Other People’s Words
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I have never begun a novel with more misgiving. If I call it a novel it is only because I don't know what else to call it. I have little story to tell and I end neither with a death nor with a marriage. Death ends all things and so is the comprehensive conclusion of a story, but marriage finishes it very properly too and the spohisticated are ill-advised to sneer at what is by convention termed a happy ending.

The Razor’s Edge (Opening Lines). W. Somerset Maugham
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I have often wondered whether my inability to write a novel can be treated with any finality. I realize that I am incapable of stringing together a series of words which are a consequence of thoughts and experiences for any length for it to be called a novel. There is a world of difference between telling a story and writing a novel, and if there weren’t any then our grand parents would be a generation of writers and we… well a lot richer. I have been a dabbling a bit- here and there, without purpose or intent, for quite some time, but all endeavors were half-hearted and never completed. I generally cite a lack of time, theme and rhyme for the same. However, I did manage to execute (hate the word) a travelogue (http://juleyji.blogspot.com/) some time back, and considered it to be a personal accomplishment. Often I write for myself and thus it is mostly unreadable for others. I have written for others to read some times, but with the sole intention of getting laid. I guess it is true for most people. My house is littered with pieces of prose which are a reminder of my dubious double life. But the benefit of writing a travelogue- and here I quote myself from Juley- is that finding your words while you travel is quite another thing. “There is no plot to create, no conversations to weave, no characters to turn into heroes and much less, villains. No dilemma as to where to start and how to end. No marriage, no death. Just the turn of events, a narration of how they unfold and fall back in place. Just what happens along the road, and the way it makes me feel. Everything that has ever held me back from completing the books I have begun, now fades.”

However, when I reread Juley some time back, I realized that it was convoluted, and excessively verbose. The dialogue was feeble and the characterization nil. I realized that I deserved none of the straight A’s that I had handed myself on its completion. The praises for it had come from others (mostly women) who had been otherwise enamoured by me at athat point of time. By then I realized that I might not be able to write a novel after all. I was at best an accomplished hack, who could get along quite well for personal consumption from a few thousand words of parody, criticism and whimsy. Most of my writing is a play on words and derived from my own experiences; and my life by no means is interesting enough for me to write to much about, far less be read by others. I am not competent of thinking up interesting characters, and exciting things to happen to them, and amusing lines for them to speak. That would be beyond me. It is also equally difficult for me to get characters on and off my mind, much less the stage, and I have had to resort to unmentionable means to do the same. It might seem easy, but hardly is. I was relieved in a sense to have a job and not to have to eke out a living from my meager skills with the pen.

I felt this prologue was necessary because I feel a certain sense of despondency welling up in my solitary reader (Anonym, for those who came in late) as we progress on my current adventure. Although it is too late to back-out now, I would still like to point out certain things. I have a certain flair for leaving my readers in thin air. I guess it is an outcome of writing stuff that generally never gets shared. It is selfish- probably just self-centred. Most of the stuff I write is on impulse, with little thought and some times none at all. At times when I think too much it contorts the texture of my tale. However, this time I do have a story to tell, but it is not quite there yet. I know the beginning and the end, but since I am subject to scrutiny, I feel that I need more substance in between those two bullet points. Moreover, since most of my writing is an extension of my experiences, my characters themselves are just that- minor variations of people I have known. An outcome of that are the names I have chosen for them. Even this time the first part was written as an outcome of inspiration and lassitude at work. That day I had to think of only two names and did so purposefully… with some thought. But as I went along and Sree (not her real name) came in I realized that Greek names in an essentially Indian story stinks of weak characterization going forward. As much as I’d like to retain Echo and Narcissus- especially because the names capture an essence of the story through their obvious mythological references, I would have to go through a ctrl FIND & ctrl REPLACE exercise. Believe me that will break my heart. Another problem is that when I write I think of them as real people and for me to call them by any name other than their real names is difficult. But to write their real names here is dangerous, especially since not everything is factual- or even if it is, it would not be entirely fair to do so without their consent. So I try not to bother and just write on. At some point of time I will do the act.

Anonym has too many questions now and it really begins to worry me. Even though I think most of this worry is unfounded, I can’t help it considering that rarely my writings have been through such intense scrutiny. Unfortunately, I cannot extend our adventure daily. First, I do not have the talent, inspiration or the time to do it. But more importantly to write daily would render the story into an exercise in habit and that is not such a nice thought. More so after I began with such a flourish. I wish I could jump the gun and answer my solitary and esteemed reader’s questions on where Narcissus is headed, but in someone else’s words, it would take the shit out of the whole thing. I think at this point of time it is safe to say that by the time I am (or We are) through Narcissus will be … well, let it be. Later. This is not a story about Narcissus or his multiple romantic affairs. It is not a statement on his debauched life. Prima facie, the story is about the two of them- Echo and Narcissus. It is about beautiful experiences and I wonder whether I will have the words to describe them when we get there. I will try to ask a few questions that haunt me, and I know I am not the only one, and seek answers to the same. Those questions are what I feel is the fibre of human relationships, and I would like to deal with them with a level of sensitivity that is a bit more than what characterizes the average Mills and Boons author. And yes, we will try to have some fun as well, what say? I am not sure whether I will succeed, but as I say, I write for myself. Yes, there will be a flashback at some point of time and I will try to tie-up the loose ends, but at this point of time it is far too early to say any of this conclusively.

And while we are at it, what’s wrong with a little temptation? However, I believe (as I have been cesured before) like the fascination, this too is directed to my writings and to my writings alone. Much as I tempted to guess the identity of Anonym, I would hardly enjoy being the object of desire of middle-aged fat Mr. Kelkar or boring Mrs. Seth, or even the over enthusiastic "Chhoti Dadi".

I am drained. More later... Ta da...