When I write a book.

Pic Courtesy: Stephen Brace
Pic Courtesy: Stephen Brace

When I write a book, I see the process as a conversation, sitting in a serene trance, typing out as words flow. There is no laughter, no jumps of joy. There is easy clarity, like the one where you understand every ripple in the lake, when every leaf nods as the wind blows. The clouds will just be right, the water will taste so pure as I sip it like the choicest wine. Morning would be the brightest, no sleepy afternoons and comforting evenings. That’s how it will be when I write a book.

Will I write about a story of dragons and wars? Or mere life as I have lived it till now? Might I clamber on top of an ivory tower and proclaim ‘insights’ or suggest directions from the middle of a highway? Would it ask you to follow my thoughts, or enthrall you with the tales of yore – freshly told? Would it describe how I got my scars, or point at others’ and act wise? Shall my travels far and wide talk to you through my book, or would it be about the kind of trade I do? Perhaps, it would be about how everything is as easy as breathing.

Seeing through my eyes.

The wonder of every morning, and how the extra warm bed at times just isn’t that bad. How delays can be breathed in, traffic jams being wished away and every self proclaimed ‘crisis’ at work being nothing but an intense product of an active (an anxious) imagination. I might write about why the perfect cup of coffee is so perfect day after day. We’ll go on long walks with words, as the book describes what it felt to convince a frown into a smile, the very first time. We’ll breathe together – me through words, you through the generous focus. You will see through my eyes, the way everything seems to work together. And we might agree.

And I would want to see through your eyes too, and I will when we talk about the book over coffee once you have read it. For this world is a loving little place, and there is nothing more beautiful than discussing individual perceptions over an uplifting beverage.

Your pastures and mine.

How green is the grass on the other side, I’ll surely ask. And you might describe it as being red, and our friend might call it a certain shade of yellow. We won’t know what color is, calling it what we grew up calling it. Attempting to communicate the texture, the rich density and its resilience through the winter – we will describe how our pastures are perceived by us. Each unsure of what the other is saying, but wondrous eyes and curious ears taking them all in.

Since I have written about my treks, I’d want to know how your journeys have been. Hundred miles in my 25 years, and it might be a hundred more in the next 5. My tales would be different, way different, then from what they are now.┬áIf I have to write something, it will have to be now. And then, if I feel like writing something 5 years later, it will have to be then too. It would be a different author now, it would be a different author then. I’d want you to share how your journeys have been, for that will make me a better writer – what is a powerful thought but an ability to decode post a good listening session?

The apparatus.

A wise runner hasn’t ran without good shoes, no drunkard could be so without a steady drink. I’ll need to learn how to write a book, before I do so. Part preparation comes from focusing on tasks at hand, and living life the way it should be led, listening to the amazing people who make it worth living and believing that everyone (and everything) does. Analogy comes naturally to me, but even Jonathan Livingston Seagull practiced to be more than just a gull – and thus went beyond.

When I write a book, it will be a conversation with the world, and every individual that fills it. And I’ll probably write about how every day is unlike the one that went, and unlike the one that’s coming. And the world might stand still for me then, as I cease to exist in anything wider than a moment.

:)

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