Something Of Matter

By Sristy Sharma (Vnée)

How should a story be?

What must it tell?

Does it need to send some message?

Or it only needs to retell an account? 

Does a storyteller really bears the weight of getting across a profound message, or he is only obliged to present his view, and readers are responsible for their own takeaways.

These questions need not be pondered for substance, but it also needs to be mentioned that these were a constant mindrakers of his. Every time he sat to write, the plot would be clear to him, but the manner of writing he should undertake harassed his mind and soul until he got tired of thinking and postpone the act for another day. However, it had now been an year and a half since he had been trying to write anything of matter, or even meaning, and the questions had simply derailed him every day. 

He had tried various possible methods to blindside the onslaught, however, the luck was yet to smile upon his efforts with success. He says its luck as accepting a failure with such persistence might seed the thought of giving up writing, a risk he really couldn’t afford at this stage. So he blamed it all on luck, the stars, the planets, the lines in his palms, or even just the random pull of numbers. He had done detailed study of these factors when on a sabbatical from his art, and had convinced himself, that the universe was testing him and launching all possible negatives in his path to check his grit. He was supposed to be so great that his tests were also great, like the derailing questions and slew of thoughts. He had referred to all possible heavenly and astro predictions, from Vedic to Chinese, and date of birth to numerology reigning him. All seemed to agree that his life was experiencing a phase of adversities, and he has all the best possible qualities to fight, persevere, and overcome them. There was absolutely no reason to not agree with them, but at times when he was waiting for the sleep to rescue him he could not help but wonder, what other manner was there to describe his condition? Was there any other solution possible than persevering? Why would a person experiencing favourable time enquire these aspects?

However, again these arguments were a luxury, which he could not afford to dwell in farther than seconds.

Obviously, examination of universe’s stand in his life was not the only trick he tried, and one of his tricks was to take a sabbatical. The surrounding factors were not compounded while the trick was being pondered upon. He was a struggling writer, maybe not struggling but definitely not yet making an income out of it. Also, he was not struggling because he had traded his art for skills to a company. He had decided to de-indulge creativity from his art, leaving it to simply become a skill, to churn a minimum amount of result every day for at eight hours a day, and he traded about twenty days of these results for an amount, neither grand nor measly. He forgot to accommodate this factor when he planned the sabbatical, something that needed him to disconnect with his routine and everyday life and explore the other ways of spending his time. The sabbatical he had planned for would have allowed him freedom to gallop like a deer one day and prowl like a tiger the next. He could have slept the whole day or two continuously and painted for next couple. He could have simply sat for hours watching the days turn into nights and vice-versa, however, the trade he was involved in was subject to conditions. His eight hours for twenty days a month no more belonged to him, and during these hours he needed to display his skill and yield results of substance, with a continuous growth trajectory. Pointing out the folly in the plan is futile, and describing the result would equate to rubbing salts on open wounds.

The third trick he pulled, he still can’t himself understand; was it meant a blindside for the onslaught of queries or for himself. He succeeded in achieving the latter. 

A writer’s job is to write.

He wrote, even if two lines a day. Unfortunately, he was not a beginner aiming to reach a level of clarity in his writing, but an author, aiming to finish if not novel then a short story, in fact at this point just even a page of some substance. He ended up fooling his heart and pen with at least two and at most sixty lines each day. Even today when we sits down to read them, they do not qualify as ideas even to himself. He had blindsided himself, undoubtedly, and that too for a whole year. 

But there was one thing he got from this experience; A writer’s job is to write.

The substance for each is different. While he believes an ant’s two routine steps to be a miracle and of matter, they do not have anything to give to the world. But it is not his job to find things of matter! He is an artist; he has been blessed to see the soul of this world. He only needs to describe what he sees, and bring out why it mattered to him. Some would walk along, some might criticize, and only rarely would someone really resonate with his vision. 

What should a writer do? He must write. I am a writer; what am I doing? I am watching an ant, because I have finished my food, and have no motivation to clean up after me. The ant is though not a good sign, as I was eating on the bed. If there is one there might be others as well, they will bite me. It also means I have dirtied my bed to the point of attracting scavengers. This might be the first one only, I must get rid of it and clean up my act timely; do ants always tread unfamiliar spaces this confidently? The motivation was still not in sight, but urgency drove mercilessly. I immediately stood up and cleared the dishes and loose crumbs, then I pulled of the bedsheet and pushed the mattress off the bedframe to examine the quantum of possible disaster. The ant was the wolf. As I reorganized the mattress and tidly placed the bedsheet, I realized urgency to be a better fuel for me than motivation, albeit unhealthy. Also, now that the bed was tidy, the room itself paled in comparison. Well, it’s not like I was writing something, or anything. After a couple of hours, my bed, my room, my cupboard, and me, all are clean and organized, and after another half an hour, I have written a page of some substance. The story starts with an ant taking its two steps, routine, but on an unfamiliar territory, that is my bed. Since my investigation confirmed that the ant was a lone wolf, my story explores the plausible journey of the ant. I don’t know for whom it matters, but it made a huge difference for me, and is of matter to me.

By Sristy Sharma (Vnée)