The long and short of it: Published and still running
I am a published writer now.
Here here here ....
What if it's only 350 of the initially 1200 words written? What if the world is not heralding me as the writer of the millennium? What if the governments of different countries have not come forth to support my skills, talent, and intuitive intelligence? What if I am writing this blog early in the day when I should be finishing my thesis, writing the novel of the century, or the definitive collection of short stories?
I derive pleasure out of small things in life; in this case, a 350 word article in a weekly magazine. Courtesy good friends, Aa. and P., I got to celebrate the moment as if I had been nominated for the Nobel. I might never get a Nobel but I definitely know how it would feel if I got one.
After waking up with hangover, clinging on to a vodka soiled copy of Tehelka, and wondering where the fans (read: young boys and girls who would willingly sit at my feet desperately awaiting words of wisdom) are, I decided to evaluate my position as a 'writer' critically.
While re-reading the 350 words I had written for the 600th time, I struck me that there was something disturbing about it after all. To state the obvious, my piece is about running which I have taken up a few months back, I enjoy running so much that I have given up smoking, a habit of 13 years, to be able to run better, and I can have long conversations about different techniques of running. Not writing, mind you. All this makes me very healthy. My lungs are swelling, not lacking breath, but the new found vigour they have.
All this also makes me share a lot in common with Haruki Murakami. That is slightly disturbing.