Sep 18, 2015 Writing 101
The Blind Date and The Cup of Coffee
©September 18th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
The cup of coffee that she balanced perfectly on her knee looked inviting. So did her knee, with her flowered skirt flowing modestly over it, but it was covered with bright yellow sunflowers and butterflies.
“Shouldn’t you put that coffee-cup on the table?” I asked.
She looked nonplussed. “My coffee always sits on my knee. Is it a problem? I mean, does it bother you?”
“No, no, it doesn’t really. So, what’s your take on … why are you looking at me like that?”
She gazed into my eyes, and it was unnerving, because when I gazed back into hers, I saw little galaxies and entire worlds. I felt pulled in, heart hammering, wonder-struck by this strange, spirit-like girl-woman.
“Have you ever thought that it would be nice to swim in this cup of coffee?” she asked softly.
I was abruptly yanked back from my romantic fantasies, which, I’m sorry to say, had begun to burgeon in a heart that I thought had atrophied from lack of use.
“Swim in this cup of coffee?” I echoed, stupidly.
“Yes, but it would be hot, don’t you think?” Her dreamy voice was full of magic.
My head was swimming. I had no idea how to go from here. Here I was with this yellow-haired girl with the pale, blue eyes full of galaxies, and her soft, lilting voice full of wonder and magic, and here she was, talking quirkily about swimming in a cup of coffee. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m as imaginative as the next guy, but I like the girls I meet to make sense. My mouth hung open. I must have looked the picture of stupefaction.
“And I always thought,” she continued happily, breaking into my swirling silence, “that if all humanity could find cups of coffee to swim in, then we’d all be happily wired, and not worry about messing up the world, because we’d be full of life and … caffeine, and we’d zoom about fixing things, and chattering at top speed to each other, and not listening to a word that anyone else says, which is good, because then, we’d have no fights, and everyone would be utterly peaceful, which is what this troubled world of ours needs, don’t you think?”
I got up, and held my aching head. My coffee was untouched on the table. This blind date, though promising at first, was not going well. Besides, I had to finish that piece of programming I’d begun, or else I’d fall behind on my project, so that was as good an excuse as any to get out of there. I don’t like odd people. I am a staid, solid citizen, good-looking, or so they tell me, reliable, dependable, honest, hard-working. I always pay my bills. I like movies. Books are okay. I don’t have time for deep reading. I have a canary in a cage, whom I call Admiral Stockdale, and he sings to me every day. I am fairly happy. Okay, so I was lonely as well, hence this reaching out and stooping to use that embarrassing thing called ModernBlindDates.com.
And here I was.
“Where are you going?” she murmured in her gentle, velvety voice. It soothed me. How did she do that, make me crazy one minute, and completely docile and willing to listen the next?
I sat back down.
“Nowhere,” I muttered, and signalled to the waiter, who materialized at my side, as if by magic.
“Get me an Irish coffee,” I said, desperately. He bowed obsequiously, and left, no doubt snickering to himself.
My date leaned forwards and said, “That’s not good for you. Why not have more coffee?”
I didn’t answer. She chattered on about strange things. I remember catching the phrase, “Blibbering humdinger,” and “Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” but I was too lost in her beautiful, galactic eyes. When the waiter returned with my Irish coffee, I knew it was now, or never. I didn’t care whether I was proper or not.
I grabbed her hand and went on bended knee. I didn’t care if she was crazy, or whether I was not making any sense.
“Ms. Lovegood, will you marry me?” I asked.
The whole restaurant broke into applause.
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With apologies to J.K. Rowling for using one of her characters, who is one of my most favorite characters in all modern literature.
Tags: Blind Dates, Cup of Coffee
Sep 17, 2015 Writing 101
Dear World,
I feel like a child right now, a child wanting approval, a child unsure of herself and her place in this strange reality, having just left behind seventeen years of teaching, completely voluntarily.
Should I carry on doing what I set out to do — which is, to write?
As someone who likes to write, but is no longer as compulsive about it as I used to be as a teenager and young adult, do I want to really spin out worlds, fantasies, poems? Isn’t this letter itself a self-contradictory thing for one who wishes to be silent? The world is cluttered up with words right now. I’m not helping. Silence seems to be a lovely, elusive Holy Grail.
Should I bother to reach out to others, or retire into my shell, and scribble things in a notebook, and not dream of publishing a novel, or even a chapbook of poetry? Does anyone really like what I do? And should it matter? I scold myself for wanting this approval, but then I ask myself, “Isn’t writing about communicating?” And so on, and so forth, until I throw up my hands, and … write!
Do I have it in me to do more than just be a mother, wife, musician, and unpublished writer? (Yes, I know the answer lies within me, but I ask the question, nonetheless). Do I want to do more?
And why does everything hurt me nowadays — both physically and emotionally? When I was younger, I was able to shake off things easily. Now, that I am older, I feel the weight of the world settling on me, and only the walks that I take with my dog help me shake of existential pain. Music helps always. Being with my little family helps.
What do you want from me, World?
I want to do so much, and have so little energy! My husband says it’s because I lost seventeen years of sleep, and this deprivation has broken me. He encourages me to catch up on lost sleep. I haven’t yet caught up, but I’m so grateful to him! Habits take a long time to undo, and my habit of sleeping very, very late is slowly killing me, I think, because when I awake in the morning (not as early as I used to, true, but after fewer hours of sleep than I’d like to have had), I feel angry at having to face you, O World. I feel upset by world news, and helpless because I cannot really do anything. You, O World, are full of confusion and angst. I’ve had enough of all you. I want to leave you — not to die, just to leave you, perhaps go into deep sleep for a while, and then, head out into the cold clarity of outer space, and just keep walking out into the heart of the universe.
Because you, O World, can be a toxic place. I cannot bear to hear about child slavery, about women being molested, about people killing each other in more and more cruel and inventive ways, about politicians who create so much hatred, about Climate Change, about forests being raped and pillaged, about oceans dying, and animals vanishing fast into extinction. That I am fortunate in my family and current life does not make me immune to the pain of others. I feel each person’s pain as if it were my own, and this is killing me. I need to find some distance, some detachment (which comes and goes).
Yes, O World, I know you can be beautiful. I strive to see it every day. I take walks, and marvel at beauty, everyday beauty. I hear birds still where I live, and gaze my fill at brightly blooming flowers and rich, green trees fast heading into the reds and golds of impending autumn, and rest my eyes on cool ponds, and stare at the evening sky or night sky. You are filled with kindness in little pockets of the earth, and creative souls who do their best to hold the horrors at bay. I seek them out. And I can only try and air out, and sweep out my corner. And I can seek and find things of beauty around me. I do do that, but I’m exhausted, wiped out.
Am I depressed? I don’t think so. Just tired.
Sleep will help me. I know it. Meditating every day (like I did for a little while, and dropped off recently, and will start up again, after I write this) will definitely help. Reading good things will help. Taking very long walks do help. Listening to music and looking at art remind me of how great humans can be. Reading about good and great people inspires me.
However, by good and great, I mean normal people who do good and great things, and don’t put on the robes of spiritual leaders. I reject religion, and religious leaders. I reject the mumbo-jumbo of the well-known spiritual types who are simply parroting the wisdom of others. They look too rich and comfortable for me to be convinced. I suspect them deeply, and I sense exploitativeness in all of them, even though many of them do no harm.
If we cannot find our own Guru and our own enlightenment within ourselves, how will we find them outside ourselves?
But I am sad right now, O World. And tears come unbidden to me. My sense of humor, which was always on the surface, has retreated. This is temporary, I know.
Hey, I know what! I’ll pull out my entire collection of P.G. Wodehouse, and read all those books. He ALWAYS made me laugh out loud. And I’ll read Donald E. Westlake. He is the American P.G. Wodehouse. Monty Python will do the trick. Oh, and Galaxy Quest — which I’ve watched several times over the past several years. That will help.
And I’ll stop feeling foolishly sad.
Thanks, O World, for reading.
Trying-to-cheer-myself-uply,
~Dreamer of Dreams
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#writing 101
Sep 15, 2015 Original Flash Fiction, Writing 101
“What hath night to do with sleep?”
― John Milton, Paradise Lost
Solve for C
A very short Short Story about Flying and Angles
©September 15th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
Every night, Clara came awake with a start. Sleep fled into the darkness, sounding like the rustle of wings, a sigh of regret. She sat up in bed, turned to look at the profile of her sleeping dog in the pale moonlight flooding the room, and blinked.
For a few minutes, she didn’t know who she was or where she was.
She passed her right hand over her shoulder blades, which were aching, and remembered that something had been there.
She looked again at her dog. Bella, her dog lay on her back, legs limply in the air, smiling in her sleep. Such relaxation emanated from her that it calmed Clara down.
Then, she looked at the clock. 3:45 a.m. Again? Memory flooded back. She awoke at 3:45 a.m. every single night, from a dream where she had been dancing on the edge of a sheer cliff.
And in every one of those, she was looking down that cliff which ended on a narrow rocky ledge, and then, into the crashing ocean below. And her shoulders ached unbearably.
Clara closed her eyes, and a little exhale came from deep within her. In her dream, she thought she knew what was going to happen next, and her heart hammered with fear.
In minutes, she fell asleep again.
And she was falling, falling … but not straight down. And something was steadying her fall. She felt the whoosh of great wings heaving up and down behind her. Her wings!
And she seemed to be gliding down at an angle, a slide, almost.
Before she reached the ocean, she took off into the sky, and looked down.
A glittering right-angled triangle shimmered in the moonlight below her — from the cliff to the level sands, and the gliding slide she had angled down.
Great squares of light arose from the cliff face, the ocean, and her long, transparent air-slide. Her wings glowed like the sun.
All around her were glittering shapes, transparent and shimmering angles, beings of light. She drank in the air and light. She was at peace here. Then, after a long while, a sound reached her, and she knew there was something she had to do.
In the morning, Bella the dog had awoken to find herself completely alone. Her neighbor, Anjali, heard Bella’s doleful howling, which seemed to go on for a full five minutes, before it became suddenly still.
Something was wrong. Pulling on a robe, and agitated, Anjali called Clara on the phone. No answer. She grabbed the spare key that Clara had left her in case of emergencies, and let herself into Clara’s home, calling out her name and Bella’s all the while, but there was no answer, no pitter-patter of paws on the tiles in the kitchen, so clattering on the wood floor.
When she entered the bedroom, she saw two triangular indentations on the bed, one larger than the other. The hair on the nape of her neck rose.
The air in the room was electric with exultation and light.
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Tags: Day 7
Sep 14, 2015 Writing 101
This assignment,unlike the others, feels like “homework” to me. Alas, I do not feel very poetic, creative, or inspired. Ah well. Here’s my response:
What are my writing habits?
I’m still developing them (that is, I’d like to write every day, if I can, and have been doing so for a few weeks), but what I’d like to do this:
~Write every day for two hours straight, first thing in the morning, then, build up stamina to write four hours a day (and when I say “write every day” I mean writing stories and poems, but also journal entries and suchlike).
~Get up early enough to do that, so the events of the day don’t overtake me.
What equipment or supplies do I use?
Mostly, I use my computer nowadays.
I scribble on paper and in stray journals of mine from time to time, though.
I love fountain pens, and have two, but haven’t written anything serious with them, except silly stuff.
Yup, it’s the computer for me. It’s the only thing that allows me to come anywhere close to speaking in terms of speed.
What do you need, and want, in a physical space?
Quietude, but not too always.
I like having people around, busy in their own work, sometimes.
I like cafes, my own study, the bedroom, the kitchen …
I like being at my kitchen table, and seeing birds come to the bird-feeder outside the big kitchen-window, while I write.
However, I don’t really need all that. Right now, I’m writing on my bed, sitting uncomfortably hunched over, knowing full well that it’s bad for me (sheer contrariness on my part).
And I LOVE writing at night — it’s a weakness of mine. I keep telling myself that I’ll shift into morning writing mode, but it never seems to happen. I shall make it happen, soon.
I just want to keep at it, build up stamina, read a lot, stir in more ideas, and create whole worlds.
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P.S. I’m too tired to try setting up a poll or contact form tonight. So, I’ll follow Cheri’s kindly made last option, and ask: “Readers, what would you like me to write about in the future?”
#writing101
Tags: Day 6
Sep 11, 2015 Writing 101
So, today’s assignment was this, in part: Today, write a response to one of these tweets. Shape your post in any way you choose — agree or disagree with the tweet, or use it as a starting point for a story, personal essay, poem, or something else.
Now, while I dislike Twitter, I see its uses, and have an account. I won’t disclose it here. In any case, I decided I’d look no further than the five tweets our hostess suggested, being unwilling to go onto Twitter. I chose this one:
I can’t decide if procrastination kills creativity or is essential to it. ~Grant Snider
Procrastination has always been my biggest failing (and I want no lectures about it here, thank you!), but I always seem to get there in the end, and usually on time, so I haven’t let it conquer me — yet!
Anyway, I thought about writing a response to this pithy saying, but wanted to put it off until tomorrow. Then, it dawned on me that putting it off would not be helpful, so I decided to write about it.
However, since nothing creative has come from this effort, I’ve come to the conclusion that procrastination must be essential to creativity.
On the other hand, that proves nothing. I might still be uncreative tomorrow.
What can I say?
Well, it’s chores and nighty-night for me, folks!
Nice being here, albeit for only a short while this evening!
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On the other hand, I did write a poem on July 26th about this very topic, Procrastination.
Would I be considered lazy if I made a link to it here?
Thanks for reading!
Cheers!
Dreamer of Dreams
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#writing 101
Tags: #Post, #Procrastination, poem link
Sep 10, 2015 Original Short Story, Writing 101
The Attic Window
©September 9th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
The day that Shelby laid eyes on the old house to which she had to move with her parents and brother, she hated everything about it — the peeling paint on the cedar siding, its old roof shingles, its crookedly leaning pine tree in the back yard and oak tree in the front, its straggly, overgrown front-yard, the brick path leading to the house, and the old bird bath that looked like it had survived a few centuries of weathering.
Tears filled her eyes, and she brushed them away surreptitiously. Her father put down their bags, his voice sounding false and hearty, “All this needs is a lick of paint, some work on the roof, some weeding and watering, and it’ll be great!”
The truth was that they could not afford much of anything. Her father had come into a small inheritance, and he used it to buy this place from a slick realtor, who seemed very eager to sell it at half the going rate for a house this historic (it had been built in 1875).
Her father added, “At least we will have a roof over our heads. Think about that! And we’ll plant a vegetable garden. You can have your own flower-garden, Shelbs! What say?”
“That sounds … lovely, Dad!” she replied, looking around, not seeing how anything beautiful could grow on that messy, weedy patch of front-yard.
Her brother, three years old, and curious about everything, ran about happily, chattering at top speed, excited to be in a new place. “Stop it!” Shelby said loudly, suddenly, and he stopped short, eyes round and puzzled; she wasn’t usually so brusque and bossy. Then, he shrugged it off, and went around the side of the house, to see what lurked there. Shelby’s father went after him.
Her mother, tired from all the packing and moving, but seeing her daughter’s distress, said, “Shelby, come! Let me show you where your room is. You’ll be thrilled.”
Shelby picked up her two large duffel bags, and followed her mother through the door. She looked around, and was intrigued, in spite of herself. There was a large fireplace with a white mantel over it, and a bay window that looked out into the small stretch of woods on the left of the house. At the back was a sunny kitchen, and next to it, the ornate dining room. Shelby wondered cynically how they would furnish all these old rooms, when they had nothing more than a small kitchen table, four rickety kitchen chairs, an old, squashy sofa for the living room, plus their beds, small dressers and night-tables for the bedrooms. They did have a huge red rug, though, so that might cheer things up a bit in the living room, she mused, and the thought cheered her up.
Her mother pointed up their staircase. “Your room is above ours. Why don’t you go on up, and check it out?”
Shelby shrugged, and dragged her duffel bags up the staircase. On the next floor were two rooms and a large W.C. Above that, she presumed, was her room, so, after a quick glance around (it didn’t seem so bad here, after all), she went to the next floor.
Her bags fell to the floor with a soft thud, raising a sudden swirl of dust.
This was her room — it was meant for her. There was pretty wallpaper with roses and green leaves repeating themselves, and a little door that probably led to the eaves-storage space. There was a large clothes-closet with its own door. There was a built-in shelf, where she could put her books. And a tiny bathroom of her own!
But best of all was the window.
It stood there, at the end of the dormer, throwing light onto the floor, flooding the room with a golden glow.
Shelby was hypnotized by it. She found herself being drawn to it, drawn to its spare outline, as if it were some sort of window in a dream.
But as she walked towards it, a voice said Don’t do that! That’s my window! What are you doing in my room?”
She whirled around.
There was no one there.
I must be imagining it, she thought.
Still, it wouldn’t do to annoy whoever it was who’d spoken, real or not, so she said, to no one in particular, “It’s MY room, and I have a right to be here. And I will!”
An exclamation at the door made her turn around. Her mother, who was standing in the doorway, looked nonplussed, and said, “Of course, it is your room. And of course you have a right to be here.”
“Mom! Did you hear that voice?”
“There’s no voice, silly! How do you like your room?”
“I loved it, until I heard the voice. Mom, I don’t like it here. It’s … spooky.”
“Don’t be silly, Shelby! Look, why don’t you put some of your things from your duffel into your closet, and follow me to the kitchen. I need some help downstairs.” And, with that, her mother tap-tapped down the stairs.
Shelby looked around slowly. A strange palm print had appeared on the wall. The voice said, “I told you — this is my room. No one uses my room, and lives to tell the tale.”
Shelby could not even scream. She turned, and hurtled down the stairs, tripping and falling as she did so. Her voice could be heard, high and trembling, as she told her mother that she would never, ever, ever live in that house, and if they forced her to live there, she was going to run away to her grandparents’ home in Milton now, and nothing would change her mind, ever.
Upstairs, a swirl of dust shaped like a young girl smiled to itself, and held one of Shelby’s shoes which had fallen off when she’d hurtled out of the room.
Another one bites the dust, the dust-girl susurrated to herself, and looked out the window. A hysterically crying Shelby was walking out of the house, followed by her mother, and her father, who was holding her little brother’s hand.
Why did you do that, idiot? said another swirl of dust, as it materialized beside her, and watched the family leave. She’s just a young girl.
Shut up, Tom! You’re just my baby brother! said the dust-girl, and she slapped at him. He sank back into the floor, frowning.
The dust-swirl-girl went back to the window, and looked down. The hateful car that had driven up was now driving off.
Good!
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#writing101
Sep 9, 2015 Writing 101
Home
©September 9th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
Where you arrive, drop your wings
Remove your bra with a sigh,
Greet your child, your husband, your dog,
With a “Yay!” in your voice
And they greet you back
With a “Yay!” in theirs;
Where you sing out loud,
Toss your bag down,
Not caring where it lands
(A tiny act of rebellion in a safe space),
Traipse into the kitchen
Pour out a glass of clear water
Sink into your chair,
Sip.
And sip.
And sip again —
And the clarity of the water flows in
Deep, not just in your body
But finding its way into another You
Bringing peace, quenching thirst
Letting little shoots of plants
Poke out of parched, dusty ground,
Bringing freshets into dry places;
Where you lean back in your chair,
And see little birds — hovering around
And landing on perches on the
Bird-feeders outside your kitchen window
Feeding in delight and calling
To their mates to join them;
Where a beautiful Japanese maple tree
Filters sunlight like liquid laughter
Onto a rhododendron bush and
A butterfly bush, hung about with swooning blossoms;
Where you take off your socks
And wiggle your imprisoned toes
And stretch aching calf muscles
And feel the joy of simply flowing, of
Living in your body, free from people, from
Other eyes, judging, evaluating, admiring, condemning;
Where the book- or books – that you left
Half-finished on the kitchen table await you,
Like a slew of lovers whom it’s safe
To love, to admire, to caress;
Where the soft sloshing and plishing
Of the washing machine slapping
Clothes into clean submissiveness blends
With the low buzz-hum of your
Ancient refrigerator, and the breeze
Rustles the pine tree in the back-yard,
And they form a lovely symphony
With your husband’s rich, golden-warm
Voice in his Teaching Study, singing
Into the ether, Skype-ing Indian music
Into the ears of a student in a
Far-off land, and your daughter’s
Joyous silver voice floats down her recent
Favorite song from the bedroom;
Where you know you have other things
To do, that await your ministrations,
But you DON’T care, at least for now,
Because, here, now, drinking cold, clear
Water, you are completely inhabiting
our body, and you know you are free —
That’s home to me.
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Tags: #Original Poetry, Home
Sep 8, 2015 Writing 101
Things I Wish
©September 8th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
I wish I could fly (this is what always come to mind when I think of wishes)
I wish I could put back the clock and go to places and times when I’ve hurt someone’s feelings … and take back my hurtful words, and fling them into outer space, where they’ll freeze and fall into the approach of a comet, and change what they are, transforming themselves into benign things.
I wish I could make people see that which is obvious to me — for instance, when people dissimulate, when they over-dramatize, when they distort one’s words, when they manipulate crowds, when they are false, both to themselves, and to others.
I wish I could share my joys and love with ALL the people of the world who have less of both.
I wish I could BE everyone and everywhere just for a day.
I wish I could save all the children whose lives are broken by war, or famine, or disaster, or abuse, or slavery, or neglect.
I wish I could help all people whose lives are so broken.
I wish people could see through to the truth of ALL things, and not be swayed by the demagogues of this world, or by that mind-numbing thing called television.
I wish I could stop thinking of myself as less than I am, at times.
I wish I could stop thinking of myself as more than I am, at times.
I wish I could sky-dive sometime in my life, despite my utter cowardice with regard to it.
I wish I could go deep-sea diving (but I don’t swim).
I wish I could communicate with animals.
I wish to write at least ONE novel, and publish ONE book of short stories, and a few chapbooks of poetry, before I die.
When I die, I wish to die calmly, quietly, welcoming death, ready to go without a struggle, without unnecessary prayers, and without everyone crying over my dying self.
I wish to disappear entirely, and re-appear in another form, perhaps as a bird.
And if not a bird, then to re-appear in the heart of a blue-white star, with a temperature in excess of 35,000 K, then to disappear into the black hole that it would form, when it goes super-nova.
However, in the here and now, relationally speaking, I wish to be a good mother to my daughter, a good daughter to my mother, a good wife to my husband, a good sister to my siblings, a good grand-daughter, a good daughter-in-law, a good sister-in-law, and a good teacher to any students I teach — oh, and a good friend and human being in sum.
That’s all for now.
Cheers and Peace out!
~Dreamer of Dreams
#writing101
Tags: Things I Wish
Sep 7, 2015 Writing 101
Inhabiting A Hidden Reality (Why I Write)
At the heart of all human experience lies a truth, hidden, shy, an irritant that promises to become a beautiful (or ugly) pearl. I’m interested in finding that oyster in which that pearl grows. I’m interested in its environs, and in the irritant, the pearl.
I want to be the lenses that see the truth clearly, darkly — and the screen on which the truth reveals itself.
I want to see the waving fronds, and bugs and fish at the bottom of the lake, not just the shining surface, and the glimmer of sunlight on little waves. I like layers upon layers of things — air-currents, water, earth, onions, reality.
I want to be the prism that breaks truth into its component colors, and puts it back together.
Enough for now with the metaphors — for I think in metaphors, and have a weakness for them, but they can be like fun-house mirrors, sometimes.
There are times when I want to be direct and forceful.
At other times, I shy away from brutal reality, and want to allude, hint, insinuate — because reality can be painful, ugly, unaesthetic, unappealing. Coming at it sideways, athwart, slant-wise seems to help me deal with things.
I write because I cannot imagine not writing; I used to write every day as a teenager, and was compulsive about it, but now, I’m not, and want to be. But because I don’t like writing something I don’t like, I tug at the reins. I self-edit — sometimes a little too much. This is both a weakness and a strength (I suppose — for one defends one’s choices).
I write to please myself, and I hope that my writing will please others. I don’t really worry whether everyone likes my work (although, like every writer, I would hope that people do like what I write). I do want to find my tribe, those whose minds mesh with mine, who appreciate the words I love, who will appreciate the stories I write (and will write soon), and whose stories and words I will love as well.
I worry I might not have much to say, because everything has already been said.
Then, I remember that MY eyes are mine, and I like seeing through them, and re-inventing the world around me through my own lenses.
I write because when I do, it feels as though a pressure that was being exerted on my chest is being eased.
Writing can be delicious, just like reading, like eating my favorite crunchy Indian snacks.
I like eating and being in my body
I love reading beautiful writing, and being in another writer’s world.
I LOVE writing, and being in my own universe.
This is impromptu, unedited (okay, I went back and added a “the” — and deleted a phrase, and added another phrase). Thank you for reading!
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Tags: Why I Write