Will I grow up?

Some days, I want to be someone else. Not that I don’t want to be me. I like being me, being goofy, serious, neurotic me. But some days, it might be fun to be someone else. (don’t use pop psychology, just go with it ok?)

The person I want to be most is a reclusive writer, with a cottage in the middle of nowhere, with a dog called Jack (more on this imaginary dog some other time). With no large water bodies or a phone anywhere nearby. Just Jackie boy warming my feet, a laptop, lots of coffee, a cozy table, lamp and me. Books covering every surface. A writer, poet. Changing the world with that brilliant novel. This me knows how to play the guitar and the violin and is quite well read, what with being a writer and all. This me even understands Shakespeare without the Lambs helping out, and can argue whether or not Shakespeare was a chauvinist.

A winemaker. Mmm. Vineyards in Italy. A nice crumbling stone cottage with a fireplace, logs crackling in the fireplace during winter, lovely employees who sing as they crush the grapes (hey, it’s MY imagination). Besides the winemaking, I am also a shepherd in my free time. “The hills will be alive with the sound of bleating.” Let us establish at this point that imaginary Jack will always be by my side. (Daddy, Ma? See? This is what happens when you deny your ONLY offspring a pet. Too late now. I am evidently damaged.)

A chef. Surrounded by fresh fruits and vegetables, and so much possibility. Flour
in my hair and a smile of satisfaction at my glorious Christmas pudding. Chopping, crushing, steaming, baking. Spices: star anise, bright oranges, fragrant cumin, glossy red chillies, cinnamon sticks, bay leaves (take out the chillies and the cumin, and I could make mulled wine at this point.)

Edith was right. I am a hopeless romantic.

Why I Write

I often see writers trying to explain why they write. They do it eloquently, gracefully. Look at Terry Tempest Williams's essay. (Tempest. What a fascinating name. Does it offer us a glimpse into her personality? But then, are we moulded by our names? I know people who are nothing like their names, many named after gods and qualities they never reflect :D And yet others who are their names personified. Sulekha. Good writer. She is. Mehjabeen. Moonbeam/Moon-like. She lights up a room.)

Tempest says she writes because:
http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=502133944457

I think, I ponder, try to get inspired. I struggle and finally, I squeeze out a few words, about why I write, before I give up. For now.

I write to put my memories into words. I write to share my life. I write because it makes me happy. I write because it makes me question, it makes me think. I write because it is the only way I will ever express all my thoughts, everything I feel. I write to challenge my imagination. I write to tell stories. I write to tell you about my day, to cajole you into telling me about yours. I write about things that matter to me, about people who matter to me. I write because I like the sound of words, their taste, their feel. They give me company on sunny days, on rainy evenings and on silent nights. They surround me when I am alone; they protect me in a crowd. They float around me like dust motes in a bright sunny room, and I follow them with my eyes, frantically trying to commit them to memory, or to paper at least. They flutter all around me, make me what I am. I bat at them like a cat, try to pluck one out of the air and pin it down. It’s hard. Yet, I love these words. Words, do not float away from me. Stay close.