I Am Stuck

I am at the starting line of the 100 metres and I have been unable to take off at the shot of the starter pistol. But I will take off...soon. Maybe by the end of this piece. Maybe I already have.

This will be a newsletter in the truest sense. This one has elements (and links to my previous works)—(a) why I write (b) what changed after I started writing (c) I am stuck. They will be dealt with one by one and not necessarily in the same order. I am not even sure if there will be 3 sections. Let’s see.

First, a little context. I joined the

Ochre Sky Stories

Writing workshop in July last year. This was a year after dad’s passing and a year and half of watching Oxfam India go down the tube (thanks to the government and the person at the helm of our organisation). I was grieving and angry.

The writing workshop was the best thing that could have happened then. And continues to be the best investment I made.

I wrote to prompts. I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote. I woke up Udit in the middle of the night to make him listen to what I wrote. I wrote for it to be seen by everyone in the cohort on Padlet (forgive my tech unsavvyness—let’s say something like Slack). I wrote for the kind comments from

Natasha Badhwar

and

Raju Tai

. I was on fire.

I jumped at the first opportunity of joining the writing circle. 22 strangers smiling at me from their zoom windows. Me smiling back at them. There were no introductions. We plunged straight in to our first speed writing and then our prompt for the fortnight. This time on Slack (forgive my tech-unsavvyness again—a little more user friendly than Padlet).

We took to Slack like a duck takes to water, but it was only after a week of racking our brains and grappling with feeling exposed. There was no ‘first pair of eyes’ to vet the draft!

Anyhow, once again I wrote to prompts. I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote. I woke up Udit in the middle of the night to make him listen to what I wrote. I wrote for it to be seen by everyone in the writing circle cohort on Slack. I wrote for the kind comments from Natasha, Raju and the 22 new writers who were to become friends for life. Soon. I was on (some more) fire.

I started Substack. Udit suggested the name—Not The Wife Material. I loved it. I decided to post twice a week.

I Am Stuck

I was going strong and then in April (or was it May) I stopped. I stopped on Slack (writing to prompts our co-writers gave each other) and I started recycling old prompts and writing more for Substack (which was ok, really).

I stopped on Slack because I felt stuck. A prompt by one of our cohort writers “What do you say to the old woman at the well” completely derailed me. I just couldn’t write. Heck, I froze.

Since then I have only thwarted in micro bits but that is it. My lovely co writers

Roshni

and

parvathy

tried to pull me out of this rut. One evening we speed wrote on this. And I promised to build on it. But I didn’t. I simply couldn’t.

It felt like getting caught in a leg-hold trap. I just couldn’t move. There was no drive to free myself. There was no waking up in the middle of the night to write my pieces. My stories seemed irrelevant to the prompts. And those stories or parts of it that still managed to stew in my head, disappeared without a trace. I was drying up. It was like those wet fire crackers, with only a speck of dry powder that just sparks for a mini micro second and then POOF!!!

Then came the second writing workshop. I imagined this would propel me to write but most importantly release me from the leg-hold trap. For five weeks, I just speed wrote on prompts. I didn't write a word on Padlet. I didn’t read a word of what the excellent writers in the cohort wrote. I think I was overwhelmed. And felt very puny and inadequate with all the excellent words flowing during the workshop.

On the last day, that was today, an imagery flashed in my head. I was no longer in the leg-trap, I was instead at the start of the 100 metres track, preparing to take off. The other writers were in different lanes. The starter pistol went off and everyone darted. I didn’t. I waited. Then the next round of writers came, and the next and the next, till I was the last and the only one waiting at the starting line. This was my past 5 weeks.

But today, by the end of the session, I felt like now when the starter pistol goes off, I will run. I will probably run the 400 metres or even a marathon. I will run alone but I will run nevertheless. I will take off and somewhere in the middle of the track, my wings will open up and I will soar into the sky. Into the Ochre Sky writing circle. Once again.

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Why I Write

I write so that I don’t forget. That I don’t forget my life, my parents, anyone, friends and foes, neighbours and family.

I write because it heals me.

I write to tell my parents I am proud of them and thank them for everything. This is pretty much in my head. I haven’t had the courage to show it to my mum. Dad, I know, reads it anyways from up there.

I write to deal with grief and joy. I want to share it with whoever will care to read it.

I write to remember things that happened. To think what could have been different and whether I would want that different. None of it is in my hands but then that is the beauty of writing, alle?.

I write to reach out—within and without. And to seek my own tribe.

I write for Nirmal Anand. Pure Joy.

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What Changed After I Started Writing

I became slower. Slow is good. What’s the rush anyway?

I got less angry. I channeled my residual anger-energy into writing. I am not an angry writer.

I was enveloped in so much love and encouragement I wasn’t sure existed in the world today.

I dug deep into my childhood. I found a way to thank mum and dad for everything. And I am ever so proud of their courage.

I channeled grief after dad’s passing. I let grief wash me on days, on others I let it pass.

I understand people better. Forgive readily. Don’t get angry. And shame doesn’t matter anymore.

I read with patience. Absorbing the beauty of each and every word.

I read more. But I remain a sucker for personal essays. For Memoirs. I learnt that deep, philosophical writing isn’t for me and neither are words like preposterous, egregious or abominable. I will get there someday, perhaps.

The writing workshop kept me up at nights and in a good way. This was akin to finding my worth. I lost that thread a bit but I am picking it up again.

I discovered Nirmal Anand—the pure joy of writing. Heck, there is so much Nirmal Anand in writing for Natasha, Raju, Slack and Substack that office ka ek newsletter nahi banaya ja raha hai mujhse!

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I Was Stuck. Not Anymore.

I think I have taken off from the starting line. Finally today.

It could be Udit’s message in the morning —Don’t fret over your writing schedule. As Phil Collins sang: You can’t hurry love!

I AM RUNNING THE MARATHON!

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Natasha Badhwar

wanted me to write about being stuck. So here it is. The stories will now flow.

Roshni

thanks for giving me that nudge at all times and not letting me be.