Things here and there
“His writings are silly.”
“You think so?”
“I mean he doesn’t write on one particular subject, no? Just picking
things here and there…”
I was listening to the poet relate what his friend opined about me
and my writing in these columns.
So as for my friend’s friend – another journalist - my writing is
utter silly. If it happened some years ago, I would have had a bee on my
bonnet for whoever dared condemned my writings in such a way.
Fortunately for some reason now I think different – I think the
journalist is right.
Yes I pick things here and there. So my writings may seem silly. Do I
sound as if I am stuck in a hazy current of hatred, when I say this?
Well, I hope not.
Of all subjects, creative writing is the only thing I think that
doesn’t come steadily. Just think of good old Shakespeare. Can you
imagine him fishing out the quill and writing on steadily from Act 1 to
5 in one stroke? I don’t think he wrote it right from the beginning. He
must have written here and there. Besides he didn’t only write plays,
but he wrote sonnets and poems too.
Once a monk was basking in the beauty of a garden of that once-upon
temple.
But as minutes wounded down, he started noticing how messy the whole
garden is. The lawn needed to be mowed. The plants needed to be tended.
And so on. Then he sweated blood to make the garden attractive. At the
end of the day he could see a spotless garden.
The monk was happy. But that was not to last long. He heard a loud
yell from the bushes. That was an old monk coming out of the old bush,
complaining that the garden would have had its natural shape.
“Why couldn’t you see the beauty of the natural mess of the garden?”
The monk asked his younger counterpart in a tone torn apart.
That’s the case in point about creative writings too. If you are in
the business of creative writing methinks you got to pick things here
and there. People like Sarachchandra were not born in libraries, my
friend was telling me the other day over tea. They went through hell of
a lot of things, ending up in prisons and all.
Well, I can picture you read and read on books, like an ivory tower.
Hardly see the sun rise. Hardly see a flower blossom. Hardly see a
vehicle moving past another. You sit down in a place surrounded by
books, or may be a little bit of nature, and go on writing as if you are
answering a question paper.
Only exception is that you have occasional pauses for a sip of your
favourite drink. But that just wouldn’t do.
That works fine, I am not in denial. But let me tell you this: go
read both Parevi Sandesa and Selalihini Sandesa by Ven Totagamuwe Rahula.
You can say Ven Rahula composed Parevi Sandesa just the way I described
in the previous paragraph.
Parevi Sandesa shows how steady-minded the author monk would have
been. The flow is steady and shows the poet’s mastery of contemporary
classical works like Sanskrit Janakiharanaya. It has a rich texture of
language and all those excellent critical remarks. What it all lacks on
the downside is creativity. There you are. There is a difference between
a scholarly work and a creative writing.
When Ven Rahula composed Selalihini he was quite matured.
He had seen the way of life, and naturally it made him think of life
in his own way. He didn’t see the world through the numerous books he
had read, like he did in Parevi. Those verses in Salelihini are easy to
understand and that philosophy makes you tremble at times. Just like
when you read Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar or Macbeth. Paulo Coelho’s
books sell in millions though they are all translations. Coelho is a
traveler and writes what he observes. He is another one picking things
here and there, but his books continue to inspire millions of poor
souls.
What you write looks steady only when you plane off the rough edges
of the draft.
That’s what masters do: they revise umpteenth times. Nicholas Sparks
tweaks his draft 200 times (at least that’s what he says).
Ken Follett makes sure his draft is gone through by 20 editors.
And yes I pick things here and there. So my writings may seem silly.
Do I sound as if I am stuck in a hazy current of hatred, when I say
this? Well, I hope not so.
Now I think of that journalist.
He is right – I’m a dwarf influenced by giants to write this column.
I cannot but thank that journalist. I would never be inspired to jot
down these thoughts, if not for him.
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