A writer’s Tragedy
By Phill Ibsen
Every girl romanticizes poets and writers on their lips as though that alone would hand them title deeds. They end up pursuing one-night romantic escapades which in their minds mean; Candle lit flame, Red wine and a perfect lyrical song stringing along flattery of prose and redundant poetry – to make them wheeze out of their clothes, and eventually out of their skins. However, none of these women would want to get down with a writer, for a simple reason, they would not understand.
A Writer’s mind cannot be deconstructed. A Writer’s mind cannot be deconstructed to fit a description.
Men fear such writers who defy scripted expectations and labels to live in their wordily ecstasies of self-deprivation and in darkness dreaming. Men fear such writers who quit their day jobs to settle on a less chartered path, writing, enduring cold lonely nights penning thoughts with one question under the rug of their minds, ‘is writing sustainable?’ In their hands find; an empty cup constantly begging for a refill, compilation of drafts and uncompleted manuscripts crisscrossed into crispy notes, and emails that read in a condescending tone,
“Dear writer, we have received your submission, but unfortunately your story is unfit for our publication”.
Hearts sink as veins buffer in Self-doubt rendering a writer to ask the unforgivable questions of all time. Is it worth it? Do I put in enough work? However, mere adulations nor self-proclamations should address the question whether to be or not to be a writer. For in their continual search for approval, sadness and despair, rejections and depressions, fuels a writer’s urge.
Yet in damning pity men look upon such writers who have the courage to go on. Critics, with a tumorous question pointed on their picky fingers and pointy noses, ask, “To what end?” To get their name on publications? To satisfy their egos? But even so, publications after publications, awards after awards, No one gets to see the back-end, which tell tales of skeletons hiding in forgotten drafts, nor the number of times a writer has overcome self-doubt. We only get to see the front-end, which is beautiful – books published, Names printed on magazines, Awards won, seminars attended, Graduation ceremonies, and etc.
The tragedy of it all, perhaps is that, no amount of satisfaction can retire a writer, not even death, for the work of a writer begins when creation ends.
It gets lonely sometimes.
Written by Phill Ibsen, Master of Descriptions.