Journal, My Past, Myself, Writing

Fraud: A Blog Post

The Secret Life of Words
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I have a need to be read so I know I exist.  These are my words, and I need to share them.  Too long, they have gone silent, and worst of all ignored by me.  I had convinced myself that writing was enough, just like breathing.  But after a while, you need more than air to live.  Life isn’t just a series of breathing exercises yet for a while that’s how I treated my life.  Something I just had to do.  No vision. No motivation.  Just passing of the day and really just being lucky enough to be around people who loved me for existing and providing me with everything.

So why am I whining because I know I am a fraud.  I know that the words coming here now are just so simple and don’t even come close to the poetry in my head.  It used to be so easy and now I am lazy and dull.  I stopped listening and hearing what the words were trying to tell.  So now I just sit here, listening to amazing religious songs with a cold cup of coffee trying to convince myself at 38 that this is what I want to be.   Yet every moment feels forced, made up just so I can say I wrote. 

I am a writer.  It’s what I tell myself when I wake up every morning, and the first strokes of the words comes easy.  Yet after a minutes, I find myself tweeting/emailing/posting/reading/searching/paying bills all throughout the precious time I have managed to find to write.  It’s as if my body is telling me to get real and go back to my superficial life. And I oblige.  That’s the sad part.  I know I am failing myself and yet somehow I still continue on the path. 

I am a fraud, but at least I know it.  And knowing is half the battle, Gi Joe reminds me.  But wait, I feel like a fraud but does that really make me one?  It’s the question that nags at me.  Who am I, really?  Am I the thoughts in my head or am I to be defined by actions?  What is it about slamming these letters down that makes me feel like a light weight heavy lifter?  Is it the guilt that the joy I felt when I first learned to transform my thoughts into reality seems buried, muffled underneath the chorus of doubt and guilt? Or is it just not meant to be? 

Should I remain a fraud or for once be the man I said I wanted to be?

And then there was silence…

Myself

Friday, October 17

A representation of the Lion Capital of Ashoka...
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For once, I jumoed out of bed. No resistance. No complaints. I thought I would be tired but although I was slightly groggy, I managed to drag myself to the other room.

I had gone to bed with ideas swirling through my head, and was actually looking forward to write (a new strange anticipation).

Sat down. Nothing. Saw the clock, promised myself 30 minutes. Tapped out a few words, deleted, tapped few more, deleted some more, tapped few more, glanced at the word count and was dismayed to see a 59 word count and 10 minutes elapsed.

I realized, I was trying to force the words because I want my first work to be about Ziba, but the start is the same. My mom and 2 sisters started Ziba beauty in Little India with a 500 square foot box of a store and a $2000 credit card. I get caught up in describing the initial scene and then nothing. I have to admit to myself that I need a new setting because I have used the same one for so long, it doesn’t even seem real to me.

Worse, my writing time went down. Glanced at clock every 2 minus and instead of 30 minutes, barely managed 15 minutes and compromised by adding another 15 minutes doing this journal.

Still unsure as when I will do the next time. My instinct says to do it twice a day. Once I wake up and once before going to bed, but I suspect that its being vague in order to avoid committing so for now I will commit to myself to write twice a day. Just gotta commit.