Writer's cramp

For many years I thought of becoming a writer. I used to read voraciously as a young girl and each time I read a novel I would spend the next few days trying to write a similar novel. As a result, you could say, I have even tried my hand at dashing off my own Gone with the Wind, Wuthering Heights, David Copperfield, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Pride and Prejudice. The attempts were abortive. But the wish to become a writer remained. Some years were devoted to poetry. I have since realized that I was not born to be either a novelist or a poet. Evidence of my temporary spates of creative frenzy is still there, tucked away like fond memories. The majority I have consecrated to fire.

It seemed feasible at one point of time to write the occasional piece, in a philosophic tone, enlarging upon truths told and untold, known and unknown. For though one may not be a published writer, each person has a similar right to experiences and opinion regarding those experiences. I have existed on this earth a sufficient number of years now for experiences that could be talked about.

When I was a teenager, I wanted to write romantic tales of love and lived-happily-ever-after. In all the ‘stories’ somehow the girl would find herself in some impossible situation and I would write: “She wanted to get away but she couldn’t’”. Needless to say it was only the hero who could help her out finally. Funny how my own life, considering the shape it has taken, has turned into a “she wanted to get away but she couldn’t” story. Life is like that. It creeps up from behind and gives you unpleasant starts. It entangles you in unpleasant situations which you want to get out of. Heroes of any shape, size or variety are, of course, missing.

I happen to be an emancipated woman - or that’s the term I think? I received proper academic training and have a few certificates to prove it. All I am capable of doing is working in an academic institution, more than 50 km away from home and commuting to and from which place is a study in human endurance. I earn my own pocket money and can bear much of the expenses of bringing up my daughter in these competitive times. Back home from work each day I am incapable of doing very much more than spending time with my energetic daughter. After all the day has only 24 hours and 18 are already gone. Apologetically I go to sleep for the rest of the 6 hours.

I neither read a good book, nor embroider bedspreads and table covers, nor cook nice things for my family, nor see a good film. I married for love and since then have been examining the concept of love, and reaching new conclusions on its power and hold on the human imagination. But I am quite unsuccessful in writing love stories. I doubt if I can write down an essay or the occasional piece on the subject. I have taken to writing down disconnected thoughts in an aimless manner.

Sometimes I turn philosophical. I try to put myself above earthly experiences. I try to separate my inner self from my social self. I tell myself, no matter what, the inner self is inviolable, untouched, never frustrated, always optimistic. The social being has to carry on the responsibilities and duties it has assigned itself. Yes we assign ourselves the roles we play. No external force makes us do so. I know some people who will not do many things and say that they are within their rights to do as they are doing. I would feel guilty under the same circumstances. So what I do is essentially self-inflicted.

Why do I do so? Why do I feel the people around me need my presence and my special effort? Is it an inflated opinion of self? We know nobody is indispensable. Why do I think myself to be indispensable to my family? Is it actually the other way round? Is it that I need them so desperately that I fool myself into thinking that they need me? So is my inner self guiding me right? Is my inner self there at all any more or has it just converged into the social self? Maybe that is what has happened. That is why perhaps I have never been able to write for to be really creative one must distance oneself from one’s surrounding circumstances.

So I thought of becoming a painter – not for fame or exposure, but for the pleasure of actually see myself creating something. The effort is on.