I want out.. (Part 2)

So, one said I needed a hodka and two slaps. And maybe that one was right. Another said: comfort zone! comfort zone! get out of comfort zone! Followed, of course, by questions of the what is it that you REALLY like nature, where the answer can't be writing. Because even I know that's silly. Writing what? Okay, writing about people. Which people? Who people? People-like-me people? I don't know. Suggested solution: get out more, travel more, write about people UNLIKE you people. Yes.

Appreciated. Maybe I needed that, too. All this great advice from my level-headed everyday homies. Maybe I need to listen to them. Or just turn in early today. That'll stop me from acting all hormonal and whiny. Maybe I'll put everything out of my mind, heat a glass of horlicks milk and take refuge in the book I'm savouring, the one that has to be discussed with frothy friend over coffee this week, the one that I, of course had to -- in the interest of narcissism, curiosity and a vague literary pursuit -- lay my hands on, since two of my friends, read it and said I HAVE to read it since one of the main characters was not only JUST like me, but in fact, like, so TOTALLY me that, really, like, O.M.G.

“It was impossible to be friends with guys. Every guy she’d ever been friends with had ended up wanting something else, or had wanted something else from the beginning, and had been friends only under false pretenses.”

“She was petrified of becoming the half-alive person she’d been before.”

Yea. So. That's coming along nicely.

But back to my fleeting career choice woes, I appreciated even more, a gently-worded email. From a friend who points me towards certain gems of Vikram Seth and leads me to what Hemingway says (to Owen Wilson:)) about writing and passion and making love to a truly great woman. Really, what would I do without him, them, the nudgers and slappers, the counsellors, the listeners, the book-recommendors, the ego downsizers -- all of whom are pillars who don't buy my bullshit. Gratitude!

The email:

"Reporting is, like what my sister said, a blue collared job. Despite all the glamour, that's the hard truth. I get tired of it sometimes. I am in it because, I think, it gives me some creative satisfaction. (also it's an ego trip too) I don't know how long I will last. Journalism gives us a chance to boost or massage our egos, which is very important considering we are all egoists if we enjoy writing so much. Would you like to be making shitloads of money and be an obscure PR chick writing press releases? If you have an alternative in mind that will keep you happy, you should quit. You do want to be writing, isn't it? So to be practical, it's always good to be in journalism. It gives you an opportunity to practice your craft and also enhances the range of experiences, not always necessarily firsthand but nonetheless experiences. I think you have to find ways to break monotony, it's that simple. With your mental energy, it's easy to get fed up with doing one thing. I might be wrong but I would go with that right now. That's your strength. Just find ways not get into a rut. It should be easy for you."

Lovely, isn't it? I read this at least thrice. (-Thank you:)

And I feel assuaged. (Also, on my way home, I had a slab of apricot-raisin by myself that I don't feel guilty about because I'm back to yoga and it'll get sorted). Maybe I am overreacting. It's true though that sometimes the reporting can get tiresome. And at times I'd rather eat a vada or even entertain someone that says LOL, than report. And I HATE vadas maybe less than people who say LOL. And at times, it is possible, I undervalue the insight you get from talking to random people about random things - insight that sticks, creates trivia, memories, anecdotes, stories. Still, at times I hate it. I'm still keenly aware of how strange it sounds in my head when I tell people I'm a journalist. Less now, but it's there. And loving writing but treating reporting like a stepchild can create an imbalance that makes you doubt the choices you're living with. It is possible there's no turning back. Also that maybe I don't want to. There's a promise that this too shall pass. But I guess in the meantime I'm going to have to just work on it, and avoid having my tail caught in a rut trap.

P.S: Hodka = the fantasy drink that is horlicks + vodka

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Edited to add what one of my favourites, The Unbearable Banishment, sent across:

so you want to be a writer?
by Charles Bukowski
if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. if you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. if it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. if you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don't add to that. don't do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was.
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