While interviewing a long-time blogger, she said something very interesting – so interesting that it is stuck in my head. She said that while writing is a solitary exercise, blogging is a social activity. Though I had been blogging for about 11 months when I had that interview with her, it really struck me then how correct she was.
There was a time in my writing journey where words like motivation and inspiration would dictate how much or if any writing I would do. I suppose I can forgive that naive girl since writing was a hobby for her and not something she thought she would be making a career in.
On this day, a year ago, I decided I would start my blog. Enough people had told me to start one considering I had author dreams and enough people had looked at me with disdain when I had said, “No I am not a blogger; just a writer.”
The time had come to have a space with my name on it and stop hiding my writing in countless word documents.
I didn’t know writer’s block was a thing till I found myself staring at a blank page, the urge to write so strong it felt like a stomach ache, but the ability to actually put words onto the blank page sheer agony. I started to hyperventilate, sure the writing fountain that had opened up for me had dried and now I would never be able to write again.
Every time I would read a book, I would have only one wish – to meet the author and ask them where they found the inspiration to write what they wrote. As an inexperienced writer, I truly believed that inspiration was a goddess that visited only those who had been anointed by some special oil. And all I wanted to do was pick apart the brain of an author I admired and figure out how to do this writing thing.
Well February has ended and tomorrow is March – which means I have 31 days to figure out the A to Z Challenge. No pressure Suchita, all is well.
Hello everyone! This post was supposed to be about me chartering out my expectations from the A to Z Challenge – a daily blogging challenge set in April – but I am so far behind schedule that this is going to be more of a rant.
A writer is a vichitra (bizarre) human being. They claim that they have the best job in the world but there is no other who curses it more than them. They tell you they cannot imagine doing anything other than writing and if it is taken away from them, they would probably stop breathing. In the same breath though, they will tell you that they rue the day they decided to become writers.
Story so far: Lola, hunted for a crime she did not commit, forms an unlikely alliance with her Uncle Romeo and a gunslinger she picks up along the way. On the run, Lola is soon kidnapped by a band of seven. Hunter and Romeo follow her and find her locked up in a house. Having no clue as to what he is up against, Hunter does not immediately attack or try to free his little charge. Meanwhile, Lola is released from her prison only to come face to face with a severely dehydrated Uncle Ro and a father she had thought dead. While Lola tries to decide what to do next, Hunter is planning his own attack.
Considering all the disparate personalities in the house vying for attention, the palaver concluded swiftly and without violence. As soon as Lola had gotten the gist of what was happening – Hunter was back, her father was a mythical gunslinger with a violent past who turned into a farmer to leave all that behind, Maggie was his trusted partner and Uncle Ro…well he was recovering admirably – she allowed the voices to soothe her to safety and thus sleep.