Skip to main content

Writer’s Life

Smitten with the written word is he. But this is not entirely an innocent love that shuns all thoughts of material gains. 

Omar’s love for the written word has a smattering of worldly motives. More than a smattering in fact.

It all began when Omar decided to copy every book in the world. “I want to build my own library,” he told me.”

“Why don’t you buy them?” simpleton that I am, I always fail to decipher Omar’s deeper motives.

“I want to write my own books. And it will save money.”

“But this is not writing, this is copying somebody’s work.” I have already admitted to not being very sharp.

“I am writing. This is my handwriting.” Considering the finality in Omar’s tone, I decide not to wax eloquent on plagiarism.

A chicken-hearted simpleton. Not very flattering!

Thus a couple of stories are written. And here ends the first phase of the writer’s life.

It is with swarming thoughts and plans of getting rich and famous that the second phase starts.

Now Omar wants the world us to see what he is seeing, imagining.  And he wants to become rich.

“How much money do you need to get a book published? I will get it published with my pocket money and then sell it in shops,” he outlines his writerly plans.

“If some publisher likes your book, she will pay you for writing it, “I tell him about the rosy side of writers’ life.

“Really!” he is excited and tells me about the book that he is writing.

“It is really good. It is about an astronaut who lives in Australia and has a rocket. One day he lands in Japan and meets children there. Do you think some publishers would like to publish it?”

“Yes, it sounds interesting. Keep writing.”

For a couple of days, Omar is excited and is seen writing at all times and in all positions: lying down in the lounge, cuddled in bed, sitting on a sofa.  

 “Mr.Robert is now in Pakistan and he is writing books with children. They have set up a small book shop, they are going to sell books and become rich,” Omar tells me one day.

“Robert?”

“The astronaut in my book! He is now in Pakistan.” Robert is now Omar’s alter ego. Omar is excited. He believes he is writing a best seller, and he is vicariously living the life he wants to live. The best phase of a writer’s life.

Now starts the next phase.

One day, the writer seems cranky and in not so good a mood.

“I think my book is not good enough. Nobody would want to publish it.”

“It is good. Just keep writing, write what you want to write about, don’t care about getting published,” I pass on the classic advice given to all wanna-be writers. 

This works for a few days, and then:

“Robert built a gold castle with children and has gone back to Japan. I don’t know what to write next. Can’t think of anything,” the writer sounds frustrated.

The little writer is suffering from a massive writer’s block.

For the next few days, Omar is in the worst possible mood. And then he decides to settle for an ordinary life:

“Keep this with you. I don’t think I can finish it. Maybe, I am too young,” Omar hands me his unfinished manuscript.


I am keeping the manuscript safe. I know he is going to ask for it one day. I know once you fall prey to the scourge of writing, you remain a captive. Publishers or no publishers.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Napoleon and His Family in the Land of Lilliputians

As Napoleon the rooster traveled in the white Suzuki pickup van that was taking him to the Land of Lilliputians, he wondered. Yesterday, he along with the five hens who now cackled in the van were put in a separate basket.  They were sold to the Lilliputians. Napoleon looked at the five hens who were now under his guardianship. “What a diversified lot,” he thought. Somebody cackled in soft purring tones. He knew it must be Chandni , the eldest, the prettiest of the hens. She was snowy white with black dots.  Yes, there she was, sitting snugly near the window; oblivious to the world around her except the warm egg which she had just laid. Chandni was good at it: laying eggs day after day. “The ever maternal Chandni,” thought Napoleon and smiled indulgently at her. However, at times it irritated him that Chandi treated her eggs as if they merited a pride of performance award. “As if this is the only act of creativity in the world! But then this is a hen’s lot. W

How Selfishia got Rid of Her Feathery Moustache

Selfihsia the selfish hen was unhappy. And understandably so. After all, having a feathery moustache is not the same thing as having a new hairdo or a brand new dress from a well-known boutique. She couldn’t flaunt it.     It didn’t make her feel beautiful. It didn’t even make her feel like an ordinary hen with a few feathers missing. She felt feathery at the wrong places and this made her sad. One day when she was crying and looking at her reflection in the puddle of water near the grapefruit tree, Kayseria strutted toward her. “Selfhisha, I have clucked at the thought and have finally come up with a solution,” she said. All the hens had been thinking about Selfishia’s moustache for a while now. There had been five meetings under the grape fruit tree to get Selfishia out of her predicament. “Really!” Selfisha clucked loudly with hope. Hearing Selfishia’s loud cluck the others came trotting and gathered around her. When the cluck cluck of excitement settled

Martian in the Land of Lilliputians

“Are you really from Mars?” Saif asks me in his usual pitch of voice: loud. He apparently presumes I am sitting on the ceiling fan.  “Saif, I am near. I can even hear you whisper. Yes, I am from Mars.” Saif tries to lower his voice a notch. He doesn’t succeed.  “No, you are not. You make up stories, and you don’t understand the language of birds and animals. You have made up also those stories about Selfishia and Kayseria.” “Saif, first you doubt my Martian antecedents and then you challenge my communication abilities. Okay, if you don’t want to believe it, don’t,” I say with Martian nonchalance. “But why do you say so? Okay, now that the Curiosity Rover has landed on Mars will you go back?” “I don’t need any curiosity rover. I can go there on my own volition, just by snapping my fingers and closing my eyes.” Martian nonchalance helps to make your point. “I know this can’t be true. You are not from Mars,” Saif asserts his nine years old adult-hood.