Thursday, August 7, 2014


Days where the sense of purpose predominated i wrote furiously, impelled by an uncontrollable impulse. Such days often seemed unprecedented. The fact that the interludes before their reappearance lengthened didn't diminish their power. Rather anticipation, even before the execution through inspiration, boded well.
Of course having a disciplinarian rigor implies, among other things, an observable pattern whereas my own pattern was indeterminate, contingent on fits of inspiration whose irregular reemergence coexisted with the fear of losing them altogether. Dependent as my creativity was, and a creativity i hoped to earn my living from,on so precarious a situation, my frustration mounted. I craved inspiration, desiring the muses to descend on me, shower their plenteous beneficence constantly but the protracted nature of these moments caused me grave concern.
What compounded the problem was my awareness that these inspired scribblings were inchoate. If i knew in advance, in my unconscious mind, what i had to write then the form that was to hitherto emerge was unforthcoming. There were mnemonics, capricious blueprints but they, in the lucent light of novelistic clarity, dissolved into oblivion.
Moreover in the absence of form, a structure i found my unconscious playing cruel tricks on me. I became subject to tautologies, repetitions. My story, to be told yearningly, piquantly, began to bore me. And that is the attrition of creativity most inimical to the artistic temperament. Sometimes i wondered if my passionate desire to write was not, perhaps, an obdurate perversion, irresistible. Or whether the anodyne spurtings of my intermittent imagination in love with the myth of the narrative they entombed so ineffectually.
So when push came to shove, i gave up. I couldn't prolong the deception further. The amplitude of plenitude writing filled me with i dismissed with precipitate promptitude. Perhaps i was not meant to be a writer and this was a failure i was willing to acknowledge and accept. It was not resignation because i hadn't yet given up entirely. What i had given up was the ability to be able to write. It would behove me, in all justice, to turn my focus to write about the failure to write.

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