Why is it so tough to put pen to paper, to find the so called ever illusive “inspiration”. To write for oneself, they say it is the best practice, but sometimes to practice it is a test itself. Writer’s block snowballs into frustration, it’s like a pending to-do list that haunts you in your moments of blankness. Sorry if you find this ranting of mine a little bizarre, but I think I needed this bit of self bashing, and apparently 140 characters on Twitter wasn’t enough. I have been hiding behind sitcom marathons, making excuses of tight deadlines and exhausting briefs, waiting for some unusually funny idea to strike, all the possible reasons to not write anything at all.
This self-imposed sabbatical is eating me from within. This confession is inspired by mediocrity that I have started to embrace and the habit of procrastination. Tell me. Do you face such moments of despair? Such a long phase of blank pages and full ink cartridges. Do your fingers twitch, but you don’t know how to channelise the anxiety? Do you feel the sheer resentment? Do you feel obnoxiously jealous of thinkers who word their ideas, much better and more frequently than you can ever imagine?
I am sure you do. I am trying to combat my demons with this confession. What about you?