I’m not even going to pretend to deceive you with a killer opening line. Clearly, my skills have been lacking in that department in October. If you have been missing the frequency and delight of my posts (oh, tell me you have, and in saying so, make it true), you’re not alone. I am missing them too. There is something rather menacing that Harold Pinter, true to his professional nature, said about not writing. He said, when he did not write, he felt banished from himself. That very word, banished, sends me into a dizzying array of actions and emotions. Realizing the truth of it only makes the banishment worse. I would have preferred ‘holiday’, if I am being totally honest.
But, with writing, you see, there is no holiday, just like in love. In fact, the simile is complete, for with writing, the motions are exactly those of love, even if it is not centred around something as solid as another human being. Take the state I am in now, for instance. I published a post last week, and another the week before. Deficient in quantity from my blogging habits, but with no difference in quality. Well, one was about dating, but I’m allowed to fancy myself an expert on things I don’t understand sometimes, amn’t I? These trademark opinionations by your truly were duly published, and were also invisible to readers they were meant for. Entire posts on spontaneity and laziness that I had much laboured on to show how I could evade them, just weren’t going to be looked at. As though they were real duds, not the blogging ones I talked about a while ago. I understand it was a technical glitch that I was unable to fix(it would be lovely if you could check them out and tell me what I did wrong), but oh, was I a mess. Anger, self-pity, breathlessness, cooling down to a more neutral state of misery. I have never made it a secret: blogging is my Mick Jagger moment, in contrast with the rest of my dreary existence. I lose a few pounds in my fingers as I type. I make strange facial gymnastic poses as I think. I shake my derriere quite a lot as I pace around the room thinking over what to write. And when I get a good response on the post, then comes the whole shebang. No, its the other song, Moves like Jagger.
Just like in love, writing is great while it works. And just like in love, writing is a sea of tumultuous despair when it doesn’t. There is some philosophical belief that writing is a response to anxiety. But, I think, the whole act of writing is simply a case of unrequited love. If love didn’t have anything to do with it, you wouldn’t be doing it in the first place. And I’m not even talking about love for writing itself. If that were possible, we would all be far more prolific writers. I am talking about writing as an act of love, done with the hope of eliciting a return of love. From whom? In what way? Well, just like real love for a person, you really don’t know. If you can feel the love returned to you, and are anxious/loving enough to keep giving, you should be alright. If you think that your love is going to waste and something else, maybe carpentry, is a better option, then there you go.
I am a little rusty. I am afraid that this post too shall mysteriously hide in a corner of the internet, thinking it will go undetected. I have been so afraid of having my love unreturned that I thought of leaving blogging altogether, because October has just been such a *beep* month for Of Opinions. But, here is another aspect of unrequited love, lauded right from classical antiquity. As long as it is not crazy, stalker-like behaviour( and of course, those are the words used by the great Western Philosophers), there is nothing nobler, or more honourable than loving without the hope of having it returned. We’re all in Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts’ Club Band, you and me. We write so that we are not alone. Especially, from ourselves.