Anything from a short story to a novel, a thousand word something to a hundred thousand word something. It all takes time, effort, and patience. That’s the beauty of fiction. You sit down, and write. At the beginning, the fire drives you, the joy of having stumbled upon something new. Then, comes the middle, the muddy, murky middle. Most stories are lost here, left by the writer, to die slow, painful deaths. And then, at the end, the story, which was not making any sense whatsoever, till this point, suddenly starts making sense. You are able to fill in the blanks, see the light at the end of the long, dark, proverbial tunnel!
That, is also the sad part about writing fiction. Unless it reaches completion, there is nothing to show for the effort.
And I really don’t know why I should give a fuck about it!
Yesterday was the second day in a row, when I was ridiculed for the stuff I had put up on the blog. Okay, maybe ridiculed is not the best word to describe what happened. Let’s see. I had to go through some pretty harsh criticism, for the things I had said, the things that I had written, the things that I had posted here.
It got to me. So much so, that I had to go through my earlier posts, only to look at how I used to do things. The difference. In case you are wondering if I found something, the answer to that is a big resounding: “NO”.
Maybe not as resounding as I’d like you to believe. Anyway.
There was a moment, between when I had picked up my luggage, and when I began looking for a cab, that I felt this sense of loss, this sadness. I had just returned from one of the four or so trips I need in a year to function. I was back in the city. I was home. And yet, I could not shake this feeling of entrapment!
This happened this past Sunday. And a moment was all I had, to feel anything, as the rest of the time was spent trying to catch the last metro before it left the exchange station, which happened a couple of times during the journey.
There were no cabs. And as for Uber, it has these surges!
It was raining as I stood there in the midst of in the middle of blaring car horns, and dark skies. It rained later that day. This was Thursday. Today is Friday. It rained today as well.
I’m not sure any of that detail matters.
Something else happened yesterday as well. Something related to writing, and storytelling in general, and the book in particular. I finished the first draft a little while back, and since then, I haven’t managed much fiction. I took a break, hoping that I would be able to start work on some short stories, but I couldn’t. And so, a month or so after I had finished the draft, I began reading it, noting the good, the bad, the things that needed to be changed.