How I did (not) become a writer

An unlikely journey

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A long time ago a famous American writer, whose name eventually got me in a sort of pickle, proclaimed that:

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

Indeed.

Since the time I first discovered the quote, I came to appreciate it more with each passing year. If the promised outwardly realms exist, I have a good mind to find the said fellow and have a few (or more) words with him in a free and frank fashion. I admit to having a rather long list of similar fellows I am to look for over there across the great blue yonder, but this mighty fellow features in it too.

To start with I’d like to know when and where one actually starts bleeding and what colour the said liquid ought to be. For, over the years, I have noticed that some bleed a pale, insipid liquid of no colour, scent or texture, they bleed for bleeding’s sake, to show they too are in possession of the fluid. On the other hand, some bleed thick, crimson liquid, of either rancid or sweet aroma, and textures so prominent that it is a wonder the mighty substance passes through their veins to begin with. Yet others do not bleed at all, they watch others do, take notes and write opinions, critiques, and observations about it.

Even though it could never be verified, I think I first started bleeding as a small kid while narrating a story to my grandparents and insisting it all happened exactly as I said. When my grandfather pointed out that, owing to sheer timing, the events could not have happened as I claimed — I burst into tears. My grandfather, a large man with eyes as green as river-stones, winked at my grandmother and said — “this one is a storyteller.” I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but it seemed to me an improvement in status, so I settled into his lap, amongst hair-thin strands of golden tobacco and watched him roll a cigarette, a task his thick fingers were incredibly swift at.

Later on, when school became a daily routine and we were required to read and write about a set number of books each week, I delighted at the task and started penning my own poems and stories. Every now and then a teacher would compliment my work and…