I write in bursts. Like everything else I do, I write incessantly for a few days (sometimes hours) and then hibernate for a long time. Usually, something I read, or watch, inspires me to pick it up again. Somedays I am stuck in a rut. I know what I want to say. It is all very clear. But the words aren’t right. I don’t feel the love. And whatever I write doesn’t turn out the way I imagine it in my head. So it stays in the drafts. Rotting, till it is saved by another writing spurt. Usually, all my drafts are left to die a lonely death.
Then there are days, or nights when the words flow. The words flow like magic, the entire article is ready, just the way I like it. The perfect words, the perfect sentences. It is all worthy of being published in the New Yorker. But this happens when I am in the shower or when I am half asleep. When I sit down to actually write all that magic, words elude me. I tap the keyboard a few times, hoping for the article to come back to me. I want to write and share. Because it was so perfect, the kind that goes viral overnight. But all I have is an empty blogpost. Another draft, just sitting there.