It has been a gruesome Indian summer this year. Spring rains had left us with hopes of a sultry yet bearable weather but the heat was ghastly and man was left panting like dogs. Eventually the rains will come was the only hope we survived on and they did, late than ever, and not before announcing their value after a sickly humid week. Such was the scene in my head that more than work the heat killed my writerly cells. (Once again, I know writerly is not a word, but I just created it for myself!)
This again brought me to question myself, “Am I really a writer or Is it just a glorified hobby?” I have not really found the answer. But weather work worry… reasons galore for me not to write. Sometimes, I feel, I have created this wall around me of excuses to choose from, but my yearning to write is equally strong to the extent that I feel sick when I go days without writing. Yes, ‘not writing’ actually makes me feel sick. My body seems to need an extra dose of words along with breathing.
But I breathe the wrong way… Breathing is a technique most of us have got wrong. Our system is designed to take deep breaths where the stomach inflates when you breathe in and deflates when you breathe out but apparent like all other things pared, we take quick short breaths enough to keep us alive. The same has happened to my writing, I write just barely enough to survive. But then there are days when one feels enlightened these days in my dictionary are called Rainy Days. For me, rain washes away all the excuses and almost rejuvenates the ink in my mind.
Just like today.
It was a downpour and the universe inspired me to write. A walk in the rain was enough to wash away the dust accumulated on the soul. My fear of losing my words gives way to the ideas lost in the rummage of excuses. Even if it is writing a Writerly Weather Report!