New Year Cheer

What really marks December and sets it apart from other months?

Redemption.

Or the impending feeling thereof.

December is that month when you think you will close your eyes, get tumble-dried and come out minty fresh the other side of the new year.  Your life feels like a musical with promises of new hope, new beginnings, fewer mistakes and the odd Julie Andrews-on-a-hilltop-song thrown in. 

There’s a lot of Hollywood inspired faith and love doing the rounds. And then, there is Christmas.

The spirit of Christmas, winter holidays (or is it just a love of liquor cake?), Julia Roberts/Kate Hudson rom-coms can drive even the most hard core atheist into a warm, fuzzy, believing mess (it’s almost like strategic warfare).

In that lulled state of happiness/winter/candy coma we then go on to resolve !

We resolve to read more, eat less, run more, worry less and generally come closer to Oprah’s version of 'how to be post-modern good'.

Who can resist the easy charm of Resolutions? They offer you a chance to discard your old selves and personalities.

 Heavy Bangs and not working out was very 2010 of you!

This year shall be about evolved sartorial choices and well-timed epiphanies !

Except December is probably the vilest decoy ever. Fresh starts, resolutions, and haircuts can and should be taken any day of the year.

Hell ! 22nd April is as good a time as any ! 

So this year stuff yourself with cake, turkey and well-coordinated colour blocked layers.

 But like a friend said, “December is like, a month long Friday”.

You’re too giddy to be making well thought out, sustainable decisions right now.

Wait until Tuesday. 

On Writing.

I have a relationship with writing.

A full blown torrid love affair, if you may.

Infact, if we had a song it’d be “Love the way you lie”, Rihanna’s tribute to love and Eminem’s tribute to wife-beaters (pun unintended)

A beautifully constructed sentence is art to me. As is an Andy Warholl approach to words and punctuation- mess-it-up,  giveitadifferenttouch,  but.don’t.be.predictable.

Zadie Smith, for example, she knows her sentences and metaphors and ironies !

Ofcourse,  loving beautiful art and being an avid fan makes for soul numbing, finger crippling fear. Reading a well written book does not make me jump up and down my futon (all,  writers read in futons *rolls eyes*) saying, “You watch out Amis, my books going to kick your book’s, now hardbound fourth edition, ass”

It makes me wide eyed, petrified and unable to stop myself from looking up that writer online. Worst.Move.Ever

It’s like telling a young scientist, “Did you know Einstein completed his thesis by 26?”

“Oh wait, you’re a 32year old phD student, is it? Err. FAIL.”

My fav authors actually studied literature. Zadie Smith spent considerable time at Cambridge learning/observing/mastering how other authors wrote, their techniques, the construct of a novel. Hell, the construct of a sub-character even. And while I am proud of having had a real education (which means not an MBA dupe-show for a Masters) there is no real skill/technique or a cheat sheet in there on how to be a better writer. These thoughts furiously compound themselves into a Glee-like musical in my head (with  a par-excellence production quality, if I may add) and its endless foot tapping torture. Much like Darren Hayes in the 90’s.

I then sit down to write on my laptop. The result is what a monkey on a Twix high, furiously pounding on a keyboard, would produce. Not great.

The other fun scenario is when I actually want to write something. It would be a lovely day outside, lots of pollution and a sick leave. I will think to myself what boundless opportunities this day holds and how I must carpe diem them by the throat. Filled with positive hoo-haa, I sit down to write and what do you think I am able to write about? Nothing. Nada. Except, 5  genious, scathing ways I can insult what so and so wore to that event. Or, how mad I am at so and so for being an obvious plagiarist (pet peeve alert). Or on a really bad day the lyrics to what will absolutely be Gaga’s new hit

(Even on my worst day I can top the poetry out of this-

I want your horror/I want your design

‘Cuz you’re a criminal as long as you’re mine.)

So. My Darling Writing. I hate you (like I love you).

Love,

Your Favorite Monkey.

Elvis has left the building

This is step one towards being a more disciplined writer- a public blog.

None of the "I write for myself in a secret blog which only 5 people know about" nonsense anymore.
This is the smalltime,wide-eyed, secret blogger, wandering around in the Blogger Role filled with new templates world, clutching her shiny Macbook.
And I can tell you this Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore.

What's really scary about a public blog is how transparent your life and you become.
Writers/bloggers even angry Facebook note vent- ers are completely obvious to everyone else.

Give me a guys blog (someone whose figured out punctuation please!) and I can tell you his journey or lack thereof. I could tell you what he despises the most and what his parental complexes are. Telling his favorite color and favorite movie apart however would be a challenge, not to mention a snooze-fest.

To cut a long rant short. I'm here.
And committed to seeing this through.

If any of you try to call me on a "feeling", I will find where you live, hunt you down and kick your ass.

The rest of the violet anger I am working upon.