Middle : The joy of writing

by Jupinderjit Singh

IT does not matter if a person like this writer is not able to write much these days. After all, one is no Keats or Salman Rushdie. The world may not miss anything. But in such a situation one does feel suffocated.It is scary.

All writers don’t produce best-sellers. All don’t get a Booker. All don’t even get published. And then, not everything we write is for public consumption. I know a number of my friends who have written several poems and stories but they don’t want those to share with others.

Still, people write. Why?

It is because the real joy of writing is in writing itself. No doubt, the printed word brings with it some recognition but the greatest delight is to simply write.

I miss that joy badly. The great philosopher Aristotle felt one of the major aims of an art form was catharsis — the cleansing of the soul. It clarifies, clears the haze in the mind of the writer much before it provokes varied emotions of the reader.

As famous novelist Taslima Nasreen said in her novel the "French Lover” that she felt labour pains once a thought or an idea sparked her imagination. The pain remained till she ‘delivered’. She had to suffer for days, months or even years.

Writing starts in the mind, a small faint thought; an idea that throws multidimensional rays of light like through a prism on something or the other. It can just be a word or a sound or a scene that kindles fantasies of future or brings back memories of the past — both good or bad. It builds a storm inside one’s system to such an extent that the person becomes restless, uneasy and uncomfortable till he sits down to write.

And as words flow from the keyboard to the computer screen, the person starts feeling light as if gravity has an effect on him no more. He smiles by himself. His soul sings. It is like a stream flowing on a piece of paper through a pen. He feels like floating in the air.

Aristotle’s catharsis or Taslima’s labour pains become crystal clear at that moment.

I remember as a student of journalism I wrote a small piece on Mowgli — the jungle boy. It was one of my first attempts. There were too many errors in it. My teacher liked it while politely pointing out the mistakes.

In the write-up, I envied Mowgli’s carefree life and his friend Jageera and others saving him from dangers. Most of all, I loved his Radha. A few days ago, I found that piece. It was never published. It did not deserve to see the light of day. It was so childish. But I remember the joy I felt when I was able to write, even in broken English, what I felt about Mowgli and Radha. I smiled.

But now unable to write, I am lost like Mowgli in the jungle. Neither Jageera nor Radha is in sight. I wonder what will inspire me. It could be the wilderness of a forest or a Radha or the security of a Jageera or the challenge of a new path, a new forest. I don’t know what the stimulus will be. I don’t know who shall be my muse. I know just one thing. I miss the joy of writing.

(first published in The Tribune - Opinion page dated January 25, 2013)