Writing is HARD, and it’s not with just a capital H, it’s with capital ARD too, or maybe even longer words like challenging or difficult or problematic with all their alphabets in capitals, underlined and in bold. It’s been a week since I decided to be amongst the 0.33 percent people who finish writing a book every year, but all I can think of are the beautiful books I have read, of how I will let them down if I write something pathetic and unreadable. It’s like performance pressure when drowning under the watchful eyes of a gaggle of coaches and parents. I have just written half a sentence and it goes like, ‘As he entered …’ Post that I felt like death, stationary, stuck in place, and all pervasive. I felt light and disgusted, and soon, I was in a pit of inconsolable despair, clawing to get out. Staring at a blank computer screen is distressing, unromantic, and in stark contrast to feeling imprinted sheets of paper, yellowed by age and use, between your fingers. There are 298 listed writers in the Wikipedia page under the category ‘Writers who committed suicide’, and like every list, I’m sure it’s incomplete. I shudder to think of the pressure writers are under to not write something that’s hated. I have just finished reading Fahrenheit 451, a novel set in the future, when houses and buildings are fireproof, and firemen don’t stop fires, they start them. Their job is to burn all the books and stoke the fires that consume them, one page at a time, one story at a time. 451 Fahrenheit is the temperature at which the printing paper catches fire and I am that temperature. Anything that I write should catch fire and burn before anyone reads it, because reading it would destroy them. And I hope not to destroy. I shut down my laptop, dump my register and the solitary printed sheet with half a sentence in my bag, and storm out of the library. I have come to realise that trying to write is the single fastest path to feeling worthless. But also, there is a little joy. I take the Metro to college, which is convenie
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Writing is HARD, and it’s not with just a capital H, it’s with capital ARD too, or maybe even longer words like challenging or difficult or problematic with all their alphabets in capitals, underlined and in bold. It’s been a week since I decided to be amongst the 0.33 percent people who finish writing a book every year, but all I can think of are the beautiful books I have read, of how I will let them down if I write something pathetic and unreadable. It’s like performance pressure when drowning under the watchful eyes of a gaggle of coaches and parents. I have just written half a sentence and it goes like, ‘As he entered …’ Post that I felt like death, stationary, stuck in place, and all pervasive. I felt light and disgusted, and soon, I was in a pit of inconsolable despair, clawing to get out. Staring at a blank computer screen is distressing, unromantic, and in stark contrast to feeling imprinted sheets of paper, yellowed by age and use, between your fingers. There are 298 listed writers in the Wikipedia page under the category ‘Writers who committed suicide’, and like every list, I’m sure it’s incomplete. I shudder to think of the pressure writers are under to not write something that’s hated. I have just finished reading Fahrenheit 451, a novel set in the future, when houses and buildings are fireproof, and firemen don’t stop fires, they start them. Their job is to burn all the books and stoke the fires that consume them, one page at a time, one story at a time. 451 Fahrenheit is the temperature at which the printing paper catches fire and I am that temperature. Anything that I write should catch fire and burn before anyone reads it, because reading it would destroy them. And I hope not to destroy. I shut down my laptop, dump my register and the solitary printed sheet with half a sentence in my bag, and storm out of the library. I have come to realise that trying to write is the single fastest path to feeling worthless. But also, there is a little joy. I take the Metro to college, which is convenie