Arrival

The arrival of The Book (there are many arrivals) was put on hold after this was written in 2016. I feel like I can continue right here right now from Day Seven as a different writer and a different person. Hopefully not a different book, but a better one alright! 

Meanwhile rewind to Pages, Durga Puja Kolkata, 1st October 2016, though I could have written this anytime anyplace.

Where have I arrived?

I recall how I wrote my parents a single line on getting hold of my first job through my own efforts - “I have arrived.” My mom remembered that till the end. I recall too how they greeted me and hugged me when THEY arrived home to spend Christmas and be at my convocation. And mom declared “This is the proudest homecoming!” I wonder what our parents feel as they watch our decline? Mom couldn’t see my phoenix rising moments. Indeed those moments though I can feel them in the returning strength of my wings, are still ahead of me.

Again I think of how a parent feels at the shocking death of a child before their eyes. Shocking, because you have actually feared this for years. You have tried to reach out to your child and warn them, yet feel powerless beyond a point. Like you were not entitled to cross a certain threshold behind which they had isolated themselves. It is difficult when talking about pride and joy to avoid talking about the opposite - the melancholy feelings around ones children. No, not the opposite of pride as in shame. There is no place for something as crass as shame. It is one of the lower emotions and we all struggle to transcend it.

I would say deep anxiety is what parents feels when they think the child is headed in a negative direction. Some of my readers here are parents. All of us are children. And I believe all of us have parented a project or a dream or a vision. We are all creators in some sense. And then there is of course the opposite of joy – sorrow. Or it could even be pain. Sorrow and pain are complex. They are about what you cannot help, but even more about what you could have helped. They are also about the compulsive behaviors that lead you to repeat your mistakes – yes both we and our children.

But all this was not intended. This post is not about mistakes and regrets but indeed about arrival of the sort I commenced it with. This post is supposed to be celebratory about how the exercise called Pages – an offshoot of MorningPages – had worked for me and where it had led me to in these almost six days of writing. First I have a view of The Book (A Night's Tale) from a place I hadn’t considered seeing it from. I was led up to that place by this exercise. It’s like the way I felt when I arrived at the flat top of Gun Hill, Mussoorie, at the age of almost ten. Huffing and puffing for I was a lazy child and no good at stuff like climbing. But this silly wimp felt uplifted. At the same time down to earth. Up there it felt very safe, secure. A valley looks great and very welcoming when you are sure you won’t topple into it. I am at a similar plateau now, as I see my book comfortably spread before me all around. There is a mild thrill and a deep comfort to the feeling.

My biggest challenge however starts from the seventh day - unlike the Good Lord who decided to rest. As I feel the culmination of a stage, I feel the impulses that drive me to the next stage. And that stage is a crucial one. If you read my Morning Pages, you can see my introspection to uncover the processes that drive my writing and creation of a finished product. It is different for each of us and it is revealing, when I view these in a mirror I have managed to hold steady, long enough to freeze frames and save the images. I now know what goes on and what can tip the balance. From where I have reached now, I am driving myself to do pages– sometimes with effort, sometimes eagerly jumping in, but always feeling the imperative even when I don’t feel the impulse. 

And that perhaps is where the discipline of being a writer comes in. The urge to write can be spontaneous, it can be overpowering. The discipline to do it and deliver an optimum quality, is however, learned. And I am finding myself learning. It becomes easier as I start to do it reflexively. It won’t always be the best work but it will always be work of a certain standard. And knowing when the time/word limit are reached. Yes that IS a constraint for a book, not one determined by an external authority - read college examiners – but by ones own understanding of intent and purpose and by ones grasp of what a work of writing is, as distinct from simply the act of writing. I write therefore I am. It comes naturally whenever I feel like it and qualifies me as a writer but not yet as author of a work. 

My challenge from day seven then is to write THE BOOK in the same way that I am writing pages but with somewhat more foresight. Too much foresight would impede free flow and the offshoot of branches on the parent tree. There is a time to let grow and a time to prune and that is the next process up for learning. 

Hopefully in the next six rounds, by which time I would have arrived at the dos and don’ts of the book. Here’s to A Night’s Tale. I will let go and let it be written and find direction. Like a new river that has been waiting to start spurting as mountain spring. By the time Durga symbolically claims her victory and releases those energies all around to be absorbed and stored by us, the real name of the book would have found itself. As also the number of chapters and what intends to tuck itself into each. Well I can take another week as a buffer. 

I need to pace this and be addicted. Being addicted to a good thing can change the world! Watch this space for a transformation of Pages into The Book. The root bridges will find a life of their own. The bamboos will be gently withdrawn … and … ok chup. Signed off 12:08

Footnote: While I feel Morning Pages are way behind me, Morning Chapters will take over soon. And journaling will quietly go back to scribbling pads. 

Edit: 13th October 2020 - The Book is as yet Unwritten. Maybe it's time to rename this blog "Written" :)