I often dream of returning to an empty home after a day well spent at work and with friends. I yearn to listen to the sound of my own footsteps on stairs that I have not had the time to scrub. As I dig into my bag to look for keys, the fact that nobody is waiting for me inside except the silence of my living room and the slow trickle of a leaky tap at my washbasin, makes me smile. I like not having to share this feeling with anyone. I like knowing that all the stuff I left behind in the hurry burry of the morning are in the exact same places, just as I had left them. I like knowing that I have the whole evening for myself. I like taking long hot showers and trying hard not to think about anything. I like that I can walk around in my home with nothing but a slip and shorts. The tea is a little too hot today so I leave it alone for sometime only to forget about it later. Now I am too busy trying to look for a song on YouTube. The one that an old friend who doesn’t talk to me anymore had made me listen to 100 times. I find it but quickly lose interest so I try to write for some time. It is hard sometimes and harder some other times. I keep looking at the empty page thinking of all the things that I should say, that I remembered I would say but I still cannot write. I am too happy to write. So I stop writing. But I dream of writing every day.
Why can’t I write every day? I mean, is it that difficult? Some days, yes. No matter how much I want to write, eventually the persistence of the stupid blinking cursor overpowers my desire to put words together and I give up and go watch Gilmore Girls or something. And then there is this other problem, a more serious one. Just when I am about to write, my stalker ego comes alive and I start reading other people’s writing like a woman possessed. I am simply obsessed with writers and their blogs and their lives. I have a humongous capacity to stalk writing. And then after I have finished reading their stuff and have nourished my envy enough (which I enjoy) I feel miserable (which I do not enjoy) and then I just stop writing.
I can’t wait anymore to have a specific state of mind to be able to write. I am not saying that I am going to be disciplined and have a time to write and all; god knows the plan will fall flat on its ass even before it takes off. But I think I am getting closer to finding the space between reading and writing. Something interesting is happening to my reading. I am now reading Tibor Fischer’s ‘Under the Frog’. And I am noticing a pattern in the way in which I am reading these days.
I am paying attention to words. In that, when I was reading ‘Em and the Big Hoom’, I was confused about what I should be paying attention to; the words or the story or the characters and what they say or to just read and get done with the book. Now I am a little more focused on the words. I like watching them grow into a story. I am particularly interested in trying to understand why the writer used a word as opposed to so many others. I am paying attention to adjectives, to details and just the whole idea of writing.
I just stopped to read what I had written so far, which now I am thinking was a mistake because it is crazy how I started to write about some far away home and then skipped to writing and reading. What do I do with myself?