A friend inquired what was my inspiration (for my writings). Coffee breaks, a walk outside… I think no. I like coffee as well as walks, at times even with fellow human beings, but that doesn’t inspire me or opens my mind to something.
Many people claim to have that effect by smoking weed, or inhaling insane amount of tar in form of cigarettes. Some get it from travelling and exploring the outside world. I do none of these in order to create something, mostly writing.
I am one lazy person who wants to explore places but isn’t ready to get on train. I hate going places sitting in train. I hate journeying, even to my home. I just want to be at a place and know it. The best way (to me under these circumstances) is to read literature, watch movies, tap in to YouTube. However, I do go places and have a feel of it but not going somewhere doesn’t limit me.
This might be a complete disaster for someone else. But, for me, most of my writings have evolved from a simple room with a fan, a couple of mattresses on floor and some pillows to keep my back comfortable when I recline to type. I like isolation. I want to be left alone with loud music so that nothing else disturbs me and I am concentrated on to what I do. Complete silence is disturbing to me. It often deviates my thought process.
I am not an acclaimed writer. But I am a good one. I know that. I believe that because I have read filth, I have read classics. I have read them as a naive reader and I have read them as a critic. This belief keeps me going. I don’t have the luxury to doubt myself and I never do.
Most of the times, it is spontaneity of thoughts that someone would brood over and let pass, while I just type them (real fast). Not that typing slow will let it escape but typing fast means your emotions/thoughts are as raw as you thought them to be. Brooding over and getting slow forces you to change the words. This, for me, distances the text from its rawness and originality.
These are my weird ways. I like the isolation. I like the moments of dullness when you have absolutely nothing to do. The moments when you actually realise that you do breathe and there is a heart that beats. The next moment, when you again forget these default procedures of your body, is the moment of creation for me. And it doesn’t happen every time. It is one of those moments.
Others are, just thinking about a movie or a scene and finding something that compels you to write about it. Sometimes, it is a few lines from some writer and you think, ‘I can outdo this piece’ or write a similar one because it interests you. Sometimes it is the rain drops, the way they fall from the trees.
Writing is a process. Different writers have their own. ‘Kubla Khan’ was written when Coleridge was hallucinating after smoking weed. ‘Madhushala’ was written by a man who never touched liquor. Think about Wordsworth who had no eyes and yet he saw nature the way no one could. Chinua Achebe won the Nobel and devastated the Western yardstick of judging an African civilisation that was like any other on earth. His writing emerged from the colonial past. We have hundreds of examples and all succeeded beautifully.
I am like corals, sitting still and being beautiful.