Writer’s Block

 Writer’s block has crept in; so much so that, despite a lot of decluttering done, the block grew taller; looming large like a cloud. 

On the other hand, as I declutterred my desk and cupboard, I was creating more space. More space to put in more things I love, although I love to be labelled as a minimalist. Lo and behold, a new entrant made way to the desk: A Moveable Feast: By Ernest Hemingway. I recall having this book before but somehow let go of it amidst the multitude of home-shifting I had endured. Nevertheless, the feast was here to celebrate. Relishing each word, every employment of words and their style. Simplicity at its best: meaning and visual imagery oozing in every sense, every sentence read. Something that I read just for the love of the language and the way it’s being put to use: the wordsmithery.

A perfect way to remove writer’s block is to just write one true sentence… I understand from Hemingway. In the age of every sentence having to go through the gates of AI for validation, and of course peer pressure: what if you are just asked : did you check in ChatGPT, writer’s block is only bound to arise and never really go away: because you’re never truly reading or writing : you’re just spitting; rather puking. It’s not so much like how you use a calculator to do the math: which is kind of like the means to the end. With language, it’s different: there’s a labyrinthine layer of emotions and creativity associated with it: it’s almost inseparable… that is if you feel it: and not just behave transactional: like a bot.

In any case, I got more pages left in A Moveable Feast: Hemingway has certainly been the trigger. Even otherwise, to write, you need to read… it’s not usually the other way round. Even if you produce sentences otherwise, they probably don’t carry a lot of life… they’re like the wannabes who like some quick fame and fixes. 

Depth comes with reading and meeting people who are real, when you have real conversations.

Signing off, thanks to Hemingway, and my kind of getaway: solo work trip. Writing made its way, as every word fell on the tip of the thumb, typed on the notes in my phone, post a home-packed meal for dinner: idlies laden with podi, wrapped in banana leaf. The dimly lit coaches of the Indian Railways during night journeys: a quick preparatory look at the seat positioning so that the mind could be conditioned to subconsciously write a word or two: Side Lower : this made the proposition of writing a lot more possible. 

The icing on the cake: Side Lower right in the beginning of the coach gave me a room-like feeling with a curved L shaped barricade right next to the door. It’s like you’ve gained something special, especially when you are travelling alone. 

I just had to make the most use. 

Good night, until next time. ❤️