Artistic crisis is a dark fathomless well of negativity, self-loathing and frustration. I had been developing my fantasy world for the last month, enjoying the slow place with which the back story or the history was reaching its conclusion. And then yesterday, I rented a random book with an intention of grasping the genre. It happened that the book’s first paragraph had been my fantasy’s entire world. The numbers were different, as they always are, but the concept was ditto same.
What followed were days of blank impulsive behavior. The next day my parents and I went to a local darshan yatra, visiting Sai Baba temple and Mansa Devi Temple. It is usual for me to have an opinion for everything and about everyone, but that day, I was so quiet, I could hear my ears working. Even with objectivity, there is a dilemma of two things, but that day, everything seemed one to me. I hoped something would incite an emotional response in me, but I had never been so blank in my life. On very rare occasions do I visit temple without some wishes awaiting God’s grant, but that day, I was there just to say hello.
The next day, however, the silence had gone. I was talking too much and too fast covering so many topics that it became a challenge for the people around me to keep the conversation going. I was scared to look in the eye and afraid of my own space. Every would-be conflict appeared like death staring back, but the response was single: flight. Later that day, I met a dear friend in KFC. We talked and it calmed me a bit, the food helped.
Reading books was pointless, research was futile. For the first time, I felt the need of a muse. In our country, I don’t think people have even heard the word muse, let alone the meaning and the gratification. Helpless bumping on the four walls, I picked up Stephen King’s On Writing.
Reading him, in no ode to King, though I fail to understand why comic make jokes on him, lifted the circle of negativity. Hope smiled at me, motivation crawled up my back. It wasn’t just King’s, but the struggle and efforts many other talented artists illuminated the darkness within me. So what if someone has already told me similar story? Being a writer doesn’t mean that I have only one story to tell. Far from it. Inspiration swept me like gusty monsoon winds that I ended up buying three books from flipkart.