Reading and Writing

I read all these books written by great people and I wonder. I wonder how did they do it. From where did they get all these ideas and how did they manage to create all these masterpieces. Such giant masterpieces. From where all this inspiration cam from: how did they were able to get hold of spirit of creativity. Is there a spirit out there, waiting for me as well. How to find it, where to find it and when I find it how to interact...

I sit down to write something and suddenly it's all blank or too mixed up. There is nothing, complete blankness although there are too many thoughts. I wonder even more.

Finding nothing to write about I decide to write about writing. Strange. Don't look for any advice in this piece of writing. Remember it comes from a novice or a newbie or an amateur or whatever they call a wanna be writer. So coming back to writing. First thing to tackle is why I want to write. Not why I write.

So my thinking box manages to confuse me on this question all the time but today I will to get over this. The first reason would be immortality. Like the one they have in novel Scythe. Every time someone will read my work he will 'cut corner' for me. Meaning he will prolong my life, and if I am lucky to have a huge readership, I will find myself eternal. Not sure David Foster Wallace will be happy with me on this thought of popularity. But who cares... I am unique. Fool's paradise...

Then there is the process of writing which attracts me, its a discovery of self. Reaching depths of yourself, searching within your vast complex of memories to find that perfect one to write on it. That painful process, that walk through the inferno. Discovering heaven and hell inside yourself, the universe inside me, I can feel it and almost know it with certainty that I am not something simple. Writing is finding Self, discovery of the unseen and unheard of. Only few things have such power...Then there are those piercing eyes of Kafka which calls to everyone who has the eyes to see to write, to let out that roughness inside you and try showing it to this world and don't care what this world thinks of. Kierkegaard goes even a step further with his comedian satire. Why should I give up on Kafka if he didn't give up on me with that gaze. That eternal gaze. How will I face him if I ever get to meet him. I am already unable to maintain eye contact with him, wasting all those years of my life. I google Kafka and it responds with some Apache Kafka software. What sort of world are we living in. Apologies Kafka.

Enough for now...

An Advice to Myself

He is holding a pen in his hand, a bit shivering without any particular reason. There is a pile of blank pages in front of him except there is a dot on the topmost page which is open in front of him. He looks at the dot, starts thinking once again but after some time he realizes it's of  no use. After some thinking he gives up and drops the pen on the table. Rubs his hands over his eyes, then looks towards the wall clock. He has been sitting for more than two hours and just one dot, maybe he should start writing about this dot. It seems an interesting topic in itself. Isn't a dot start of every...something. His thoughts starts deceiving him, leading him into depths and darkness and nowhere in the end. He starts thinking about his life in general, seemingly an interesting topic. His family and friends believe, at least most of them, that he is abnormal or something, wanting to be a writer, writing a piece here and there with no actual writing to his name. Maybe he is deceiving himself, he is doing this on purpose. What purpose? Is there ever a purpose to anything....these philosophical riddles again. He will end up nowhere, not even in a bad place. 

While he is thinking, the door behind him opens with a click. He turns and there is a child, his son or daughter. Maybe, something is wrong here. Now the child has covered the distance between them, only the physical distance as it appears.The child is standing beside him now, gazing at him curiously. The child asks, "What are you doing?". He is still confused about the child but replies, "I am....thinking...". The child asks, " What are you thinking?". He realizes that he is being thrown into a swamp. He replies, "I am thinking about... life.." trying to be honest. The child still not satisfied, asks, "What is life?". Now he is almost cursing himself, also the days he used to think that a child's curiosity is a good thing to have. He tries to answer, "Life is..interesting.. what can I say..its different for different people.. depends on the perspective like for me being a writer" is he a writer? He asks himself and continues " like for me being a writer its writing. Writing is life for me" He completed the answer not without letting out a gasp. The child is now looking at him skeptically. Finally after a long silence he says, " Then why are you thinking?"

He wakes up, there is the dot, the pen, table and everything but no child. Just his last words are still ringing in his ears. "Then why are you thinking?". "Why are you thinking?"..... There is a smile is on his face and he picks up the pen and stops thinking, starts writing. Finally...