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It’s Scary

The thought of actually starting a book for real. In fact, it’s very very scary. It feels like am putting my most precious thing at stake. I do not know why I feel like this. Maybe, I am not successful in detaching myself from the art of writing. I have bragged about it, romanticized and thought that there’s one, just one book lurking inside me, one book. I have wondered how writers churn out one book after another? Do they lay out life like a huge bread loaf, and use a knife to cut it into different sized pieces? Something like ‘saving up some bits of life for the rainy day when no material/fodder comes my way’? Or less cynically, can they really empathize to such a degree that they’re able to live out their’s and other people’s lives as well? How do they ‘research’ for a book – as in, how do they even know what they’re looking for? Do they plan? If they do, it is repulsive, the sheer linearity of the affair. But some authors, write like scared puppies, with their words reverberating their inside entrails, a lapse of lightyears between the heart and the pen. I can only but bow to them.

I’ll try not to dwell in indulgent self pity and end it here.

Watch out for my book 🙂

Yours Joblessly, The Jobless Ideator

the non-virtual identity:  Sreemanti Sengupta

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Categories: Uncategorized
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