As a kid, I knew no one personally who was a writer (now that sentence sounds so convoluted, did you think so as well? Hmmm.).
So I always thought that being a writer was some kind of a divine calling. Like you are a person who shuts himself in your room for hours on end, and then emerges out with a book or a chapter, or something.
Writing takes discipline. On some lucky days, the entire piece of writing emerges (I don’t like using the same word in two successive sentences but my writing is rusty, and I am thinking as I am writing… obviously!) complete, perfect. On other days, it is chasing inspiration, and that takes discipline. I don’t think “chasing” is the correct term — it is more like “dancing” with inspiration, following its lead, going where it takes you. Even when the steps are difficult, even you begin panting, out of energy and all exhausted. And then comes a point where you decide that a break would be a good thing. And so on, the cycle repeats, day after day.
Tomorrow is P’s birthday, a good day as any other to get back into the discipline of writing. I am doing no one a favor except myself.
