I don’t spend much time on opening lines or beginnings. They come to me as easily as quips do, and it is usually the rest of the story or article that I have to think of. One criticism that Crudo had of my work that I always left characters in a limbo, always left the reader wondering about what’ll happened next. I remember him saying that they’ll all come back to haunt me sometime. (Or something on those lines…what exactly was it, R?)
It was always the easy thing to do.
Then, I learnt to kill them off. That was easier, and it guaranteed closure. Now, I don’t know what to do. I haven’t written in months, and started writing something yesterday. Sure enough, I came up with something unusual to begin with, but wasn’t able to take it anywhere. I guess it’s lack of confidence from not having written in months. Something like Ganguly’s batting today- patchy. I began to think about each sentence before and after writing it. Kept changing my mind.
I’ve been at it for 20 minutes and am about to give up again. The way out? Well, I think I’ll just write without thinking about it for the next 10 minutes. Let the piece take its own direction, let the stream of consciousness flow. You tell me how it was. And then I’ll watch Sin City again. 😀
Sand. Purple sand. Grainy, moist and cosy, but purple. Where have these waves brought me?
My head hurts, and it seems stuck to the beach. As I push upwards with my arms, and lift my face off the sand, patches of purple sand stick to my face. I wipe them off my face and flop on to my back. My clothes are stained purple. My legs seem leaden and I need my arms to pull them up. I blink a few times and take a couple of deep breaths, and stretch my arms and legs again, to help regain composure. At a distance, I hear a cuckoo and wonder what the time it is. My digital watch seems to have stopped; must be the water, or something in the sand that makes it purple.
Across this beachhead parts of me lay scattered: a briefcase, white shirts, power ties, evenly polished black leather shoes and several matching pairs of socks, and paperwork. Stacks of files piled up together like bunkers on the purple sand. The enemy lurks somewhere, hidden.
My legs are little unsteady as I take my first few steps, slowly.
AAAARGH. Can’t write.