Of late, I've been suffering from a severe case of writer's block and I've been feeling nervous about it (not that I'm much of a writer, but still...) Horrible thoughts have crossed my mind. Is this the end of my writing streak? Am I running out of things to write about? Did I have only so many poems in me? Am I like a one movie actor? Well, I've decided to take desperate measures, to overhaul my way of functioning. I've been doing some research, looking up websites on writer's block, reading what great writers have to say about writing, and have finally ended up with the idea of scribbling in secret notebooks for my own joy.
Kerouac in his "Belief and Technique for Modern Prose" says, among other things, that you should have "scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy." I know he's talking about prose, but a lot of what he says is true of other forms of writing too. And at this point, the reader will probably say, "Duh! That's obvious! You mean you didn't have any scribbled notes?" Well sometimes, as one goes through life, one needs to be reminded of the most basic, obvious rules, what with the world changing so rapidly. And Kerouac helps a lot with that. Always go back to it if you feel lost. Have you missed out something? I had. I did have typewritten, or rather, computerwritten pages, but I no longer had too many scribbled notes. The notes I had were the ones I scribbled at times when I didn't have the computer around me. Now I have realized, they are both indispensable. One can't replace the other. The feeling of having a pen in your hands and drawing out letters on a hard surface cannot be the same as pressing keys. The very pace of your thoughts changes when you start using a pen. And this may be taking things too literally, but maybe the typewriter can't be replaced by the computer either. The typewriter has a different tactile quality and the very force required to press down the keys so that they can make an impression on paper must surely affect the process of writing. The noise of an old rackety typewriter is irreplaceable too. The experience of typing things that appear on the screen and come out on paper only if you print them out is very different from that of typing things that are instantly spewed out by the typewriter in concrete form. And I love the fact that Kerouac actually typed on long rolls of paper instead of sheets, like a long road. MS Word does create the virtual impression of typing on a long roll, but seeing this loooong black and white roll of paper oozing out of the typewriter is definitely not the same as seeing only five inches of that roll appear on the screen as you scroll up and down. The link between life and art is completely destroyed by the process of typing on a computer.
Now, why did it take so long for me to realize that? Blame technology for it. I was not this dumb when I was younger. There was a time when I was suspicious of computers and refused to type my papers directly on MS Word. Moreover, I had this favourite pen that my father gifted me, and there was a time when I was terribly dependent on it. My ideas would flow only if I used that particular pen. I remember there were so many times when I'd misplace it and spend hours looking for it, refusing to resort to another one. And here I am, transformed into this techno-savvy writer who only types on the computer and sometimes, even directly on the blog (you see, there was a time when I used to write on MS Word and then paste my writings onto the blog). I don't know how and when this happened. I just vaguely remember 'wise' people telling me to get used to technology, learn to process information on the computer, because soon, there will be nothing available outside the virtual world. I don't blame these 'wise' people. I half agreed with them too. But now I wonder, is the current of history so powerful that we can't determine the way it goes while we are a part of it? Surely we can keep alive the physical side of life. There is still so much world out there.
This blog is taking a toll on me too. Although I know that just a handful of people read this blog, writing on a public forum does make you a wee bit self-conscious. My brain has probably frozen out of self-consciousness. I need a place to write in private, where nobody can see how my mind works. Right now, I feel as if the private space between me and the computer is being intruded upon by these invisible people who glance at what I write and pass on to other blogs because it doesn't impress them. I am paralyzed by the need to impress. It's funny, this process of writing. You want people to read and appreciate what you write, but you can't write if you know they are reading what you write. Another thing Kerouac says, and this is a beauty: "something that you feel will find its own form." (I'm taking it out of context, and my interpretation might contradict the rest of the things he says, but I like to see it this way too.) Maybe the things I'm feeling right now are in the process of finding a form other than a blog entry or a poem. Maybe the form they want is a simple diary entry or a scrawl at the corner of a page in a dogeared notebook. Then so be it. Let them find their own forms. I won't try to force them into a poem or a story or an essay.
So I have started scribbling once again, with my favourite old pen on a beautiful notebook I bought the other day. A beautiful notebook with Madhubani paintings on the cover. My favourite pen, by the way, is a Parker fountain pen. There is a story behind this pen. My father gave it to me on my birthday and told me how, as a child, he saw his own father using a similar Parker pen. My grandfather died when my father was really young, so it must be a memory my father treasures. And he told me he always wished for a pen like that, which is why he wanted me to have one. Yes, a lot of sentiments attached to that one tiny black pen.
To end this post on a less sentimental note, I must say, I love starting new notebooks. Starting a new MS Word document is nothing compared to the joy of putting your own mark on a fresh white first page. And if your handwriting is as untidy as mine, and if you are as clumsy as I am with fountain pens, well then it's just the beginning of a gloriously, deliciously scrawly and blotchy journey.
Kerouac in his "Belief and Technique for Modern Prose" says, among other things, that you should have "scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy." I know he's talking about prose, but a lot of what he says is true of other forms of writing too. And at this point, the reader will probably say, "Duh! That's obvious! You mean you didn't have any scribbled notes?" Well sometimes, as one goes through life, one needs to be reminded of the most basic, obvious rules, what with the world changing so rapidly. And Kerouac helps a lot with that. Always go back to it if you feel lost. Have you missed out something? I had. I did have typewritten, or rather, computerwritten pages, but I no longer had too many scribbled notes. The notes I had were the ones I scribbled at times when I didn't have the computer around me. Now I have realized, they are both indispensable. One can't replace the other. The feeling of having a pen in your hands and drawing out letters on a hard surface cannot be the same as pressing keys. The very pace of your thoughts changes when you start using a pen. And this may be taking things too literally, but maybe the typewriter can't be replaced by the computer either. The typewriter has a different tactile quality and the very force required to press down the keys so that they can make an impression on paper must surely affect the process of writing. The noise of an old rackety typewriter is irreplaceable too. The experience of typing things that appear on the screen and come out on paper only if you print them out is very different from that of typing things that are instantly spewed out by the typewriter in concrete form. And I love the fact that Kerouac actually typed on long rolls of paper instead of sheets, like a long road. MS Word does create the virtual impression of typing on a long roll, but seeing this loooong black and white roll of paper oozing out of the typewriter is definitely not the same as seeing only five inches of that roll appear on the screen as you scroll up and down. The link between life and art is completely destroyed by the process of typing on a computer.
Now, why did it take so long for me to realize that? Blame technology for it. I was not this dumb when I was younger. There was a time when I was suspicious of computers and refused to type my papers directly on MS Word. Moreover, I had this favourite pen that my father gifted me, and there was a time when I was terribly dependent on it. My ideas would flow only if I used that particular pen. I remember there were so many times when I'd misplace it and spend hours looking for it, refusing to resort to another one. And here I am, transformed into this techno-savvy writer who only types on the computer and sometimes, even directly on the blog (you see, there was a time when I used to write on MS Word and then paste my writings onto the blog). I don't know how and when this happened. I just vaguely remember 'wise' people telling me to get used to technology, learn to process information on the computer, because soon, there will be nothing available outside the virtual world. I don't blame these 'wise' people. I half agreed with them too. But now I wonder, is the current of history so powerful that we can't determine the way it goes while we are a part of it? Surely we can keep alive the physical side of life. There is still so much world out there.
This blog is taking a toll on me too. Although I know that just a handful of people read this blog, writing on a public forum does make you a wee bit self-conscious. My brain has probably frozen out of self-consciousness. I need a place to write in private, where nobody can see how my mind works. Right now, I feel as if the private space between me and the computer is being intruded upon by these invisible people who glance at what I write and pass on to other blogs because it doesn't impress them. I am paralyzed by the need to impress. It's funny, this process of writing. You want people to read and appreciate what you write, but you can't write if you know they are reading what you write. Another thing Kerouac says, and this is a beauty: "something that you feel will find its own form." (I'm taking it out of context, and my interpretation might contradict the rest of the things he says, but I like to see it this way too.) Maybe the things I'm feeling right now are in the process of finding a form other than a blog entry or a poem. Maybe the form they want is a simple diary entry or a scrawl at the corner of a page in a dogeared notebook. Then so be it. Let them find their own forms. I won't try to force them into a poem or a story or an essay.
So I have started scribbling once again, with my favourite old pen on a beautiful notebook I bought the other day. A beautiful notebook with Madhubani paintings on the cover. My favourite pen, by the way, is a Parker fountain pen. There is a story behind this pen. My father gave it to me on my birthday and told me how, as a child, he saw his own father using a similar Parker pen. My grandfather died when my father was really young, so it must be a memory my father treasures. And he told me he always wished for a pen like that, which is why he wanted me to have one. Yes, a lot of sentiments attached to that one tiny black pen.
To end this post on a less sentimental note, I must say, I love starting new notebooks. Starting a new MS Word document is nothing compared to the joy of putting your own mark on a fresh white first page. And if your handwriting is as untidy as mine, and if you are as clumsy as I am with fountain pens, well then it's just the beginning of a gloriously, deliciously scrawly and blotchy journey.
