The Writer Act

By Ridhima Bhagawati

Here I am, at my desk in the dead of the night. My joints ache from a day of youthful labour. After running all day long on six hours of sleep, juicing oneself with constant information; creaking out page after page of accounts, records, and tracks and wounding up one's internal engine over and over again to the point of vehicular exhaust, the last thing one wants to do is sit at a desk and write. When all one feels is mounds of fatigue, writing about love, freshness, effervescence and tranquillity feels wrong. That is the truth of writing. It is exhausting most of the time.

Most of the time the writer doesn't feel an ounce of burning passion. Most of the time, the writer sits dizzily and nonchalantly, even austerely, and puts down word after word with the hope that it will all make sense in the morning. Writers only get to daydream when they're not at their typewriter. Anyone can weave a whimsical tale when they’re sitting idle with nothing better to do. So, the question arises...what can a writer do that others can't?

Simple. It's sit down, and crank out the words. A writer doesn't wait for when they feel inspired, relaxed, or calm and cantered. Writers glue themselves to their writing chair even on the drowsiest of days. They open their laptop duly by routine, discipline, and obligation. They treat it like cooking a meal or doing taxes. They do it begrudgingly, sometimes adoringly, sometimes even half-heartedly. They treat the process as one of fact-finding and puzzle-solving. They sit before a massive chalkboard and stare at equations for hours till they have a story on paper. They harness the genius within themselves through sheer force of will. They command their words, and mass-produce stories like bottle caps from a factory. In Andrew Garfield's 'Tick Tick...Boom!', when Jonathan finds out on a phone call that his musical has been rejected by the producers on Broadway, he asks matter-of-factly to the lady on the other side of the line: "What do I do now?". And she responds immediately:

"You start working on the next one. And after you finish that one, you start writing the next one. And on, and on. And that's what it means to be a writer. You just keep throwing them against the wall, hoping against hope that eventually, something sticks."

This the artist’s ultimate reality check. Our dreams were never going to be all roses, wine, and romantic notebooks bound in vintage leather. Our path is gritty, ugly, and gruelling. That’s the whole point. 

I don't know if I'll ever finish all these half-baked stories, these novellas, essays or screenplays. I have a folder filled with abandoned stories. But amongst those digital and paperback archives, I have a few rare notebooks with one or two completed tales. I have those two finished novellas hiding somewhere in my google drive, and those concluded essays scattered in a mess of data and pins. Furthermore, I have an ever-growing checklist of edits to be made. I lack continuity, grit, and often forget to edit my stories. But despite that I know why I am a writer. It is because I have a folder full of unfinished stories that I haven't given up on. And I have those two or three finished stories, waiting to be sharpened and groomed. And most importantly, despite all of my shortcomings, I haven't given up on that folder. I am here, at my desk at night, after an excruciatingly long day to put down words on a page. I have shown up to my laptop for my craft. I have very little figured out so far, in my writing career. I am still 14. I am still an amateur who lacks a reasonable stock of finished stories, experience, or prowess. But as long as I show up every night to my same-old wooden desk, as long as I put down at least one page every day, and as long as I have faith in the story I want to tell....I am a writer. 

By Ridhima Bhagawati