In search of a story
Another day has passed and writer-saab has failed again.
It’s been months since he had composed anything worth looking back at. Thankfully, the typewriter doesn’t gather dust in his presence. Our man is always at work. Just that he is deeply unhappy with what his fingertips churn out on the pages.
It wasn’t like this earlier.
Not very long ago, he bustled with an enviable juice of creativity. A gifted storyteller, yarning out relatable prose came naturally to him. As of now, everything, especially the better days—years, if you ask him — seem very, very distant. He doesn’t feel sorry for himself. No, not even an ounce. Maudlin isn’t for him. However, he does find himself at his doorstep staring out into the oblivion for hours at times. His neighbours wonder what is he staring at. They don’t get to know that a universe exists behind those eyes, inside the safe wall of his skull; so many characters and so many dilemmas and so many situations and so many climaxes are revealing themselves in his silence. But the sad part is he seldom remembers any of them when he finally manages to pull himself out of his self-imposed stupor. That’s when he realizes that the doorstep feels really cold without any footwear on.
The writer-saabs of his kind may have a family but are doomed to lead a lonely existence. They look at the world without judging it; a quality which imbibes in them a fairness worth emulating. They see what is going on around them but instead of doing anything about it, they turn to tales of their own making. Their stories become more important than the world at large. Let it burn as long as their literary ego is warm. So much so it won’t be a mistake to suggest, for them, everything exists solely for the purpose of inspiring them to write more. Once in a while, when the creative rush subsides, they do feel guilty for their benign selfishness.
Our writer-saab has been feeling guilty for sometime now.
He doesn’t remember his last instance of absolute genius. Nothing works anymore. Nothing works for him anymore. Nevertheless, he keeps typing. He keeps thinking. He keeps losing track of time. He keeps ignoring the drum rolls of writer’s block. Not the one to rest on his laurels (lest he falls asleep on them), he doesn’t bother to pore through his past work. His books are the ones gathering dust on the bookshelf; exactly the way he’d prefer them to exist.
Lastly, if he continues this way, he won’t have a reason to meet his publisher, and more sadly, his readers, anytime soon. The storyteller in him isn’t rising to the occasion. Maybe it’s not his fault. Some blame has to go to the stories too.
