Three years of this blog (and the older one – but it’s like just the one blog to me) have gone past. I’ve blog addiction to no blogging, to a post every other day. I’ve been reading a whole lot more than I’ve been writing. And I had two epiphanies today.
- I don’t know what to do with this web-log. I mean, I’m not really into journals. I’m not very open, and I don’t think I can deal with spilling my guts – even about, say a neat eat-place I found (Tadka, Jayanagar 4th block). So not journal-blog. The poetry has been leaving me feeling a bit exposed and a bit vulnerable. I can’t put up – just can not – the latest I’ve written. The descriptive snapshots are no longer fulfilling. I’m not writing that stuff anymore.The basic problem seems to be that I don’t know what I want to do, except write something. (I’ve joined ScriptFrenzy, btw. I have no doubt it’ll go the NaNoWriMo way – halfway to the finish line and ka-splat!)
- Camphor-the-reader is an illusion. I’ve been re-reading this past month or two, and I realise that my willingness to read stuff has taken a sharpish dip. Familiar territory, here I come. And that scares me. For as long back as I can remember (4th standard, but I don’t remember much before that except school and rain and throwing salt on leeches in Gauwhati) books have been there. Why am I going off my most reliable addiction?
I’m not sure why this is here. Like I said, the journal makes no sense to me. But I think the ultra-organised logical phase is about to hit me again, which means the traditional blogroll may go back up; and the writing will dry up.
EDIT: #2 is no longer valid. I went and started the Amulet of Smarkand, and segued into the Anasi Boys and StarDust and now am reading O! Jerusalem again. And I am writing too much. Mom always said I did things by extremes. Looks like I’m doing too much rather than too little again. And then will come the burn-out phase.