JOURNEY OF AN INTROVERT WRITER
By Anirban Nanda
[All the characters used here are fictional. Author has no intention to offend anyone.]
When he was a child, he saw people, including his parents, discarding his well-thought talks. When he went to play with his playmates, no one gave a shit about him. He tried hard, very hard, to hit that six, to get that wicket, to go in top order and get a scope to play more. Most of the times, he was rejected, obviously for his inability to play well.
But sometimes he got one opportunity in a million, one chance to play well and show them that he could play, he was worthy of praises. But it remained a tragedy; he never could do well. Years later, when he will be typing some facebook post, he’d remember how ludicrously he was mocked, how painstakingly he was ignored. He cried in rage at a corner, he screamed in hope that someone would listen. He became an introvert; in fear of rejection, in fear of humiliation ─not from his friends, but from situations which were beyond his control. Years later when he will be falling in love, he’d remember his insulted, tormented face; when he had looked in the mirror in his childhood ─to his lousy and ugly face.
So he had converted his rage, alleviated his frustration to another way; to a path where introverts would do well: to study. Yes, he studied well. He took an oath to become first in every class, every examination. But he failed again. He picked up some praises scattered here and there for his above-average performance. His friends had said, “Someday he is gonna show this world what he is.” They hoped. He hoped. He pushed harder, he tried with more determination. This time he came closer: 4th, 7th. And that’s where he faced stalemate. He never could become third; he always had been losing by millimetres, by inches. Years later, when he will be receiving a second position, he will think how fake those positions are, how unimportant those praises are.
He thought, human is never going to stop wanting. He will always want to be on the other side of river, where people seem happier. These strings of thoughts led him to yet another path. He suddenly wanted to think more. To think more, he went to his lifelong friends: books, novels. Few years later, when he will be writing his first short story, he will think that those authors also felt like him, they were also introverts. The more he read, the more he felt. Too much thinking made his brain full of ideas, emotions, brimming out of it. But as previously was said, he was an introvert and for this, he could not gather courage to express his feelings to anyone.
Meekly, cowardly, he picked up his ball point pen and his old mathematics rough copy. He tried to write his first poem. When he will be sixteen, his heart will beat in the same thunderous way while proposing his first love, as it had beaten when he was composing his first poetry. After finishing it, he peeked at the poem, re-reading in fear, as if he was doing sin, as if he had been caught red-handed for stealing something. He tore that page of poetry in shame. But he was also feeling a strange excitement for being able to create something.
Unknowingly, he became fan of writers like Richard Yates, Sylvia Plath; because he could relate himself with their writing tone, their frustration with their life and their tragic characters. Years later, when he will be publishing his first novel titled, “Me and my solitude” ; none will read his book because it will be too boring to waste their time and he will feel like same when he was writing that facebook post: frustrated and alone. In the end, he will accept the stark reality; that he is a mediocre; always were. Then he will stop dreaming and resign to oblivion. Years later, when he will be taking his last breath, he will mock at his soul, blaming it of its high hopes, of its dissolving into unknown abyss of mortality and he will find a queer similarity of his thoughts when he was writing a facebook post years back.