Reading other peoples writing is so inspiring. It gives me ideas about the kind of writing I might try. I used to enjoy writing at one point of time. Now what I write is mostly boring stuff. I'm convinced this is because I am working. My most prolific years were-respectively- seventh grade, college and T.I.S.S.
Seventh grade because I had an English teacher who for the first time realised what I had all along: that I was a terrific writer. *Here I don a pair of extremely cool shades and lean impressively against a wall*.
More specifically, she said, "Who's the new girl who wrote a fabulous entrance test paper?" and shook my hand. I remember blushing (ME!), remembering all those essays and scintillating short stories that always came back with a 'Fair' (I mean 'fair'?? What kind of a feedback is that anyway for a STORY written by a KID?), and thought 'Ha! Good riddance to YOU, old school!' I'm sure when I came back and told this story to my parents they had their share of 'Ha!' moments (which, by the rules governing parenthood, they are only allowed to subtly betray.). They had been trying to get me change schools for a very long time. By the way, my logic for refusing to leave that school, the first time, was because I was one of eight kids in junior school allowed to wear a wrist watch because I was a Prefect. I guess I liked gloating over that fact*.
College, because I still believed I was a genius-waiting-to-emerge *** and T.I.S.S. because by then I knew the truth (refer to ***).
Working is boring. It severely cuts down on my vela time when the only things competing for mind-share are two library cards, free movies off the internet (oh man, some day IPR in India will wake up with a start and all this will end, won't it? Sniff.) and endless piles of books I'm way too old for.
Why did I have to grow into cliched adulthood? Gasping with shock on birthdays (Twenty FOUR?! No friggin way!), having all the joy sucked out of life, having to set a schedule for fun (or miss losing the weekend to sleep)...
I'm pretty sure I'm going to be one of those who starts every sentence with 'In those days...' very soon. I'm going to wonder why my (nonexistent-now and for a long time hence) kids don't accept my Wisdom and Experience already instead of having to actually, stupid things, acquire it themselves. I'm also going to be the one with the mid-life crisis when I will stride up to my boss, repeat the clever, rehearsed, speech about why I'm too good for my job, and quit and spend a year travelling with hippies. Ok, that last bit won't happen because I'm never going to be in such a job. As of forever, I'm way too interesting to regress to that :D.
*This disturbing aspect of my personality revealed itself rather early in life. As a wee toddler of four, I was the only one in a class of fifty (hundred, if you count both sections) allowed to drink and pee at will. This had everything to do with a medical condition and nothing to do with the benevolence of the mainstream Indian educational system. I would, apparently, drink pointedly from my bottle, everytime some other toddler was refused permission to drink water**.
**I have no regrets. I was too young to know that I was actually trying to start a rebellion instead of being the happy Babu in the colonial system.
***Now I know I just have the temperament of a genius (the yo-yoing temper, the mood swings and the constant need for stimulus) without the actual genius bit being a by-product. I haven't shared this with anybody as yet. I'm perfectly happy to let my demeanour fool them for as long as they like. It's hard to help being born with a face that always looks to be deep in serious thought when all I'm really fantasizing about is mutton korma with naan.
Seventh grade because I had an English teacher who for the first time realised what I had all along: that I was a terrific writer. *Here I don a pair of extremely cool shades and lean impressively against a wall*.
More specifically, she said, "Who's the new girl who wrote a fabulous entrance test paper?" and shook my hand. I remember blushing (ME!), remembering all those essays and scintillating short stories that always came back with a 'Fair' (I mean 'fair'?? What kind of a feedback is that anyway for a STORY written by a KID?), and thought 'Ha! Good riddance to YOU, old school!' I'm sure when I came back and told this story to my parents they had their share of 'Ha!' moments (which, by the rules governing parenthood, they are only allowed to subtly betray.). They had been trying to get me change schools for a very long time. By the way, my logic for refusing to leave that school, the first time, was because I was one of eight kids in junior school allowed to wear a wrist watch because I was a Prefect. I guess I liked gloating over that fact*.
College, because I still believed I was a genius-waiting-to-emerge *** and T.I.S.S. because by then I knew the truth (refer to ***).
Working is boring. It severely cuts down on my vela time when the only things competing for mind-share are two library cards, free movies off the internet (oh man, some day IPR in India will wake up with a start and all this will end, won't it? Sniff.) and endless piles of books I'm way too old for.
Why did I have to grow into cliched adulthood? Gasping with shock on birthdays (Twenty FOUR?! No friggin way!), having all the joy sucked out of life, having to set a schedule for fun (or miss losing the weekend to sleep)...
I'm pretty sure I'm going to be one of those who starts every sentence with 'In those days...' very soon. I'm going to wonder why my (nonexistent-now and for a long time hence) kids don't accept my Wisdom and Experience already instead of having to actually, stupid things, acquire it themselves. I'm also going to be the one with the mid-life crisis when I will stride up to my boss, repeat the clever, rehearsed, speech about why I'm too good for my job, and quit and spend a year travelling with hippies. Ok, that last bit won't happen because I'm never going to be in such a job. As of forever, I'm way too interesting to regress to that :D.
*This disturbing aspect of my personality revealed itself rather early in life. As a wee toddler of four, I was the only one in a class of fifty (hundred, if you count both sections) allowed to drink and pee at will. This had everything to do with a medical condition and nothing to do with the benevolence of the mainstream Indian educational system. I would, apparently, drink pointedly from my bottle, everytime some other toddler was refused permission to drink water**.
**I have no regrets. I was too young to know that I was actually trying to start a rebellion instead of being the happy Babu in the colonial system.
***Now I know I just have the temperament of a genius (the yo-yoing temper, the mood swings and the constant need for stimulus) without the actual genius bit being a by-product. I haven't shared this with anybody as yet. I'm perfectly happy to let my demeanour fool them for as long as they like. It's hard to help being born with a face that always looks to be deep in serious thought when all I'm really fantasizing about is mutton korma with naan.
how well you have expressed even the apparently deceptive quality of your looks and demeanour...and you still dont think that you are a genius of the first order? well, literary genius always takes time to manifest itself. its possessor frets, feels melancholic, suicidal, loony until someone points out to her that these are symptoms preceding the appearance of genius...soon, you will start producing masterpieces.
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