Grief Is Power- Essays

PRAYING THROUGH THE NOVEL

It's a strange process. I often wondered what it'd be like— to write a novel. Stupendously tougher than it looks. To even complete mere 50,000 words seems like such a draining task. To keep a count of how many words I have written seems odd. Very intentional. Unnatural. Unrequired.

I began writing last summer in India, on the outskirts of the city Pune. A simple idea I pushed beyond its limits. It wasn't developed. Tired and with a different path to follow. Yet, I pen it down with a rigid idea of how to start.

The first day was wonderful. I wrote the first chapter (which remains the prologue of the story after all this time) within the first half-hour of writing. I check the count. Thousand words exactly. I write it without any specific structure. Although I do write the narrative as if I am writing a short story. The more I write, the more I feel like I am collecting vignettes from someone else's life.

The entire project in my head shifts perspective. It isn't the same anymore. The tone changes, and so does the language. What I set out to write isn't enough anymore. I leave traces of those elements behind. I embark on a newer idea. A new voyage not intended. The tickets are exchanged. The destination remains similar—even the plot. But the subject shifts drastically. It is newer. Richer. Better or not, I have no clue.

It's like a new skin wrapping itself around me.

I collected all this money to buy a jacket. But when I reach the store, I want to purchase jeans I liked instead. I do not care; that's all the cash I have. I simply make the transaction physically. The jeans aren't necessarily a new gear of sorts that makes a lot of difference. Perhaps the jacket would've made me look different. It could've helped me cover my flaws. And hide all that I was ashamed of. But with this new pair of jeans, I am more exposed. I cannot cover what I want to be hidden so severely.

I panic at the moment— and then walk down the road. I become more of myself, perhaps.

After the second chapter, I ball up the courage within me and apply for a certified course online to study creative writing. Coursera.com. I do not see any better option. I go ahead with hesitation. I wither. I ask my father if I can use his debit card for the transaction. He smiles. 'Of course,' he says.

Four novelists at Wesleyan University (somewhere in America) preach over their pre-recorded lessons and discussions, looking straight to the camera. Amity Gaige, Amy Bloom, Salvatore Scibona, and Brando Skyhorse. All of them teach about the various elements of a brilliant story.

I start taking the lessons too quickly. I become impatient. What if the subject is of no interest to me anymore? What if I run out of ideas? What if my language changes?

I scratch myself a little too hard.

The first assignment comes: write an activity that would take someone two seconds to carry out in 200 words minimum. I frown. My stomach drops. All the energy I gathered to piece together words simply sift through open fingers.

I wither again.

I leave the laptop open on my desk. I leave the room and go into the hall to watch a film I do not remember well. I cook lunch and then eat and sleep. We had returned from a long weekend's wedding of my cousin. The week drags out. It is 2020. The lockdown seemed like a perfect time for the specialization. To start a novel.

I might as well start with the idea. I had thought. And three thousand words later, I find myself back at square one. Nothing seems to change or improve.

It is as if I have to put together everything I have ever written and throw it down the window of this twelve-story building. And then go down and bring back those shattered pieces to rebuild. A new engine. A new structure. And a new language.