When will I really write?
Enough to be in the league, enough to gather praise, not to be the highlight but just right enough to make an impact
When will there be enough clarity in thought, imagination backed up with characters who don’t let you forget them, who live on in minds with words that I have made them repeat. Dialogues I have made them practice, when will there be creativity that makes it all worth it, perhaps not make the skin prickle but relate immediately, to lives, to instances, that make the reader feel “I know what she s talking about”
I know there needs to be what is most vital
The thing I term exposure which Is really just more people, more experience, more life and not to forget formal training.
But if all this does not have an intrinsic value. If what is inside is just plain repetitive cries, with no new story to be said, nothing that is meant to unfold someday then where does that leave me.
Most days I am glad that this is not the fag end. That tomorrow doesn’t leave me any more shattered than today. That it’s indeed just the beginning. That where I stand at 23 is not too bad.
If you believe that there is a threshold for exposure then am way ahead. You don’t know what I mean do you?
If at x age I am supposed to know these many things and at age Y I have to proceed to the next level of artists then I mean to say I must probably be at an advanced 26 or 27
Of course there are no hard and fast rules in life or in literature.
Earlier an artist could afford to be nonchalant, to be willingly detached, to have no real feeling towards what he has done. He could move on to the next stage, identify new plots and new scenery, he always knew he would make a comeback.
Now talent takes a back stage. No one cares if you are back or not. No one cares enough to chase you down for your next best effort, cos at the next street corner the new artist is born and is crying out already.
Where do I fit in?
I don’t claim to be anywhere, I have not even got my ability right and so it would be devastating to stretch my leg without even sitting down first.
Ploughing on, plodding on, making the best of now, when do these words take a turn for the better
When is it really enough?
Enough to be in the league, enough to gather praise, not to be the highlight but just right enough to make an impact
When will there be enough clarity in thought, imagination backed up with characters who don’t let you forget them, who live on in minds with words that I have made them repeat. Dialogues I have made them practice, when will there be creativity that makes it all worth it, perhaps not make the skin prickle but relate immediately, to lives, to instances, that make the reader feel “I know what she s talking about”
I know there needs to be what is most vital
The thing I term exposure which Is really just more people, more experience, more life and not to forget formal training.
But if all this does not have an intrinsic value. If what is inside is just plain repetitive cries, with no new story to be said, nothing that is meant to unfold someday then where does that leave me.
Most days I am glad that this is not the fag end. That tomorrow doesn’t leave me any more shattered than today. That it’s indeed just the beginning. That where I stand at 23 is not too bad.
If you believe that there is a threshold for exposure then am way ahead. You don’t know what I mean do you?
If at x age I am supposed to know these many things and at age Y I have to proceed to the next level of artists then I mean to say I must probably be at an advanced 26 or 27
Of course there are no hard and fast rules in life or in literature.
Earlier an artist could afford to be nonchalant, to be willingly detached, to have no real feeling towards what he has done. He could move on to the next stage, identify new plots and new scenery, he always knew he would make a comeback.
Now talent takes a back stage. No one cares if you are back or not. No one cares enough to chase you down for your next best effort, cos at the next street corner the new artist is born and is crying out already.
Where do I fit in?
I don’t claim to be anywhere, I have not even got my ability right and so it would be devastating to stretch my leg without even sitting down first.
Ploughing on, plodding on, making the best of now, when do these words take a turn for the better
When is it really enough?
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