I am old enough to place a disproportionate value on the physical form of the book. In my hands, pages to turn, paper to smell, there is a truth in that. The electronic medium is without taste and touch. The words live in some sort of a trapped space behind the backlit screen. But a book. With a cover and a binding – now that is what I dreamt of through the long monsoon. A book to bind dreams, to enclose the deepest desires.
Well, the monsoon is done. The birds still come to my balcony, but they don’t seem as interested in the seed as before. There is fresh food to be had out there, worms and almond blooms. They visit desultorily, out of habit. They have nothing left to say to me. You might say that’s another source that’s dried up.
The loyal praise and support of friends and family kept me going through the last six months of writing. I couldn’t get enough of the comments, the words of encouragement. That too has dried up as it must. It’s unfair to expect it to last. Also, it leads to ever increasing self doubt. When the words first came rushing back, I was careful. I polished and burnished them until they shone. I hoarded them, letting out only the most painful, truthful ones for the world to read. The praise, when it came, seemed earned. Now I have become careless. The words, when they falter out, are forced. Or diffident. Or false. Yet I let them out without reservation. And so less readers are enchanted than a mere month ago. A quote I like fits here: you have been weighed, you have been measured and you have been found wanting. The doubting gnaws away, the words fail to appear. Oh it’s the same old boring story – of writer’s block and stagnation. I did say I was all about the cliché.
But there is the lure of discipline. The promise of habit, the hope that writing down the mediocre thought, the awkward phrase, sticking to the practice, will turn the dull and lifeless into rampant energy. And the world turns. A sight, a song, something comes along that entice the words – hesitantly, faltering, then flowing. I take a deep breath – the words have not abandoned me. Sometimes, they hold back till the hubris dissipates, till the careless writing ends. Then they return, stern task masters. I am appreciative of the harsh terms, knowing that I am equally hard on myself. Every day, the words I put down, no matter if they are fifty or five hundred, are mine. They come from my head and they hold me to account. I read the older pieces I dashed off during the days of plenty and some of them make me wince. Others are almost everything I want to say and these make me smile. Still, I am writing again and for this, I am mostly grateful.
I especially love this one as I relate to it so much…