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  • Writer's picturedrashishrastogi

Wizard of Wickedlywords

What to write? The big question as I sit staring at the blank white page with a pen in hand hoping to embellish it with words. If you wish to ask why do I subject myself to such torment? Let me tell you about a tough taskmaster that I have on my hands. A bard from distant lands. Connected we are through the tiny blue bird that perches every day on the top of my notifications. Tweeting away without a care.

Oh, what have you put me up to, ‘O Wizard of the Wickedlywords’? What sorcery or magic is this? What potion did you concoct to get me to sign up to your #weeklywritingworkout? Now I am caught in this web of yours, spawning words out of my control. What have you done to the creative worm that grows anew every time I cut the cord?

Ten minutes you said I must brew this broth. Well, tell that to an opinionated self-indulgent brain of mine which can’t stop. Neither can these rickety fingers that hop on the screen on my phone. Tuned to the rhythm the mind orchestrates. Oh, don’t yet gloat at the success of your conspiracy. There are forces beyond your blood red orb. Hell-bent on stilling this mind and breaking the current flowing to the fingers. Ready to block the impulses of creativity as they jump from node to node and send me crashing to the floor the spell broken, and the dream shattered.

Worry not my friend. I will carry on this trek through the dark trenches of the writer’s block and valleys of despair. Focusing my eyes on the light you shine no matter how faint it gets clouded by the mist of life’s drudgery.

If nothing else I may write about the mountains. The screen saver from my PC inviting. A mountain ranges from Wyoming of US of A. The Sun lighting up one cheek of the sturdy mountain top as it stands to go about its day. The lake below reflects the mood of the mountain wrapped in the sky. Trees stand witness to what the mountain and water whisper to each other. Serious business I gather as they stand still somber and grey-cloaked in the wintry shroud.

Spark that set the pen running on a coffee receipt

Or should it be about the new friend I made? A mate that I picked up at the bookstore. This one wears a blue cloak patterned in graphic art of lovers locked in an embrace. This time I am determined to make the relationship last and not rush it through as a one-night stand. Yes, we will discover each other one chapter at a time savoring the company of moments spent together. Me on my bed, caressing the pages with my eyes as I hear each word echo in my mind.

The script calls to me and makes me wonder, what idea began this voyage? What spark lit the brain transforming thoughts into these words? Where was this seed planted? On what soil of experience? What did my fellow traveler mix into the manure? Love, lust, care, hatred or tears of despair.

Too emotional some may say. Not their cup of tea others may confide. The torment of a writer’s life. A boat my mind rides at present. Unsettled, as I sculpt my next labor of love. A snip here and a rub there or should I cut this off in full? A dilemma to settle. What will my words offer my readers? Petals of a rose that mellow a lover’s heart or will they be the raindrops washing away the pent up hurt with tears brought to the surface by the protagonist. Their struggle bringing down the reader's walls. Perhaps the cacophony of the world I create will raise the hackles of a reviewer waking the fiery dragon to come down on my baby spewing fire that torches my soul. But, that is not what I wish to do with my minds latest creative muse. I want the words that I have strung together to tickle the giggles out on a face. Like the one, I saw adorning a fellow traveler on my flight back home. Oh, how lucky the writer must be to elicit such joy.

So, I ask a favor my friend. Will you be kind my love when you read the next one. As a writer, I place my baby in your hands. Hope you will understand, as a parent I can find no fault but be gentle, please. Guide it if you can, admonish it if you must but hurt it not for it is only a figment of the imagination. Tender and innocent unknowing of the worldly ways. Nurtured and nourished by the limitations of my knowledge and experience.

Alas, even though the Wizard of the Wickedlywords forces me to go on. I must stop and return to the real world for there is this small matter to take care. A flight to catch. I leave you here for the time being. Off I go to my next tempest, haggling fellow passengers in the serpentine boarding queue.

Bye, my friend till we meet again. Which I am sure will be soon. Trust the bard from the distant lands and the tiny blue bird that tweets along. He surely is a wizard who will send a spell anew.

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