Invisible Ink

(Certain things you might want to know before reading this post: 1) It's very long 2) I have a Genetics test tomorrow and hence found it more worth my while to write this note rather than study 3) Expect a lot of abstractness)

Write, though your heart is aching
Write, even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by...

If you write
With your fear and sorrow
Write and maybe tomorrow
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just... write

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I've taken a song called called Smile by Natalie Cole and tweaked it a bit. Why? Because all of a sudden I find the need to patronize people without being pejorative. I started writing long before I can remember but for many years after that writer in me just lay dormant, in a self-induced coma, until a bunch of people (the Muffins and a handful of others) dragged it out by its hair, arms flailing madly and sucker-punched it back to life.

Over the years, I'd been often told to write. Just write. It seems so simple, doesn't it? To just sit down for an uncertain span of time and watch words crawl onto what was once nothing but a blank sheet of paper. For some people, maybe it is. For most others, it's not that simple. For a long time I thought I could write only when I felt strongly about something, when I was extremely upset or unbelievably overjoyed, or just when I hated or loved something enough to write about it. I knew nothing about style and hadn't quite found my own. I thought I needed to have a fixed topic to write about. The latter changed after I started blogging in 2006. I began to write about the most random things that seemed to somehow magically fit together to create one blog post after another.

While topics weren't an issue once I started writing, inspiration still was. Nothing could inspire me to write more than two or three posts a year, and that's when dA (deviantart.com) happened. Ajooni, Aditi, Dipti and Akanksha were hooked on to it and they forced me to go join as well. dA is a wonderful place where creativity thrives. It felt like home the minute I signed up. With that much original art, literature, photography and what not, all around me, it was impossible to resist writing and drawing and expressing myself in any other creative form I could manage. dA was in a way a path to self-discovery. I now realized that I could write very dark pieces, which strayed from the usual slapstick style I followed, and I also discovered that poetry really wasn't my thing. It was creative bliss. However, as all things go with us, we got bored of dA. Too many of our favourite artists/writers/friends/whoever were leaving and we were left with no reason to stay. While I occasionally signed in (with the bleak hope that Elbethius a.k.a. Mark Kozina has returned), I needed another creative outlet. Enter Facebook.

Facebook, Facebook... what can I say? It gave me the perfect platform for harrassing unsuspecting friends who happened to stumble upon my notes (the ability to tag people in them made it that much easier). Before I knew it, I was writing frequently again and with a lot of inspiration drawn from Nazia and others like her who frequently wrote and published notes on Facebook. I was a serial writer who derived sadistic pleasure from subjecting people to the agony of reading my endless rants. As if I needed any more egging on, Ajooni lent me a book - Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury - which sealed my fate. I was back!

Honestly, I never tire of talking about myself, but mayhaps this is a good time to move on to what I originally wanted to talk about - writing. Or rather, not writing. Do you know what happens to thoroughly bored students in a Chemistry class (by all means you're free to choose any other class)? They doodle. They stare vacantly into space. They sleep. They feign attention, which does wonders for all those with bright acting careers ahead of them. But more importantly, they ideate. More often than not they don't know that they're ideating. An idea just creeps up on them slowly from the shadows of their numbed minds. These ideas are meaningless at first... they seem like shapeless blobs of goo that the disgruntled canteen lady slaps on to your plate. However, if you look closely, if you pay them a little attention, they begin to take shape. These shapeless blobs metamorph into something beautiful yet indescribable. Let us consider, for the sake of visualization, that one of the blobs has metamorphed into an exotic rainbow coloured bird. Now this breathtaking bird is lying flat on the dusty floor of your mind, motionless. Feed and nurture it with some attention and love. Pamper it. Kiss it. Watch it slowly lift itself off the floor, shake the dust off, spread its wings and fly off into the depths of your subconscious.

Now it's purely upto you to chase after the idea-bird. Run like the wind, jump over obstacles, and put every ounce of your being into the chase. If you find it, which I'm sure you will if you've followed my instructions so far, don't lose sight of it. What you're looking at is your muse, your brainchild, your living imagination, a part of yourself alien to you. Without startling the bird, grab a pen or a pencil and any material that can be written on(tissues count). Here comes the most important part - close your eyes, exhale slowly, open your eyes again and WRITE (or type if you prefer a laptop/computer).

Did you hear about that boy, Jimmy, who refused to write? Rumour has it that he never bothered looking for the birds. When he woke up one day, he found that all the birds he had ever created with his imagination had flocked together. They had decided that they shan't be ignored any longer and decided to go to him instead. When these birds came down on him it was not pleasant. They pecked at him furiously and flapped their wings violently and did what angry idea-birds do. Finally, he was left with no choice but to drag himself to his desk and write. He wrote on endlessly for days, they say. In his maniacal condition, he couldn't bring himself to stop. The birds wouldn't have it. So he wrote and wrote, page after page, book after book, hand flying off the page at the end of every line, until one day he was driven to madness.

Even if you hadn't heard about Jimmy, I'm sure you must've heard about that girl whose birds disappeared one night while she lay fast asleep on the couch? She thought she was dreaming when her mind's eye saw them fly out through her ear. Sadly, she wasn't. The birds had had enough. They flew off to go find a place where they could flourish and the heartbroken girl was left wishing she'd just paid them the slightest attention.

Inhibitions are many and they come in layers and stacks - Exams, work, lack of leisure, fear of what others think, they are countless. All I can say is let your imagination run free. Let it do cartwheels and crazy jigs and Joey dances. Embrace it. I do realize that I'm talking with the air of an accomplished writer. I can assure you that that is anything but true. I am a nobody with something to say and I will sure as hell put it out there for hapless victims to see.

P.S. To all the people who inspired me and those who read and appreciate what I write alike, thank you! :)