A little over a decade ago, I had confided in one of my English Professors, how I fancied being a Literary Critic someday. But whereas reading came naturally to me, my writing abilities weren't as spontaneous as I had imagined it to be. I soon realized I could not write as objectively as when I was saying the same thoughts out-loud in the middle of a heated conversation. So what happened? I completed my Degree in English Lit., with an average percentile, an army of disappointments, and swore not to invest any more time or effort fueling a Dream, for which I had little or no potential.
But, those three grueling years I had spent deliriously reading book after book (and then reading again some that were written about those books,) were not utterly useless, as some may claim.* To me, they were the brightest, the happiest, enthralling years of my academic life. I never tired of reading, until a time, when a Book ceased to be about a Character, a Plot, an Event, or just plain Narration. I finally learned to appreciate the work of the Author. How is it that someone can write so effectively, that it drives hundreds and thousands of Readers all over the globe to simultaneously feel the same feelings as the Writer (or vice-versa): to be able to park in that same space, for as long as it takes, until they can finally decide to shift gears; or take it with them every place they go, till they find it's worthy successor? Or, in some cases, just leave it at the coffee table and forget about it altogether.
Okay! I was able to "cough up" the above piece in less than a few minutes. But does it mean, "I am any good at this”? I have stopped working on the piece over 8 months ago, after spending a little over quarter of an hour (Admit it- just saying "15 minutes" completely ruins my potency!). Lately, however, I have redeemed myself a little by scribbling a few posts now and then on my Profile page of you know where (duh!). I have been met with a few encouraging remarks and comments from friends & family (well mostly my cousin) to "plod the weary lengths of the icy shores" (and, yes, I am quoting myself-finally something to feel proud of!!); in short, to unleash my "creative skills".
After several such indulging and often mildly chastising "encouragements"(again, mostly from my cousin), I, gleefully, decided to embark my husband on one such creative adventure. Let me translate for all you 21st C. gals & lads who barely ever dust the Classics off their e-book shelves: I made him read one of my posts! Now, that's much better for the ears, the tongue and the Mind, which I am sure, just wants to flee at this point! Not digressing any further, my dear husband (a 21st C. lad who has never read a Classic besides the abridged versions in the English text books at school) seemed very impressed and remarked: "did you really write this?”. I nodded. Then dryly added: "are you hoping for over-night stardom?" ...where "someone unexpectedly stumbles upon your remarkable writing talents, and you are signed for the book-deal of your Life"? .... (Is there more?)..."what's the point of this...did anyone even bother to read it. How many actually understood it..."???? Not to sound partial or anything, there was some Truth in what he had just said; so he doesn't have my articulate skills, is blunt to my face; should I take offence?; well I did. Told him: “I am not writing to prove any thing...I am just sharing". I decided to shake it off and gloated in what little happiness in the recognition and praise that my very loyal friends have bestowed over me... because no matter "how far from perfect Life can be, and yet we are all imprudent enough to still breathe every moment of it, in all its glories and shams!"*.
Such glories cannot last a lifetime. It was time to take a stride. Although, to say, I have stumbled a few times is putting it mildly. I often find the reviews written on Netflix* (by some of the Users) more deft and vivid (and to the point) than I can dabble after watching a Period piece I have really enjoyed (mostly unto the wee hours of the night). Don't mistake my intentions; they are honorable and honest; where my heart just wants to leap into action, my mind is giddily conjuring words & phrases like they have been simmering in a "boiling cauldron" (Macbeth*), and I see enrapturing imagery floating and dancing in the fumes of the burning fire…and there the trail breaks off! I can now hear my husband softly snoring, and I am consumed with a sudden fury. I blame him for not buying me the "tablet" I have so longed to possess. For in those ghastly hours of the night, after a hard day's labor (or not-who can remember what day it was!), I forlorn every thought of having to leave the comfort of my bed, to drag myself & climb the stairs and turn on the PC; just so I can dribble a few lines for my friends online (who are far busy than I am, I am sure), to persuade them into watching a “masterpiece” .Phew! The audacity!
So, instead, I cuddle up next to my 3 year old, and dream Dreams of the” sweet roses in bloom…the lime green grass" (quoting a review from a Netflix User)…the crisp Summer air…; and all is well with the World; until morrow when I am glaring at the screen, reading a fancy article, and promptly guzzling my cup of tea.
* I was nick-named “Shakespeare” of my class in Business school. Nope! Wasn’t flattering in the least!!
* A quote from my post.
* Netflix, Inc., is an American provider of on-demand internet streaming media in the United States and Canada, and DVD by mail in the United States. (source: Wikipedia)
* Shakespeare's Macbeth: Act IV, Scene 1.
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