Writing

Book Worm

ba7c8407ff1fe72c2ad88c38d57b1c22There’s nothing like the glow of the morning light drifting into my library. In this calm. I look around to see myself surrounded by books, and it hits me that my love for reading came from my mom, and I am eternally grateful. That love allowed me access so much information, entertainment and knowledge. It gave me new habits, new perspective, and appreciation of different viewpoints. But most of all, it gives me story whether real or made up. It fills in gaps in my life in a way that e-readers, social  media and computers have never been able to. Holding a physical book and flipping pages is just so damn satisfying.

I look at my growing pile of unread books. Each time, I go to a bookstore, I cannot help but pick up another book as if to mark that I still go to book stores. Yet there is more to it. This love for reading words has served me for a long time, and it’s something I sometimes forget until I pick up a book. Recently, my focus has been non-fiction and learning new things yet there is not denying the pleasure in reading the latest Stephen King or John Grisham. Just being in a world of imagination. That’s what my library represents to me, and it motivates me to perhaps be some day part of that group as a published writer. Some Day.

Family, Inpsiration, Journal, MITT, Writing

Awake to Write

Darkness veils the upcoming day outside. Yet I hear it waking up. The deep quietness of the night passed a while ago.I know because I woke up before to hear nothing but deep silence.  I don’t need to look at my clock to know it’s before 6am. Muffled bird chirps reach my ears.  I groggily ask myself for the 1000th time, do I really want to wake up?  I already know the answer, hell yea.  The voice recedes, and I sit up. The dog instantly at alert, it’s walking time! I wish I could tell her that she has to wait, that I have first I have to invest in myself. So in goes the protein shake, and I head to the library. I can no longer say I don’t have time to write. I now have two hours that I are devoted to creating words, and they don’t just stop there. I also turned off my inner editor. For now, I write till I can write no more and instead of sitting there with my fingers poised over my keyboard either deleting what I wrote earlier or bemoaning that I am out of ideas, I keep open several times. A story, an essay and now a blog post.  I heard that from a Timothy Ferris podcast in which one of the participants suggested there is no such thing as writers block, just that for now you had run out to say something for the current piece. So you keep moving.

Oh yeah, and a timer. Because no matter what I need a reminder that this is my time to write. And I can choose to waste it or make something out it because once the bell rings it’s dog walking time. This routine just started, and already it feels like this is something I should have done ages ago. The reality is, there is time to do everything you desire. The question will always be how early do you want to get up to fit it in. I can either be complacent and complaining about the lack of time, or I can suck it up, wake up and get to it. Either way, it’s the life I create for myself. For me, that means being a writer, one who writes daily.

What will you do to make your dream come true?

Myself, Preeti, Writing

Lost Time

downloadWoke up at 730 am even though I woke up every few hours with the anxiety of an early interview as well as thoughts of what my life had become. Tossed and turned, each time closing my eyes then reaching for the phone only to discover only fifteen minutes had passed. Torture. I really wanted to get up and write first thing in the morning, but then the dog crawled up on to me. Bella knew I had a long day so didn’t want me to make her walk the first sacrifice of the day.  So off we went, me doing my prayers and her sniffing and pausing every so few seconds to straddle over dried dog shit ever so carefully so she could make it shitty all over again.  And then I had to meditate because that was a carefully crafted morning ritual then flossed (so far doing well on the New Years Resolution), then getting ready. A quick kiss to my wife and off I went.  A sudden craving for Starbucks and after all that I barely manage to get to work at 9:01am.  And then as I sit here, it hit me. I didn’t do the one thing that I think about every single day which is work on my writing.

My Nanowrimo novel patiently waits in my library. The 50,001 words know or hope that I will get to them. So far I am on page 9 of 25o. The revision is going excruciating slow. Then I also remember committing to a family friend that I would submit a short story that I revised by end of the month because that’s the one step I have never taken. So the lost time keeps building up. I lose time constantly, and it’s filled with regrets of things I should have said or done. A very important relationship in my life hangs precariously closing to shutting down because we cannot seem to find the time to figure things out. And so the time passes, and with each moment I feel a little less sure of myself, a little more lost, and then finally filled with regret.

I hope I do better tomorrow.

Food For Thought, Myself, Writing

Nanowrimo, Movember and Life

thSo I am now at 10,000 words, more than I have written in decades. I am also clean-shaven for Movember after a decade. It’s funny to me when I speak to other writers lately about the reasons why they cannot do Nanowrimo. From “I have to outline to no time”, I have heard it all. But recently a theme has come up. What if it’s no good?  What if it’s a waste of time. That’s the really big worry . It comes down what if I spend hours upon hours for 30 days and have nothing to show for it. Just 50,000 words of crap. My answer is simple. You won’t. If  Nothing else you will write something unique, different. Just let go. I am in the middle of a Novel, something I thought impossible a few years ago. I am 35 pages in, and I admit I am dying to edit, to delete, backspace some of the shit that spews out of me. I dawdle on Facebook and Twitter in the early morning, but I am writing. I am inching forward. 630am every morning so far, I am giving myself the permission to be a writer.  9am I call it quits, and then my day starts.

I hope to start Crossfit soon so I can begin prepping for Spartan, and I am nervous. Isn’t it a bit much to add that to my life. Also, trying to do Zen Habits where this months habit is to spend mindful time with loved ones. Give them at least 10 minutes without interruption.  And then there are some who have suffered horrific losses. One death. One fighting Cancer. It’s a strange and unpredictable world that teaches us that if not now, then when? Seize the day before it seizes you.

Myself, Writing

Word Stealer

i-m-a-wordsmith-which-is-kind-of-like-a-blacksmith-but-without-the-tools-and-fire-and-stuffMy name is Sanjay Sabarwal, and I am a word stealer. I eavesdrop everywhere I go, and put away the snippets of conversation I hear. I read various articles, stories and magazines, and pocket away interesting verbs and action sentences. I squirrel away images that come in front of me when I walk my dog. I hide away tidbits of friends’ conversations for some future use.  Again, and again I steal words. Some days, I am melancholic about my need to be such a thief, but then there are the days when I am sitting in front of the laptop, and those words come out from various from their hiding places and help me weave together an altogether fictional story built on truth.

I am tempted to warn my friends to watch out for my habit . When I was a novice, I didn’t have the sense to edit out contexts and emotions which made me a biographer, and the brunt of many a fight about why I didn’t just keep my mouth shut.  Then it hit me that I didn’t need to be a recorder just a thief, and so I began stealing. It has been my most satisfying tool in writing. I no longer have to worry about words, just how to use them.

Myself, Writing

Nightmares

failureSo had my first nightmare in a long time. It was surreal as it started in the middle. I am sure I was dreaming of something else, but I see a guy passing by, and for some reason. I call him a pussy. He keeps walking, but I know he is going to come back, and sure enough he does. I am on some stairs, and he begins walking up, and I begin blubbering that I was kidding, and didn’t mean to say what I did but like in dreams, suddenly there are 3 more people, and one grabs my hand, trying to force my wedding ring off while another grabs my watch, and then third has a razor blade. The old school kind that my father used to use when he shaved. And I start mumbling that I really didn’t mean it, but the razor keeps coming towards my right eye. The only one with a contact, and I don’t want to be blind. I don’t want to be squinting out of left eye which sees mostly blurs lately. I knew instinctively that they wanted the good eye, and as I woke up, there was an immediate fading idea that if only I had a gun to equalize the unfairness of the situation (there goes my liberal card).

The weird part is that I didn’t know any of the men well except for the first guy who suspiciously looked like the Reading Rainbow Gentleman Levar Burton (chucking anti-racist card as we speak).  Yes, I did try to figure out the dream, and I am pretty sure the entire dream was an allegory of my recent in ability to read, write or do anything workout related the past few weeks. Each day, I have this vague goal of writing and running, and while some days I am successful in writing for 20 minutes and exercising for 15, I know that’s not going to get it done if I want to be published or be in any sort of shape for the Spartan Beast which is fast approaching in September.

But, and this is a big but, I know I am doing something which is still infinitely better than the nothing I was doing before. So thanks to the Zen Habits, I practice self-compassion. I am giving myself a break even if they give me nightmares.