One of the first things that I learnt before PhD was typing. Reason was very simple. I knew, a point of time would come wherein my thoughts would be too fast to be captured by the speed of my hands. This happened so. When I sit, or you sit to write, this might seem familiar to you as well. Thoughts sometimes running too fast, sometime on a slow pace as if, in a labyrinth they seem. Who moved my cheese? The asking begins then.
Sometimes I sit blank and look at the page for long to understand and decide where to begin and what to write. A fear of judgement looms over. What I write, would it be meaningful? Would it make sense? What if readers don’t relate to or don’t understand what I write or want to write. What if I have nothing to write at all. How do I talk about the inner most feelings and emotions that I have? How should I connect my unconnected thoughts and ideas? Do I know something? Is it always worth sharing? Going past them, settling into the zone of stillness and silence wherein I listen to the truthful, feeble voice, that truly wants to say something.
And then, slowly, the hands and the mind work as if on a symphony. The words ooze and sing. Whatever being read and lived, provides a perfect backdrop for the canvass on which the painting of words begins. Faces and friends. Books and authors. Magazines and their pages. Lines of poetry. Experiences ineffable. I sit and drive with them, in a lamborghini.
The pouring of words and experiences drench. The zephyr of ideas propel. Their aesthetics and aroma quench.
The state is of complete absorption. Focus is on narration and momentum. What and how, stops for sometime. Grammar , punctuation, spellings, coherence and cohesion, lexis, semantics and pragmatics take a back seat then.
There is upsurge of, see I just remembered Wordsworth, it seems he has come to rescue me, through what he says on poetry “a spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions, recollected in tranquility.” And though, he wrote this, defining poetry, we know and have experienced this, when Lamb wrote his prose, it too was much close to music and poetry. For his words sonorous, soft and flowing, bringing melody to the pages as if, merging prose and poetry into togetherness.
In such state, what Coleridge called, “a willing suspension of disbelief ” I remain, making mistakes. I hardly see what I write or how I write. For I only see, I am writing and flying with my thoughts and words as if on a limitless firmament.
And thus, imperfections and mistakes that I commit and I make, I sincerely owe them.
nice one!