There is something I want to write about writing itself. It feels so strange. At times it all just flows, like sand in an hourglass. Your thoughts, feelings, ideas literally pour out from a place inside you through your fingertips and it all just makes sense. The process is at times totally independent of your capability as a writer. Letters form words and words form sentences and it feels like the mind is not even thinking or articulating these sentences. It’s happening on its own.
Other times, it’s like thick ketchup that has solidified near the mouth of the bottle and you can whack it from the back all you want, it won’t come out. After a lot of effort when it does, it splatters all over the plate, perhaps ruining the tablecloth or your clothes. You end up eating but all that effort takes away the pleasure of having those fries in the first place. Similarly, you will have those words on a page but you will have so much redrafting, editing and polishing to do, that you will begin to doubt your ability in the art itself.
There are times when inspiration has struck, when the words are nudging and jostling each other in your mind to make their way out, you would give anything for a pen or a laptop (a charged one would be nice) just to commit them to a page, to some sort of permanence. As this blog suggests, I can only afford that sort of a luxury ‘while baby naps’ and that is a few precious hours in the day. And in those 90 minutes, whether I may become the afore-mentioned ketchup bottle or, very rarely, the hourglass, is all up to fate. And when it’s the latter, oh it’s so wonderfully sweet; those are the moments to work towards, to yearn for, to strive to achieve. And I caution myself to not let the fear of the ketchup bottle consume me, because the occasional hour glass is so completely worth many painful, ketchupy moments. I think you get the flow, pun and all. 😉 That is writing to me.