You must have for once felt that feeling which one gets after reading ones favorite writers. That gush of admiration and awe, making one pop their eyes out, silently praising in their head,”What the…how..just how beautifully and skilfully written is that…?” Sometimes one gets so impressed that they start using the same writing style for the coming weeks. They just can’t help it, the style has been so convincing, riveting!
This feeling strikes me every now and then. And has been striking me ever since I was a little kid, who had started off with the magician of words (sorry J.K Rowling comes later in my life) Roald Dahl. I actually continued reading him even after growing up (since I am always confused on the idea if I have grown up at all). However you see, writers changed, reading preferences changed, but one tiny desire always remained the same. One question Tee asks herself everyday.
Tee says: I admire how some people use words. I admire different writing styles, each being a distict flower with its distinctive fragrance. I love how a few people capture static scenes into freely flowing words. How they join one bead of alphabets to the other, as if every bead was designed specifically to fit its place. The precision of each word used marvels me. How they have skilfully woven one descriptive phrase after another, that order, that arrangement leaves me bedazzled. Every new paragraph becoming one fresh step in the ladder of comprehension.
I am surprised by the heights of human imagination, how some lucky few create complicated psychologies, paint them in a thought-provoking plot (within minutes) and create worlds I could never have imagined. They transform endless trails of ink into roller coasters of emotions, making me live every feeling the non-existent characters experience. How lives are strewn on the crisp paper. Isn’t it amazing, leaves me gaping, even envious how a fortunate few become demi-gods. How they easily , brutally deprive their self created characters, off breathes which never for once have fogged a real mirror. But above all, they leave me in astonishment over how they were able to leave me in this astonished state?
And then Tee asks me, Tee asks herself: I know you have believed in dreams, ever since you were a kid. But hasn’t the dream dragged on too long not changing into a reality, like a curtain continuing to slide off to finally reveal the stage but the sliding won’t end? When would your words begin to produce the same spark? When would you have the luxury of being so rich with words that you could use a new one, exactly fitting in the required scenario? When exactly would you sit down and create a perfect transcript without cancelling out what you have written at least 4 times, cutting in the middle, changing the order of the words contrary to the order of your thohghts since they all come to you in a haphazard way? For how long would you wait for the day, when ideas will fall upon your head like apple fell on Newton’s? ( People can already sense your imperfection when you were about to give a similie of how spiders fall from the ceiling rather than apple falling from the tree.) In fact both examples are horribly inaccurate since you were not talking about Physics neither were you describing Ron’s paranoia of spiders. You were talking about writers! Of words and creativity. In the very first attempt you should have appropriately mentioned that for how long you would wait for that blissful moment of epiphany which writers have. But yes, apple and spiders came first in your mind, so how long would you wait for the day when the word epiphany comes first? For how long would you fret about the time when you will not be the only one reading your write-ups and ruefully smiling on their poor fortune to have been written by you?
Really when would you be able to escape your own demons and create new ones for the characters of your stories (which you have no intentions to write)? When will you exercise the power of taking lives away on paper and stop pondering over your own death and meaning of life? Would you ever be able to come out of the labyrinth of your own thoughts and pen down someone else’s, like Farees created Ali’s and Rabia produced Nadia’s? Will your words ever mean something, carry a message and sound sensible enough to be accredited as written by a mature teenager who uses the power of thinking efficiently rather than whinning and complaining about your incapabilities?
Tee asks me all these questions everyday, every night. In all my silent hours. These questions which I don’t have answers to, so I just hush her down. I hush her down and urge her to keep dreaming, to keep moving. I tell her, though unconvincingly, that just hold on, for a while longer. There will come a day when you would be able to produce the same feeling of admiration, the same expression of astonishment on your readers’ faces. Have faith, you will have readers one day. I quite Tee down yet I know I still dwel on the question in my dreams, that when really would I really write like a writer…?