The only cure for writer’s block is to write, write anything that comes to your mind. Welcome ideas, let them make a nest inside your head. Write the sad things, bad things, the good and the worst.
I know I am a little late but I have decided to end my writer’s block by rambling about the inner, darker, disgusting part of my brain. I am no Carrie Bradshaw (I do not have Mr Big or the colourful experience) nor I am Ifemelu to write about the disappointment of the American Dream. Writing is a personal experience and I want to learn the art of exploring vulnerability without exposing my whole self. Some mysteries are better under a veil.
I chose my pseudonym “Kate Sarah” on a whim and now it is my identity.
My uncles call me Kate. Cousins and sisters call me “Kate Sarah” nana. I saw my name saved as Kate Sarah on my friend’s phone. This was what I dreaded the most. I was so adamant to hide that I unconsciously exposed myself.
I started a poetry page on Instagram where I wrote poems under another pseudonym “Sanskari” and that’s a sad tale for some other day.
I was a graphomaniac in school. My physics and chemistry books looked like a crime scene.
The year was 2010, the
month unknown; I stood in the middle of a crowded Chemistry lab with a sheet of paper and pen watching the mayhem around, laughing at my classmates as they busied themselves to solve the mystery of the unknown potion in their hands. I thought they were all insane but to them, I was the mad one. I was writing an episodic novel which I believed was my magnum opus. It took me 12 years to know that it was a piece of shitkaboom! I was selling a few of my stories around the school for pocket money. Which I squandered in many aludums and other reckless things.
That following year I sat down to write my board exam, and all the stories and my leisure time flashed before my eyes. There is a very beautiful Nepali phrase to describe this kind of situation aptly – “Baje ko biya dekhnu” which roughly translates to mean to see the stars. I managed to fill the empty pages thanks to my pathological condition. I felt like a cricket who wastes his summer only to die in the winter. But die I did not. As humans are designed to survive and suffer, I survived.
Today, I write to celebrate life and to all the missed opportunities, bullies, rejections and life lessons, turds like my exes. Basically, everything under the sky. I want to be consistent, and disciplined in this new endeavour. If you care to read my rant feel free to do so. I’ll steal some time from myself to scribble a paragraph or two.
p.s. I am cured of graphomania but how I wish to be haunted again.