THE WRITER’S CURSE

We will not find the cure.

From the time our gifts are discovered we will begin a journey that promises to end in greatness of some kind. Maybe we will write a great book, make an earth- shattering discovery or save a precious soul. Destiny will be the beginning and the end, the exodus and the promised land. We will not see the journey ahead. The one fraught with bouts of self- doubt, procrastination, lack of money, shortage of motivation, even laziness.  We will not see our battles, the bloody fights that will tear down our confidence or the dusty rubble from which we will rebuild our sense of self. We will not see the besetting fear we were immune to in childhood or the crippling worry that once couldn't harm us. We will forget who we are and need to be reminded, we will use up our innocence and need to recover our virginity.

We will find the writer’s curse.

We will often be plagued by a dose of Narcissism. We will take our work like we take ourselves- seriously.  It will be personal. We will use hours, even days to write 500 words worth of wordsmithery. The world might disagree with what we say it is and call it an essay or article. Although we would rather refer to it as a piece of work or a work of heart, we would not complain. It will take us hours to marinate in a subject, hours to contain thought in expression, hours to finish what we have started , hours to read what we have written and more hours to destroy what we have done. We will enter battles with norms of English language- should we change “that” to “which”? We will second guess ourselves removing a “the” one minute only to re-insert it the next. We will be caught by inspiration at random moments; at the start of a productive writhe while we enjoy a good shit or at the touch of warm water to our outer layer.

It will not be our fault. It is the curse.

Writing will be like having children, we will remember each work by name. It will be our life. It will capture our essence and take our time, life, life time. We will hope that the ones who meet our work meet us in it. That they understand that life would have felt meaningless, talent would have felt wasted and time would have passed us by if we hadn't done it. We will face the reality that when the reader holds our work in his hands, he might presume his duty is to judge it or form an opinion of us with it and eventually he will discard it and move on with his life.

The blame will not be his to take. It is the curse.

Reading reviews will be a sickness with no cure.  It will matter what they thought of us..... our work, us. We will check every blog comment and read as many badly written critiques as we can stomach. We will want to explain why a sentence was that way. No, it had nothing to do with the rules of English! It was about what we saw, what we felt, what we thought and what we were taught by what we saw, felt,......what was deep in thought. Because it happened to us, because our experiences chose only us, we will wonder who they think they are to criticize, who they really think they are and who the hell they are.

We are not unwell. It is the curse.

Some of our critics will cruelly trap us in the world we create. If we write about heart break, we have to be heartbroken. If we write about love, they will insist on wishing us and the supposed object of our inspiration well. It will not suffice that a well-teased mind, a well- fed eye and a well- practiced ear is enough. They will not be able to tell the difference when life inspires art and when art reports life.

It is not their fault, it is the curse.

On and on we will write, not with pen or paper but with heart and soul. The hours will fly by while we fuel with self the labor for our honest fruit. Bodies will go unwashed, stomachs will fall silent unfed, and friends will get lost unattended.

It is not us. It is the curse.

Our articles will take only a few minutes to read, our novels a few days to shelve, our blogs a few clicks to finish. The reader will smile or cry; scoff maybe insult. If we are lucky, he might give our name a glance or duff his hat to us but soon he forgets.

It is not him. It is the curse.

“What did you expect?” the world will ask. Recognition? Money? Fame? Influence? Praise? Comments? Like the laborer who bares his back to the sky and tills the ground till the sun tires of watching, we will labor with words, thoughts and blank pages. Possessed by dreams of glory and hoping to leave a legacy, we will fight the drudgery and pen painstakingly minutiae emotion, fleeting feeling, fading memory, diverging lines of thought and conflicting points of view.


Don't mind us. It is the curse.


Sometimes we will think we should quit but yet do not. It will be as though Destiny is at hand to fulfil itself according to what is written and what is appointed in the womb of time.   Our lives will be different. Our ability will carve a life for us in a future that accomplishes it. It will design a future for a life that uses it. 


We are not odd, we are not queer. It is the curse

Although our craft will not be easy, in it we will find a strange enjoyment. A pride in our work. Our toiling will bequeath to us our uniqueness, our authenticity- a quiet knowledge of our dignity. We will have a voice, a taste, a feel. To us will be given the realm of thought and the power to see.  We will learn and teach, write and read, live and tell.

And in the end it will not matter if the reader took and did not return, did not reuse, did not affirm; it will not matter if he bought, stole or borrowed; photocopied, plagiarized or pharaphrased; commented, liked or followed; subscribed, retweeted or quoted. What will matter is that the gift was meant for giving and we gave. Indeed the important matter will be that this gift was first gifted to us and we made a life just for us with it.

And maybe we  will never write a book that will change the world, influence a culture or affect an era; maybe our talent will never raise us to prominence, renown or wealth, but to us it will matter that we did something with what we were blessed with- this curse.










See how I got inspired to write this here and here