I Figured I could Make Time

For quite some time now I have not been able to create. I haven’t been able to work on any new writing project other than my blog. It’s not that I don’t want to or that I have run out of ideas. No. See , I have all these characters and stories running around endlessly in my head. But I haven’t been able to put them down on paper. In other words, I haven’t been able to actually sit at my desk and write. And that makes me angry and frustrated all the time. 

Three months ago I cleaned and tidied a corner in my bedroom which I would like to call my writing corner, just so I have a definite place to go to every day to write. I figured I will start with little tasks. One page at a time, and follow John Grisham’s advice and take each day as it comes.

“I had no time to write- zero time. But I figured I could make time if I could carve out little segments. I knew it would be a slow process, but I didn’t care because I was in no hurry. I learned two very valuable lessons in doing that. One, you can’t get in a hurry. Two, write every day if you want to see your novel completed. My goal was to write a page a day. Some days I could only find 30 minutes, some days two hours. Sometimes I would write five or six pages, sometimes just one. But writing every single day is of utmost importance. Especially if like most beginning writers, you have another full-time job.” 

I was so happy and looking forward to my new beginning when the landlord decided to renovate the building. Before I knew it workers were banging on my wall, the wall against which I had my desk, taking down the bricks. 

I tried to stay calm and figure out how to continue with my plan. On the first day I put on my earphones and sat at my desk. But the noise was so strong. In fact the entire house shook from the banging.


I changed my place, went to the sitting room but to no avail. After a while it all became too much to bear. I thought of going to the library or a coffee shop to work. But then I was afraid to leave the house in case something went wrong and the entire house got destroyed. How silly of me to think that I could have really prevented that.

Today there are no more workers working on the house. No more banging on the walls. The house looks much nicer from the outside. But the feeling and the taste I am left with after all those days of not being able to write, as Simone de Beauvoir put it:

“A day without writing tastes of ashes.” 


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