On comebacks

Writing has been the hardest thing for me in the last four years. I was coaxed into starting a blog, and as is quite evident, hardly managed to keep it up. Then I started another on a theme, and then another on midnight bored lonely musings. Nothing came out of them. I have always called myself a "writer", but haven't written seriously in at least four years...can I still call myself that? I no longer maintain a journal. I no longer scribble on margins and last pages. I hardly ever write personalized cards with bits of poetry. I hardly ever mentally create...

I have always had a fear of exposure. What if someone read and commented...can I really give something so dear to me up for public scrutiny? It is like my most intimate thoughts for my perusal only. Worse, what if someone stole them?

Besides, there were no new ideas, no new adversities to drive me in to the comfort of words, no real "inspiration". And I had stopped reading (well not completely 'cause after all I'm a literature student and a young academic...reading is what I do; and well, writing too...) I stopped reading contemporary stuff, purely for pleasure, only for myself. My literary training made be incapable of objectivity; everything after all was a "text" to be "read" and got something out of. I had made the profession out of my passion, and killed it.

But I learnt alot. A lot. And most times, I have no regrets. I couldn't have done anything else. I could have done things differently, but not else.

Well, here I am on a full moon night, under a cloudy sky, welcome breeze in the scorching heat of summer, smelling the rain and filling myself with anticipation, beginning a new chapter...