As a self-professed logophile, my inability to write anything longer than a tweet these days has put me in the deepest of doldrums (and has obviously also kindled an affinity for the dramatic). During my grad-school days, writing 20 pages of decent prose in a night seemed almost automatic. The phrasing, the words, all seemed to flow effortlessly, sprouting out of my fingers without much thought. These days, it's as if Iff has turned off the writing stream. Haroun, unfortunately, is nowhere in sight.
It may be that the waters are muddled, or that the effluents of the hundreds of streams that have sprouted up in the past six months have intermingled to such an extent that recognizing each has become impossible. Perhaps, like my kitchen's drain, my brain - and its repository of words - may just be clogged.
Whatever the case, the long and short of it is that I haven't written since finishing up my M.A thesis - and it doesn't feel right. It's not as if my life is incomplete without writing - the effect is much more unnerving than that. It's as if something's amiss, off-kilter, unbalanced. It's as if I've been robbed of the ability to express myself, to exercise my brain and, most importantly, to compose those word-concertos that I so loved hearing in my head.
That flow, that ravaani, the crescendos and decrescendos, those sudden changes in key. Ahhh. It's as if I've forgotten how to compose.
I hated it when I couldn't do it on the violin.
And I don't like it now.
It may be that the waters are muddled, or that the effluents of the hundreds of streams that have sprouted up in the past six months have intermingled to such an extent that recognizing each has become impossible. Perhaps, like my kitchen's drain, my brain - and its repository of words - may just be clogged.
Whatever the case, the long and short of it is that I haven't written since finishing up my M.A thesis - and it doesn't feel right. It's not as if my life is incomplete without writing - the effect is much more unnerving than that. It's as if something's amiss, off-kilter, unbalanced. It's as if I've been robbed of the ability to express myself, to exercise my brain and, most importantly, to compose those word-concertos that I so loved hearing in my head.
That flow, that ravaani, the crescendos and decrescendos, those sudden changes in key. Ahhh. It's as if I've forgotten how to compose.
I hated it when I couldn't do it on the violin.
And I don't like it now.
1 comment:
You as well? Academia did it to me, now I can barely manage 20 pages a year let alone in a night!
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