I really was not expecting that I would fall mentally lethargic for months. I remember things, so many things. Somehow, I lost my nerve, my cool and the Muse seemed to have abandoned me. I remember I could write at the drop of a sneeze. The writing was my escape route, not from problems. But writing was my best friend, my confidante. I could lose myself in words. I could write for hours and just talk to you without restraint. The writing was for me a bolt hole. It never mattered if nobody read them, I read them to myself, talked to myself and to you. I remember some things about my writing
Like when I started I NEED TO KNOW, I was not thinking of anybody, in particular, I was thinking of my teenage years, and if I had a chance, the kind of childhood I could dream about. It was my way of handling my issues then. I wrote the series almost at the drop of a sneeze. It was fun, felt I was talking to you. That you were listening to me. You know these literary binges I tended to have was always like that. Remember when I was writing Candid theatre for radio. I used to have this rather naïve way about human beings. Each one I met was some kind of experience .it felt odd later when people described me for the success of those stories. Was I the stories?. No, I was not really but I always felt emotional about the stories like they were real. I remember.so many things.
Some memories don’t go well with your self-confidence and have a habit of tearing you to pieces when you do not want it. You have two choices, sink it deeper into your psyche and make a determined effort to rationalize it. It is easier to tell yourself that you are an adult now and should be able to forget all that. It becomes an issue though when you discover that the scars that you never noticed are bad enough to discolor aspects of your life. It has dammed up to a level that demands you should have an answer. At the very least, maybe I really should express myself and give myself some sort of release. I need a release from the rages. I need to come to terms with the agony of self-rejection that has made looking into the mirror an embarrassment.
I started writing to cover boredom. No strike that out. I should be honest to say I started writing because I loved it. It was a world that gave me certain privileges. I could just be me and I could try to rationalize, say secret things, look at my confusion or howl my pain.
I remember, writing “A SHARE OF THE SUN” a story on disabilities and those who live with it. I was able to seriously ask myself if I had any hangover about people with disabilities. If I could sincerely and truly work with them and understand them. Were they different? Yes, they were, in the courage to face a life that is different from me.. For the blind a life that is simply nothing. Sounds, sensations, that you could not put a colour to. How do you describe red to a blind person? Yet the pulsating rhythm of love and courage can be woven into anger to describe love in all its shades and you are shocked when a blind person tells you about these, feels it and has therefore seen it
I remember the squalor, neglect and utter deprivation when I visited the riverine area of my adopted state. When I interviewed the local chairman and saw his anger, felt his helplessness and pain.
I wrote BLOOD CONTRACT and I am still angry and upset each time I see the book and I long to reach out to every angry delta boy not to reach for the gun but to touch a star and claim it as his.
By the way, have you read the book?