It was easier this time around; thinking about the thing to write about this week. It happened naturally enough; you see I had just finished writing the eleventh chapter. And so, it was quite clear that I was going back to writing about writing.
Also, I’m using a lot of these ‘And so’s. Too many for my liking.
It was this Wednesday that I felt I had moved enough that the chapter could end here. I might eventually feel otherwise, but right now, it felt right; and so, I stopped. Two things happened as I put the proverbial pen down. First, I remembered how good it felt to finish something, maybe that’s why we have chapters, to satiate ourselves. Second, and more importantly, I realized how easy it was to write, when you were writing.
And I guess that is the secret to writing, you just show up.
Most of the times, it’s the showing up part which is difficult. Something comes up, always. But when you listen to the same thing, said by different people, who don’t know each other, in any ways, who realize that this is the truth of the universe. You surrender.
Here’s something funny which just happened, sitting here, writing, I just realized something else, I don’t write dumb stuff. I worry too much, I edit too much. I don’t say pure things. Things are edited even before they hit the paper. That should not happen. Editing and rewriting should happen, yes, but for any of it to make any sense whatsoever, the unedited should come out first. The pure. The true. The unbound. You really don’t matter that much, yes, I am talking to you. And still, in ways, I had never thought possible, you still matter, I don’t speak my mind.
I swear to you, this, was supposed to be about something else.
This was supposed to be about routines, and how writing daily helps. How, when you show up each day, you are persistent, it becomes easier, much more natural to write, and even though, that is a hundred percent true, somehow, this has stopped being about that.
This has instead turned into something else. Something far more controversial for me to admit about my own self. I am not honest here. I mean parts of the things are true, yes, but they are only a part of the whole. I don’t even care about that. What I do care about though, is I can’t be true to myself, even when there is no one here, but me, and this blank paper. Me, and the paper, and nothing else.
Yes, I said that. Most probably I will edit that out.
I should write more. Really, I should.
If I say, that the characters guide me, then I should fucking let the character guide me, and not worry about our combined futures. Damn it, the future is the only thing that has stopped me. The worry that what is happening right now, will not fit in with the grander scheme of things.
I am expecting things.
And the issue with that is, expectations are never, never ever, never ever ever, fulfilled. That never ever ever was a little joke I remembered from somewhere. Maybe I’ll edit this out too. Fuck.
There, I said it again.
So, what was this about again?
This was about writing, above, and beyond anything else. Something so dear to me, that I can never have coherent thoughts about it. Something that is always a mixture, and that too a heterogeneous one. Also, it was about the honesty in writing, the need to be true, first of all, to our own selves, and then, bring some of it to you, the readers. There was also persistence thrown in there somewhere for good measure, though, that just makes it even harder to name this piece.
Now, let the rewriting begin!