Till now, most of what I have written here is trash, just nothing but decorated trash. You see, it was not my mistake alone but mainly the bad influence of the good books I read. Every time, I was amused with anything I read, I tried to chisel my writing in the same way. I tried to imitate every fine curve I came across. I chiseled it so badly for all those fineries, soon it was all broken in its meaning and effect. There was nothing left but words.
Here comes the help from my recently read two stories(Poor Folk & White Nights). These stories influenced me to enjoy what I read but not to get influenced and move away from my objective. Never it is explicitly said in these stories but I understood everything as if it is all written out clearly. This idea was constantly nagging my mind apart from the story and it's characters. By the end, I felt like I certainly could write something worth, something original, something I feel, if only I put half the effort I take in decorations to capture my own absurd thoughts. It is as simple as talking to yourself if only your are not ashamed of what you think. Never it has happened before. All the books I read implicitly made me feel low for their unattainable richness and that I can be no where near to being a writer.
I can write, what I'll never dare to say for my useless pride. I can ask all those questions I held back out of fear. If I write for someone else, I can show that I'm with them and I know what they are going through. I will not do it to help anybody but for myself because I love to wander there in those mysterious thoughts of man. I love to sit with him in that corner and watch his tears as they roll down. I love to make fun of him when he mis-handles things out of excited happiness. And I would love to unfold his secrets when he is being shrewd. I just like to sit and watch him in detail. Man is such an amazing creation. One can never be contented in studying 'The Man'. Now I am confidant that I can write volumes as I study him through.
Along with these stories, I've got some feedback from my friends.
Ravi says my blog is the worst of its kind. He even questions me why I elaborate so much on my negative side. He says that I am not even half bad of what I presented myself here as. For this, I don't know whether to scorn or smile. Doesn't he really understand me? Or is he right in saying that I'm trying to be someone else? Even Chichikov says that I only remember and write about the fights we had and will forget about the good moments to be cherished. With their suggestion, I shall write less about my insanity and shall not scare away my blog's first time visitors.
Here comes the help from my recently read two stories(Poor Folk & White Nights). These stories influenced me to enjoy what I read but not to get influenced and move away from my objective. Never it is explicitly said in these stories but I understood everything as if it is all written out clearly. This idea was constantly nagging my mind apart from the story and it's characters. By the end, I felt like I certainly could write something worth, something original, something I feel, if only I put half the effort I take in decorations to capture my own absurd thoughts. It is as simple as talking to yourself if only your are not ashamed of what you think. Never it has happened before. All the books I read implicitly made me feel low for their unattainable richness and that I can be no where near to being a writer.
I can write, what I'll never dare to say for my useless pride. I can ask all those questions I held back out of fear. If I write for someone else, I can show that I'm with them and I know what they are going through. I will not do it to help anybody but for myself because I love to wander there in those mysterious thoughts of man. I love to sit with him in that corner and watch his tears as they roll down. I love to make fun of him when he mis-handles things out of excited happiness. And I would love to unfold his secrets when he is being shrewd. I just like to sit and watch him in detail. Man is such an amazing creation. One can never be contented in studying 'The Man'. Now I am confidant that I can write volumes as I study him through.
Along with these stories, I've got some feedback from my friends.
Ravi says my blog is the worst of its kind. He even questions me why I elaborate so much on my negative side. He says that I am not even half bad of what I presented myself here as. For this, I don't know whether to scorn or smile. Doesn't he really understand me? Or is he right in saying that I'm trying to be someone else? Even Chichikov says that I only remember and write about the fights we had and will forget about the good moments to be cherished. With their suggestion, I shall write less about my insanity and shall not scare away my blog's first time visitors.
2 comments:
You did imitate and chisel like all the fine curves you came across. But if we wanted those fine curves, we would have sought the original, wouldnt we ? I am here to see your sculpture not someone else's.
On the same note, readers comments shouldnt entirely influence what you write and how you write it.
That is what I'm trying to do my friend, to make my own sculpture. But seems like, it'll take time to unfasten those shackles of beautiful impressions.
Thank you for the sub note :)
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