A girl thinking - on reading, effortless writing and stories we hear

A girl thinking

When I read, it is like being a voyeur. Bearing witness to someone’s deepest fears, overwhelming emotions, untold miseries, memories held dear, and secrets long buried. It is for a few hours that I wear their skin, reside in their world, see through their eyes and feel through their words on the page. It is almost reimagining a different life. And many a times it makes me think – my own life, rethink my views, revisit my old memories.

On Earth We are Briefly Gorgeous - I thought of my grandfather while reading about Little Dog and his white grandfather Paul. That time when we traveled to Nayagarh in the night bus from Rayagada, few months after the birth of my sister. I had some school holidays – durga puja vacations perhaps – so elders suggested I enjoy my vacation with cousins at Nayagarh, while my mother could rest awhile after her delivery with one less person to care after. I had munched fryums, sev, and coca cola, deliriously happy travelling without my parents, thus without restrictions. That trip is vivid in my memory.

Happenstance – a new word I learnt.

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What is effortless writing. How will it come back? I remember feeling deeply whatever I wrote, vehemently writing whatever wretched or heartfelt emotions I felt. What the being experienced was transferred to the page. Now it seems more like an exercise, to risen that part of me that has been long dormant, forgotten, unutilized and least revered by myself, dwindling with time, with neglect due to other heap of routine responsibilities. I do not want to crib again, lest you think I am a constant cribber. Complainer. Ungrateful woman. I would still just jot down my thoughts, as an exercise of the mind, and the skill of putting words together to frame a sentence, though it seems perfunctory now, I intend to make it beautiful and memorable in time. I would still just come to my space and scribble a few nothings on daily life and ott dramas. On stories that have caught hold of me and themes I am getting drawn towards. May be that would be the starting point.

I have long wanted to write about my morning pages. I got this from some Instagram story – on journalling – where the person I follow showed her religious practice of writing 2 pages every morning before the day caught pace, when the room was quiet and family still in bed – and how that helped her put her thoughts into perspective – dissect where necessary, ignore where immaterial after dumped onto the pages – a ritual she swore by. Best way to get the words out. I was doing that for a few days, still do when I remember my journal exists amidst the morning rush. Sometimes it is just a bullet point of gratitude, sometimes lengthy meandering thoughts, uninterrupted by spellcheck and grammar. Unedited. Editing is cumbersome, something that deters me even to write. I would rather post unedited pieces now, than not post at all. Editing is dreadful. Soul crushing sometimes. So, I wouldn’t do it. At least till I am religiously penning down pages in one go, and posting regularly. Because what’s in a dream of becoming a writer, who fears to write wrongly. Miss a spelling there, a grammar here, structure her sentences wrong, use a word unintended resulting in an embarrassing snippet. Well, at this stage, I think anything will do. I would just write. Whatever be it.

How do people on substack write such long essays. Just how? Some read like advice columns, some didactic yet impressive, some feel so effortless like words flowing freely of their own accord. And then those authors churn out one essay after another in a matter of days. How? This is me admiring them, also me being jealous. Some argue AI is assisting here, but I am not sure – is LLM and GenAI now so advanced to churn out such abstract pieces that make so perfect sense? The article pieces read part like blogs, part like long email to a dear friend, and though meandering sometimes, it fits the bill of art. Writing as an art. Thoughts transferred to posts – with analogies, ironies, oxymorons, and literal devices beyond my current comprehension. Yesterday I read two book reviews of the same book – Stoner – it seems it is popular among elite readers – high brow readers – bookstagram, recommendations on Youtube, almost everywhere on social media. I need to read middle brow literature to understand what the difference is, though. I enjoyed both the reviews and was amazed by the lengths of both – one delved deep into what the book made the writer feel, another critiqued several aspects of the book as a seasoned reader and told the story of its being an obscure publication that shot to fame in the early 2010s. This led me to wonder – when did I stop writing reviews – long reviews mixed with emotions from my own lived experiences. I should resume.

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Why is it that women tell so many stories through oral tradition, but none is passed on to the next generation. We rarely know what our mothers went through when they gave birth to us. What we hear is the birth stories from the secondary person, not directly from our mothers, until we give birth. I heard of my own birth story and my mother’s experience only post my own delivery. How strange, but how normal in Indian families. We do not dare talk of the trials of motherhood, we hush all the details, we speak in codewords lest the other gender would listen. What is this weird obsession.

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