I called a halt out of sheer fatigue of mind and eye. The number of articles (and still counting) on the Ayodhya verdict just as the English press would have exceeded by many times even the 10,000-page judgement. For that matter, the CW games, with its shaky run-up, a rather face-saving run and a shady aftermath, would have, for its part, consumed forests by the score. Ditto with almost every issue. And we are talking only of reams of newsprint, not the reels, digital as they may be, of prime time content. Now, where does this astounding volume put the individual writer, the self-proclaimed purveyor of lusty polemics and law points?
Really, every writer presumes an unlimited capacity for clarity of judgement that even judges shy away from claiming. It looks the tendency is inherent more in the art of writing and less in the writer himself. I am not trying to exonerate a writer from his assumption of superiority but the fact is any one who has access to pen, paper and print automatically upgrades himself to the status of Your Honour. This is true not just of professional writers but also of casual writers of letters to editors. Doubters can pick the gauntlet to see this transformation – how a dip into ink can convert a reverence-filled reader into a reservoir of rhetoric. That said, a mike on hand too can cause the same effect, making a haranguing loudspeaker of a humble listener.
In sharp contrast to such a lofty self-image is his absolute irrelevance, given the crowd of words and wordsmiths in the market. Many would dub this as a happy sign of growing literacy, but a reality check at the local waste paper mart will prove that the so-called literacy literally lies as litter, often unbundled and, therefore, unopened. In this indifference, the lettered are no different from the unlettered. Reading in print is still the preserve of a negligible population. And this is scattered over many lingos, regions and publications that the written word, once considered sacred, has become more transient than the spoken one. Confined to a cocoon and clueless about the changing tastes of society, a writer revels and lives in his own mind and world of make-believe. To him the authority he assumes is a natural extension of his calling, notwithstanding four fingers always pointing inwards. Indeed, no writer can stand the test of his own testimony against others. But if the audience is a myth as many writers rue, what’s the point of the pursuit? The antidote suggested by some miserable souls is that one should write for one’s own consumption. Any readership is a collateral bonus!
There is a larger perspective to a writer’s world. I am a firm believer in the concept of a cosmic consciousness or universal mind, not just in a religious sense but also as a scientific fact. All thoughts that can be thought are present in potential form in that all-pervading, albeit abstract, realm of flux. Individuals only pick them up according to the capacity of their mental radars. ‘You just said what I have been thinking’ is not just an expression of coincidence but a statement that carries the authenticity of arithmetic. A professional writer, therefore, by sheer compulsion will be tuned into many of those frequencies. And with the added advantage of access to avenues of articulation, he advances into an adjudicator. But if every writer were to judge himself honestly, it would be apparent that he can hold no copyright nor claim propriety to any idea. Instead, we often witness an idea passing through and vanishing, landing probably in some other lucky bloke’s mind and worse, as matter in ink! So, at best, a writer can pat himself for some style. But in these days of brevity warranted by diminishing attention spans, style is a luxury that the reader is happy to skip. Tweets and text messaging have made the wrtr even less imp!
This is not to preclude originality. Many writings are indeed peerless and revelations. But the point is they are often revelations for the writer himself if he cares to introspect. There are confessions from creators of great works that they knew not what possessed them from the moment they positioned the pen. Many have talked of a sudden inspired spell after long bouts of head-scratching and nail-biting. Spontaneity is the hallmark of good writing and that is rarely the handiwork of just human effort. A great writer is at best a finer extension of the pen; that he is a tool, there is no doubt. The sepia-toned parchments of the past may seem profound but seen in their contemporary light, many may be shown up as plagiarised versions of the works of an earlier era. Reason why, scriptures that have survived time and tide still hold sway over all literary works. Or why book writers, barring fiction wherein anything goes, cannot finish a book without quotes from authorities who even outnumber the author himself in terms of verbal contribution to the book. Really, all ideas are eternal; only the idioms change with the times. Authorship is a conditional tag, subject to verification!
Writing for newspapers is both a pleasure and a pain. (for the reader too, but let’s skip that). The byline is a huge ego-tickler that lures many, but the fancy wears off either when brickbats exceed bouquets or once reality strikes. The modern writer actually faces an existential crisis. He takes himself quite seriously, imagining that the world is waiting for his word. But instant TV and the internet take out much of the steam from his words. And when the written words do manage to make it to print, they soon get lost in the maze of sundry similar stuff of which there is a surfeit. And then he loses the reader after para 1 unless there is a captive audience ill-fated to go through the regular reading regimen. And whatever residual pleasure that the profession of journalism salvages is eroded by the business of journalism, which is a sort of battleground for the three goddesses, Lakshmi, Saraswathi and Parvati. And invariably, S and P lose out owing to lack of L!
I just made a sound case to quit writing. But the judge in me acquits the writer on grounds of sympathy because he has a stomach to feed and a mind that still thinks someone, even if only one, out there may actually be waiting.
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