In April this year, my ideas were like the spring melting from a Himalayan glacier under the warm summer glow. They flowed with clarity and reflected the sun and I was bashful enough to fancy myself a poet. This part of my life I would label as ‘the time when I thought I could write’.
But, since then I haven’t been able to churn out words at nearly the same pace and there are moments when doubt rises up faster than bile and leaves behind an “oh-so-icky” aftertaste. Ideas don’t bother to trickle out and have to be forced into the open using crowbars fashioned as prompts. On those days, my muse seems to be resting in an unmarked grave or elopes with vocabulary to visit the four corners of the world.
And then there are those days that I write something so subpar that I wonder whether I ever had it in me. And my self-talk points accusing crooked fingers at me with:
“You are not a trained writer. You have no qualifications to prove you can write! U no Engliz or wat?”
I start to feel like an empty shell and wonder if I was just a regular tapeworm who had glued on butterfly wings for a few days and it all washed away with the monsoon showers.
A seven-legged spider
creeps around in the shadow
waiting to pounce and
choke off the supply
to my heart song
I am not looking for reassurance here. I believe as people sailing similar ships, we all do get that sinking feeling sometimes and you really have to do some soul searching to figure out: is it really worth laboring on in this drought for the only reason that you enjoy writing so much?
Written for BARATHON Day 4