Writing and Dilemmas

I love writing, and I've loved it for so long.

Wait. I should correct that. Let's be a little more precise, shall we?

I love the idea of writing, of fingers swirling in their own peck-dance on a keyboard, of eyes distant and bleary, and pulse racing in the throes of composition. That's a dream and fantasy I keep quietly locked away, and at times like these, when I wonder what the big picture is, what the future is, I look back at that fantasy. And marvel at how real life and fantasy are so different.

It's the damn routine, I tell myself. And it is, make no mistake about it. There's just no time for writing in my life right now, except the occasional scribble. Even now, I have a monster of a report due tomorrow for my final class project. I've spent both days of the last couple of weekends at work, scrambling to get things done. After you come home wiped out after a long day, the last thing your caffeine-addled brain wants is for you to flip open that laptop and make it work even more.

And so time passes. Seconds turn into days, which turn into months. You start counting your moments in summers, lost in a frenzy of trying to dig through the mountain that is your to-do list.

And then after a long time, you say, man, I'm actually free for a bit after such a long haul! Y'know what? I'm gonna write now. And so out comes that laptop, and as the cursor starts blinking and you reach into the cookie jar for an idea, an inspiration, anything fergodssakes, you realize there's nothing there...not even crumbs. Somebody's wiped it clean, and the culprit is time itself.

At moments like those, a voice cackles inside my head. I think it's my muse. "What did you think, that you'd be able to write for life, sonny? That you come back to me after days and months and years, and I'd be waiting like a mongrel on a leash? Nothing's for free!" I listen quietly, and I know what he's saying. It reminds me of the doting father who spends all his time working, who spends each moment thinking ahead to the day when he'll actually be free enough to give attention to his family, and when that day finally comes, the kids have grown and y'know what, having a good ol' tete-a-tete with their till-now-absent father is the last fricking thing on their agenda. No sir, pater can go piss in Lake Ontario now for all they care...where the hell was he the first twenty years of their life?

With each day I spend doing something else, the dream tucked away in a lock-box is fading like a polaroid. Pretty much soon enough, I suspect there'll be nothing left of it if things continue the way they have been. Nothing but a shitload of rust.

If you feel the same way, there is one hope. An organized effort. A deadline, say one month. Lots of friends writing in the same period of time, trying to meet the same deadline, trying to meet the word count, working on their own stuff, but with the knowledge that they aren't alone, that there are others also crusading against the endless non-idealities of practical life.

Whatdoyasay?

Ooty, playmate of my childhood years, you for one had better say yes before you leave Pakistan!