Yet Untitled 072 - For my friend who's having trouble writing
A note and a prayer for her to Keep Going
Howdy, dear Yet Untitlers!
A fellow writer has been struggling with sustaining her newsletter, and I want to dedicate this installment to her. Even though I’ve not faced the same challenge in publishing YU, I’m no stranger to what she’s facing and my heart goes out to her.
I recently watched a great documentary on Netflix about longevity that explores things that are common across “blue zones” - where the maximum concentration of people living over a hundred are to me found. Essentially, it tries to isolate the things that contribute to long, sustained human lives. I’m trying a similar experiment in this installment - remembering times when I have sustained creative processes for long stretches; and thinking about writers I have known who sustained their writing for impressively long periods of time - some of them throughout their lives. Perhaps, for my friends’ sake, I can glean some insights about sustaining creative practices and share them with all of you, including her.
It’s worth mentioning that I stand on the shoulders of giants when it comes to this. Mostly everything I say will reflect things already explored by heavy hitters such as Austin Kleon (who even wrote a lovely and exhaustive book on the subject called Keep Going). I also owe so much to Craig Mod whose ecosystem of newsletters and subscriber-supported projects taught me a lot about different ways in which we can get into ourselves and re-emerge with various treasures, repeatedly without depleting ourselves.
I must say, I have surprised myself with sustaining YU uninterrupted for so long. I never expected to have pulled through this far. Every time I ask myself ‘how’, I’m directed to the place writing occupies in my life. It is sustenance. I cannot do without it. Hence it I have fought to sustain it somehow. This would be a a first insight - it almost always is a fight.
Here’s another - I think I fight harder because of having known a time of fallow. There was a time when I had the intent to create, but not the skill. Is skill the right word? Sure, I could string sentences together, but the sentences resembled nothing close to what I regarded as good writing. I would read authors I liked, be in awe of their abilities and then end up producing stuff that felt like pale shadows of their work. It felt disappointing. And who wants sustained disappointment in their lives. There have been many times when I gave up disheartened like this.
Thinking about this - what I lacked wasn’t the skill to write. I lacked the skill to keep going. Till then, I had just stared out as a writer, and I believed that a writer’s journey was lonely and solitary. Alone, I would hit that juncture of disappointment again and aging, and just stop. A big thank you to everyone - you know who you are - who somehow got me back to creating after these fallow spells.
I kept going long enough to start picking up sustaining skills. Here are a few instances I recall that were helpful -
Clermont Ferrand
My first short film - Shanu Taxi - got selected at Clermont Ferrand, an amazing film festival dedicated exclusively to short films. There, the most interesting short films I watched were in the ‘Experimantal’ section, where creators had gone to town playing with their medium and pushing boundaries.
It was at Clermont Ferrand that I saw stuff that resembled nothing of what I had seen before - the films were their own thing. There, mingling among the filmmakers, I initially tended to see them all as larger than life. Where would my seemingly unexciting bouquet of life-experience compare to these very interesting people from interesting places like Mexico, Israel and Namibia. My stories didn’t feel like anything in comparison. But.. a few glasses of wine down and it was quite clear that most of them had fought the same battles as me to get their stories out. The only difference was that they had been more successful than me at the fight. Perhaps I didn’t see it then but I know it now. I lacked nothing that they had. At some point, originality would emerge from me as well.
The sustained feedback loop of a writers’ room
Having written in isolation for years before I entered the oft-wonderful oft-crazy collaboration of a writers room - the tried and tested method of creating multiple episode dramas for OTT. Here, the feedback loop became continuous, with many eyes falling on my work while still in process. It was unnerving, to say the least, and I considered this preposterous to begin with. But I had no choice! This was the norm and this was my career. Eventually, I committed to the process.
In a writers room, I had to adjust to having my own voice reflected back at me again and again. In its best form, this process became a sieve where a truly good, truly original idea could be identified and everything else quickly made its way to the dustbin.
But it was still painful. The only way to survive it was to dissociate somewhat from what was was coming from me. Now, as a 9 year parent, I know this to be the bane of parenthood - letting go of children, of not seeing them as my children alone but as independent individuals. My thoughts may be my thoughts till they are laid on the table. After that, the training taught in no uncertain terms, they are simply raw material. Clay. And must be treated so. There will be spillage.
An idea is difficult to bounce around if its flesh relays the pain of every bounce directly to your nervous system. I think what helped me was to see that the place from where ideas come is indeed vast and limitless. So what if one of them winds up in the bin, even if unreasonably so. Another would follow soon.
I would never survive writers rooms if I didn’t have a place where I could still experience the reflective solitude of a singular writer. That place is here. But I have also worked with wonderful writers who make sure they also carve out quiet places for themselves amidst this unforgiving and often noisy process. I see them switch between solitude and and it’s opposite gracefully, consciously and in control.
It’s something I aspire to: this fight to protect your quiet place reminds me of a writer I’ve known…
Kiran Nagarkar
Here’s a writer with a prolific body of work who I had a chance to observe first hand, on account of his being a family friend. We would arrive at Kiran uncle’s home for a visit, almost always to be told “Kiran is writing and will join us when he’s done”. This always struck me as being at odds with my world where social obligation always took precedence, but Kiran seemed to hold it all at bay. I don’t think I replicated Kiran’s practice of keeping his guests waiting, but I took a page from his book to decisively carve out a place for the writing that matters to me - like this newsletter, which is written mostly in cars, while sitting at the edge of court at my kids’ tennis class, or in the early hours grabbed while my family still sleeps
Now, thinking of another writer -
Ruskin Bond
Bless him. He’s in his 80s, but the man just doesn’t stop. I see new books by him at airport bookshops whenever I travel and I wonder, where is it all coming from? One thing about Ruskin Bond that inspires me immensely is that the wellspring of his writings is his very frugal and uncomplicated life. He’s lived in the same little cottage in the small hill town of Mussoorie all his life. While the life he’s led has been simple on the surface, it’s been a rich source for his writing. What kind of eyes does it take to reveal his frugal life’s riches? Could it simply be his curiosity? An ability to tap into wonder?
Bond’s writing has a quality of childlike wonder woven into it. I wish I had that same sense of wonder! I aspire to it. Sometime I feel it, but the adult my head usually tut tuts it away in embarrassment. It would be wonderful if my writing could lead me the adult away and usher the youth more open to wonder back in.
Two other writers I’ve known need mentioning here.
MT Vasudevan Nair and Gulzar.
I feel seriously fortunate to have met these two gents in my lifetime. Having watched them write up close, I’ve noticed their joy as they wrote. It always struck me as the joy of a good hunt. Both Gulzar and Nair were already past their 70s when I met them, but the exuberance they displayed while writing made me think of young buccaneers who had spotted a plunder-worthy ship on the horizon and were now rallying their crew to pursue it. Even Nagarkar displayed this quality.
I must say it, I could detect a little bit of arrogance when I saw them manifest this behavior manifest. Perhaps ‘arrogance’ is too strong a work. ‘Pride’? ‘Confidence’? They felt sure to win, as if the quarry was already in the bag. I know the feeling! For me, it usually comes on Saturday, they day before I publish; (if I’m lucky, it comes on Friday!). That moment, when I know what this week’s installment is about, is priceless. After that, the game becomes interesting.
In any game, you may or may not win. But the possibility of winning is delicious. I once remember playing 50 consecutive table tennis games against my friend Rishabh as a teen. I feel tired just thinking about it, but I didn’t feel tired on that day. I feel tired when I run to lose weight. I don’t feel tired when I run to experience the thrill of a city-wide planned race. Play is sustainable. Chores test your patience. I keep reminding myself that YU must always be play. It’s gone on so long because I’ve succeeded so far. The day I see it as something else, I’ll likely miss my Sunday publish.
Life gets pretty difficult sometimes. The writer who I’m dedicating this installment to is currently undergoing a huge challenge in her personal life - with a loved one’s health seriously compromised. Putting myself in her shoes, I sure that play would feel inappropriate, even repugnant where every ounce of energy needs to be directed towards the loved one in peril. At such a time, perhaps the hunt for creative succour in no longer sport, but a hunt in its primordial sense - for survival.
I’ve been listening to the Song Exploder podcast for a few months now; and before that the BBC’s Front Row podcast for a few years. In both artists reveal their processes, and I’m always struck by how some of their greatest works begin with an honest question to themselves, usually roughly written or hastily voice noted. The singer and actor Janelle Monáe reveals in her episode of Song Exploder that “there is power in vulnerability”.
This is something I wholly agree with.
The chase isn’t always clean. But I find that the chase is always thrilling, and telling, when it’s honest. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that - honesty has been the biggest, contributor to my newsletter’s sustainability. I know this because honest has been my most important currency in difficult times. Before I started writing YU, I used to deploy Julia Cameron’s morning pages the moment I hit any impasse in life. Honesty is the cornerstone of morning pages. Even if they came out as an incoherent mess, they presented me with a picture of my mind which allowed me to see my inner landscape in some way. If I could see it, then perhaps I could feel empowered enough to untangle it too.
There is power in vulnerability. Take it from someone who prays (I chant Nam Myo Ho Renge Kyo as part of my Buddhist practice) - my most effective prayers are my most honest ones, where I look squarely at where all my life is falling short in bringing the said prayer to fruition. In my experience, if we carry on - keep going - the sense of vulnerability is quickly replaced by a sense of empowerment and forward motion. Writing and prayers - I have always seen them as enemies of my inner inertia.
My dear friend, I’ve experienced being stuck before I didn’t like it; and I’m sure you don’t either at this point. I have both a prayer for you and this piece of writing. I will keep them coming as much for your sake as for mine.
Lots of love to you and also to all of you,
V
💜💖🌺
Dear friend. Thank you 💕💕💕