Writers are riders of the
present, the past and the future.
They ride a beast whose limbs are formed by myths,fables, stories of the
past. Writers re-tell these in the
language of the present, hoping to predict the future. Its reader’s
contribution to lend colours of their imaginations.
Sincere writers are for the true readers . They are twins
born to console each other in adversity, share moments of happiness. Magnify their visions. Because they are
partially sighted. They can only
feel the Present , a fleeting present .
The Past is already faded .The future is only a concept.
A good writer ,therefore, deserves a good reader. All writers are not that
fortunate. They have to wait generations to find their readers. When they do turn up, they come in
droves. It’s too late by then.
The writers turns in their graves, laughing or weeping,
depending on how their work of words is savoured, chewed and digested .
This is how I narrate the story
of writing, as an apprentice of this craft. This is crafty science of writing. It is an art of everlasting untruths clothed in the robes
of earnest characterisations of
faces, places, landscapes . Writer
unmasks some faces, retouches others with delicate colours of the make-up of
his own making. Re-name places.
Place another coat of varnish of modernity, dilemma of de-construction on the
landscapes of old masters. Then,
they all protest, as naughty children :
“Stop
the Clock!”
Every writer as a storyteller, tells it in his or her own
way. They are the master of their chisels. They decide which part of the granite to go, what remains is
what we see in black and white. It is hard job. It pains to work on it. This is not even a three-dimensional craft. Its multi-faceted-ness is constant
challenge. Its roots spreading far
out into the history of man-kind and creation itself.
Time, mass, space, as units of measure screens the writer
from his or her own being. All writings are unfinished efforts in terms of
Einstein Space-Time continuum.
The story of teenage crush, love life of a married couple,
the death, the divorce, decaying of bodies and relationships, the children, the
families, the neighbours, the society at large, the nations, all can fit in,
say, a long novel, a short story, an epic poem. Daily newspapers are prime specimens of incomplete
narratives.
Some stories were never told, but got buried in the ancient
rubbles of Civilisations. The Archaeologist and
others had to come up with their own versions. They are still at it , to our
delight and amusement.
The writer of
the present, is in a sense, also craves digging. Recent work of Harry Mulisch,
a Dutch writer , his book entitled “Siegfried”, is an example. He painted
landscapes of Hitler’s mind .He was only a teenager in those days.
“Writer fear the present but nostalgic for the past.” , as Michel Faber said during
a Q &A session. Writing is one way of shielding fear. Whistling helps when one tries to find
a candle and lit match in sudden
power cut. One can not do away
with fear either. It is a vital
component of writings and perhaps all Arts.
True writers sincere to their words polishes what is polish
able. A writer is good inheritor
of family silver. Most inventive
of the lot make their own Silver but that must wait for its Hallmark.
Writer is, after all a copier, a plagiariser of the present
borrowing from the past and hoping
to make mark on the future. A
fool, fifty percent, another fifty percent of it is a beggar of the wisdom
taken from the Books of the unwise long faded into the Past.
This is what I am, a learner, a reader and a writer at
last! I must watch my P’s and Q’s.
Copyright Azhar Latif 2006.
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