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Wishful Thinking of a Daydreaming Writer
Ah, the dreaming.
What if I had the perfect story I have been wanting to write? What if the characters would just zoom in to focus and do what they are supposed to do? What if the words that perfectly capture their actions and the setting could simply occur to me. What if I could lay out the foundation of a glorious novel brick by brick, one brick at a time? What if I had the patience? What if I had the time? What if my mind was clear and it had what it took to create something marvelous? What if I could have the confidence in my writing? What if I would just give it enough time? What if I had the right words to say what I have wanted to say? What if? What if I had the control of my motivations? What if I would not have to expose myself every day to an uninteresting surrounding? The unnecessary noise, the cacophony that holds nothing for me. When would this end, I wonder.
When I describe a situation, I often chafe over the feeling that I am not saying or writing what I have in mind in the first place. I do not have the steering of my own language. What comes out is unsatisfying in profound ways. As if standing on ice, I slip and get pulled in a different direction of thought process than the one I thought I would take when I start speaking (or writing). This happens because of two reasons. First, I have been impoverished in matters of conversational wisdom in these past few months. I find myself in an intellectually barren land where intelligent thoughts do no sprout. I realize that I have been worrying more and thinking less. This is such an unhealthy situation. Obviously, the weight of my worries suppresses the possibility of any thoughtful cogitation. As the days go by and light turns into dark, I feel dull and insipid. No wonder my thoughts are inchoate and weak when they are conceived.
I have been meaning to leave this place but I have not been able to. I need the escape velocity. I propel myself every time only to keep coming back. Second, there is definitely a lack of fluency over the exercise of words – words that can capture my thoughts and emotions, words that can become wheels to my train of thoughts. This has been most discouraging. Ambiguity prevails in my thoughts and in my words. I am not sure that I have anything to say anymore. I know I cannot just wish all this away although I have been doing this admittedly everyday.
It appears impossible to me that I shall ever be able to write a story that spans a good hundred thousand words. I focus my thinking to the idea of a story and I find bits and pieces. Disjointed and littered. What do I do with them? What should I write about? I am not writing – may be that is the problem. I am just not writing. I should not force myself to write. I should plan well what I am going to write. I haven’t got any idea how to create the characters or what they should look like. I have got just my wishful thinking and my mind paddling madly before it suffocates drowning in that pool of drudgery. It is just easier, simpler to masturbate and wake up late in the morning with the same self-loathing that I went to bed with. If this is suffering it is pointless. There is nothing coming out of it. Let alone a good story.
I think I haven’t got the supportive environment in which the creative process can take place. I come home slogging in dull routine all day long pretending to respect the processes of a depressingly mediocre work thinking all the while : Why, just why, am I stuck here ? What is that I have done to deserve this? Actually I have never thought the second one. I have strong preference for self-loathing over self-pity.