The Writer's Dilemma

So today I sat wondering what it takes to make a good writer. Actually, let's kick the upper-middle class generalization syndrome aside, which we say, as everything else, is the colonialist's gift, and jump right down into the condom-free truth.I sat thinking how I can make myself write a good book. My problem? Sheer inconsistency. Cause: Excessive indulgence in distraction. There. I've done the scientist's work. Identified the problem and the cause. And like most scientists, I forget that things, in a very practical world, do not actually boil down to equations as simple as what Pythagoras thought of his Theorum. Then ofocurse, he ran into the the Problem of incommensurables, and voila! Pythagoras decided to bring in his issue with beans. In other words, he neatly sidestepped the problem at hand, and went on to explain the excrutiating details of his Bean Theory. I suppose that's where the word "nut" comes from. As in, when we use it ro refer to mentally disturbed "Bushes" of the world. No offense to Pythagoras, ofcourse, who I hold in very high esteem.

So anyway, (im sure you've caught on to the involuntary demonstration of what distraction means in my dictionary), I wondered if i could ever sit down and write agood book. Something, that came from whithin me, that was entrenched in my experiences and a piece of fiction that translated from factual realities. Something like the "God of Small Things", really, at the risk of sounding like i want to sound like her, as a writer, which I don't, since I want my voice to be "unique",(as is the case with most adrenaline-infested young high school/college graduates who consider themselves the epitomes of modern philosphy, hence the whole Picasso routine). Something that encircles history, and man, and social issues, both reagional and global. Something, that in the end, comes from the heart and touches, primarily the heart(the romance novels I've read had to have some influence, no?!). Something that is essentially ME, and yet, universally felt.

But then, a marxist friend said to me, you have to decide what side of the equation you're on. He, by the way , for all my firends who consider Mathematics a righteous enemy, was speaking politically. A gun was suddenely placed aginst my head and i was asked to choose between the rising tide of commercialism, and the secretly rising tide of what they like to refer to as the "Left".The "Royal" LEft perhaps, would be more appropriate, since they too, have begun to consider themselves a tad bit too important in the wake of things. My dreams of writing a "good" book, were, in his august opinion, closely linked to this choice. I could either try writing a book for publicity and money, your average "bests-seller" types, or write something more "literary". Now, here ofcourse, he never really defined what he meant by "literary", and that actually got me thinking.

Being fresh out of A-Level Literature, I know that all that what is conventionally refrerred to as "Literature" and what it churns out, is vastly diverse in nature. We have "literature" that is spread over different countries, different languages, and an increasingly diverse range of writing styles. Shakespeare, in his own time, was a famous playwright, not as famous, as a few others of his Age, back then, but famous enough to continue to use his plays as a means of earning his daily bread. Jane Austen, though not earning too much through her living room filigree works, was getting a lot of publicity in her own time. In the modern age, we had Tennessee Williams, who literally lived on his plays. So some general observations begin to emerge as a pattern in "literary" history. Here, I suppose it would be convenient to clarify that by "Literature" let us take the most commonest of its explanations, as in all those works that survive the test of time. And in this case of course, the loosely put together explanation itself renders all attempts at encasing the word "Literature" in an intellectual prison, null and void. However, even if we consider this, it is plainly apparent, that a lot of those who made "literature", or passed that insurpassable test of time, were famous and well-paid even in their own time, for their work. The Church clergy here, perhaps, will tell me that it doesn't matter if i get famous or paid for my work, as long as i donot write because of these two outcomes. As long as I write for myself, because i truly want to, I am all the nobler for it. In other words, I am resisting the tide of commercialism that threatens to hit me in this oh-so-capitalistic world.

But, and here lies the gripe, will J.K Rowling ever turn to writing her own book of short stories on the Dilemma of the Human Race, as long as Harry Potter still lives? We may start off in the ernest, but the increasing prospects of economic gain, are experienced persuaders of the world. Since writing would require getting into a very subjective mind, I will take my own example, hindered by the fact that I do not have numerous other minds to jump into, at my disposal, in lieu of the standards of ethics set down by the anti-genetic experimentation squad of the "New World Order".

On a personal note, If I start writing in a newspaper column that intially pays me only minimally, but when i become a sudden success overnight, it raises my salary to a considerablky high figure. There will be days, when I do not want to write, and when what I produce, may not really be a reflection of the kind of writin g that I dream about, the kind that is essentially about me, but in a universal mould, but I will continue the column because of the hefty paycheque i get at the end of every month. The existentialist will tell me that I still have a choice, that I can leave this kind of writing, lose my economic snobbery for some time, and try my hand at something different. On the other hand, I can continue. The existentalist, makes me think I have a choice. In the end, I suppose, our worthy friend, the existentialist, is bit like our other friend, the capitalist. He tells me I have a choice, which really, is a choice with a lot of barricades here and there to ensure I don't wander too far(translation: a longer leash). In other words, not much. And not too diffiucult either, in a world where each class sits up like a puppy dog on its haunches to be fed by the class above it.(With gratitude, thankyou.). So here I am then, day in and day out, and my dreams of writing what I really wanted to write, getting chewed up in the machinery of the Techno-era, and the world applauding my "genius".


Where does the writer end and the reader begin? That, is the question. And this question is turning from one of philosophy to one of economics.Shakespeare's plays were never meant to be read, they were only meant to be performed, and yet, your average, semi-literate, IT-armed epitome of street-smartness will tell you Shakespeare's literature. In the example that I referred to above(and i apologize again for it being a personal one, throigh no fault of my own), the world loves me. I will write enough, proabably, to last a good many years, and my work may even make it into "literature", if the readers of another time and place can still relate to it. But where, one wonders did the "I" in the writer go?And here its not the "I" in the survivor that I am referring to but the "I" in the writer, or the "I" in the artist. Some critics have said, that Shakespeare, even if he had been a rich Duke who needn't survive on his plays, would ultimately have made it to "Literature" through perhaps, his love sonnets for the Duchess. In other words, talent, they assume always comes out, one ends up doing what one loves most.

In the sudden awakening of this crazy rat race of survival and the golden turrets of competition, I really do wonder......

Think about it. Writing seven books, each roughly above 300 pages and others roughly double the length, in the course of a straight six years, cannot be particularly enjoyable. So why, does J.K. Rowling stretch that story? Why, I ask, does Harry Potter not die? Why, is Voldemort defeated? This isn't how it happens in the real world surely, where the Voldemorts rise in number everyday, and continue to trample Harry Potters under their feet. How, one wonders does public pressure build up, and how, one wonders, does it kill the artist's "I"?