Tuesday, July 29, 2014

random outbursts

Some of us have only words- pain, happiness, success, anguish, all eventually gets moulded into our words.But words are not just sounds with meanings in a language or mere marks on a blank page ,these are tricky monsters, they have the power to hypnotise the reader and dilute the writer.

Some of us can weave such a rich tapestry of words, that it is beyond any classification. The prose reads like poetry, the images are from this world but as if created afresh. They connect the blanks in everybody's story with their words.

The rest of us just write, mundane words about our mundane lives. Images that are stale, expressions over used. But we write too, as if creating a negligible background score for their blockbuster main pieces.

And then there are those who write only for themselves , no chronicle value ,no ambition, like a stray leave on a road on a particularly windy day.

Writing is a lonely art. Word by word the imagination and the heart have to be ripped apart to lay bare a picture for the reader to make sense of.

Is rain meaningless?
Why is meaning important?

Would a collection of words, without any meaning would still be writing?

Is slanting rain more meaningless than the straight conventional one?

what do places and people mean in a plot?

Is there a main plot and all of us trying to write sub-plots that match?

reminds me of Faulkner

look at me
look at me

the crowd
and the lonely soul.

Orange Flower Awards



To Kill a Mockingbird
The Catcher in the Rye
Animal Farm
The Alchemist
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Romeo and Juliet
The Odyssey
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
The Count of Monte Cristo
Eat, Pray, Love
The Da Vinci Code
The Kite Runner
The Silence of the Lambs
The Diary of a Young Girl
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre
The Notebook
Gone With the Wind


The Human Bean Cafe, Ontario

The Human Bean Cafe, Ontario
my work on display there !!!!!