Pipa Pipa
Ok, so this is not going to be pretty.
Ever since I can remember, my ambition was to be a writer. I would, as a five year old (or so my mom tells me) sit in a corner of the house with an exercise book and a pen and scribble and scribble, often with the other hand holding my head, like I had a world of knowledge to impart and the pressure from such voluminous wisdom was too heavy for my neck to support. And then around the time I was 12 an uncle of mine gave me an old typewriter. I really felt like a true writer then. I would lug it with me everywhere I went. To friends and relative's houses, to my parent's office, to school even (although the clack clack of the typewriter when I attempted to compose my masterpiece on 'The Person I Admire The Most' - or something or other - drove the other students crazy and they reported me to the teacher so that plan went down the drain pretty much from day one.) I remember that year my hand was perpetually stained black from constantly fiddling with the ink ribbons.
And then - oh tragedy most foul - puberty hit.
Along with pimples, night 'emissions' and body aches from all the stretching bones, I developed a sense of self-consciousness that was startling in its intensity. I was conscious of every move I made, of how ridiculous my voice sounded, how I walked, what I said, how irritating my laugh was. It must have been how Adam and Eve felt when they first sank their virgin fangs into the Forbidden Fruit. Suddenly I felt naked everywhere I went and everyone was laughing and pointing their fingers at me.
It was also around that time that I stopped writing. Not that I consciously decided to, but that I just couldn't anymore. I would sit at the table and will myself to write (much like constipation, all that 'willing' gave me mental hemorroids - meaning headaches and migraines). In desperation I would pick up autobiographies and read about how Hemingway would compose his opus in a cafe in some rue de la fancy francais and finish a short story in an afternoon in his Moleskine, and then celebrate it with a small glass of port before sauntering home in the crisp evening Parisian sunset. Damn that Hemingway, I thought. Not only does he have the talent, he has the perfect name for an author. Furnitures are named after him. Bloody Pulitzer Prize winner.
Then again, he did drink himself to his death. So that sort of evens things out. Sort of.
I envied - and still do - that some people (not just writers) can just walk into a coffee shop, buy a cup of coffee, plonk their notebooks/laptops on the table and start churning out winning prose. And when they make bestsellers out of their work, it drives me nuts. I hate them. I really hate them (you hear me J.K. Rowling? You are an abberation of the Devil and I will hunt you down and cast you back to the Fiery Pits of Impossibility where you belong... right after you finish book 7.)
They say that writers are shy creatures who are mostly introverts. From the pictures and interviews I've seen of writers, that does hold water. And most of them are butt ugly (although I'd love me some Grisham, yum yum). I would never be able to sit in a public place and write. I am just too conscious of my surroundings. I subscribe more to the Stephen King school of writing. Small room with a small table facing the blank wall. Zero distractions.
Anyways, I couldn't write for years. The mind was like a Zara store after Summer Sales, mostly empty. So I took to sketching and photography as a form of creative output and that was that.
Recently I found a whole stash of my old writings (pre-puberty). I dug through them in a flood of nostalgia and marveled at how liberated I was. Thoughts just flowed from one point to the other and made sense. And it was entertaining. Stories of pirates and pixies and ponies (oh my). I worshipped at the altar of Enid Blyton and Roald Dahl (still do). And I could make out themes, plots and characterization. The grammer and spelling was sometimes atrocious but overall it was pretty impressive for my age then. I read somewhere about this state that most people go through when they are in the act of creating something artistic. The article calls it the Flow and its a state of mind where the brain is solely focused on the task at hand and the outside world just melts away, leaving you with your sense of purpose and drive. I sometimes felt that way when I was writing, and when I snap out of it hours would have passed, seemingly in a blink.
But that was eons ago. So recently I remembered the article and tried to get into the Flow, so to speak. I took deep breaths and focused really intensely. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. Everything I wrote was crap. I cursed under my breath and went to eat a Kit Kat.
After several tries I gave up.
For me now, writing is a painful act. I love the end results but the process itself is... uhm... how do I describe it...
It is like a Surinam Toad's birthing process.
Ok, just a warning, if you are in anyway consuming or thinking of consuming any food or beverage in the next few hours, I strongly advise you to not read the rest of this post.
Here is a quote from this website:
A Surinam Toad (also called a Pipa Pipa) is an ugly amphibian that resides mostly in the Amazon region in South America. When nesting season arrives, with her back near the water surface, the female deposits 60 to 100 eggs. They are fertilized by the male and distributed over the back of the female. Eggs adhere and sink into the sponge-like dorsal skin. Within 24 hours, the female's back begins to swell around the eggs. By 10 days, each egg will be embedded in a chamber, producing a "honeycomb" on the female's back. They remain on her back until fully metamorphosed (12 to 20 weeks), then push out through the membranes covering the pockets. The young are cannibalistic and have no gills or tails (reabsorbed during development).
Yes, the writing process for me now is like a hundred tadpoles burrowing through your flesh as it struggles to freedom and the open air (and having quite a scrumptious meal in the process). You're glad you've sired the next generation to carry on your genes but am highly doubtful you'd ever want to do it again. When I first saw a documentary on these toads I literally almost threw up the Gnutella sandwich I had for lunch. I was thinking of posting pictures of them on this site but then I would have to look at them everytime I logged on. They are seriously creepy, click on the website to have a look. NOT for the squeamish.
...
Did you see it?
Told you this post wasn't going to be pretty.
posted by makemeinthemood at 10:16 AM
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