Write. Cry. Wait. Repeat.

One of the things that gave me scribomania this month was reading a lot, a lot. I’m never going to stop bragging about it so here are the numbers: I read about 70 books between January until June. In early July, writing 1500-2000 words in one-half hour sprints happened regularly.

Hence, how I started writing a lot, a lot.

The bulk of those thousands and thousands of words were garbage. Just plain, disgustingly plain mind dumping. But, since I got to writing a lot, a lot, patterns started emerging. Thank the predictability of integrity in personality and cognitive structures for that.

THEN. After a while of mind dumping, I grew to actually like the voices in my head. Yeah they’re vehement and with a flamboyant flair for propaganda. But they’re not immune to reasoning. Nor are they too above the beatings of an ego bash.

Liking develops trust. Learning to trust the intentions of the meanest voices in my head, on the holiest month of the year, at the worst week of the girly cycle, from the bottom of this auditory hell of a village, develops the faintest shades of c-o-n-f-i-d-e-n-c-e. I have to be careful here. There’s no telling what’s waiting to jinx something as magical and fleeting as that particular C element in writing.

Although, considering all the trouble that it took to bring in that C element, it took a while to shake off too. I mean, when I wasn't writing, I didn't think I was doomed. Again. This year. It just felt that I needed some time off. I needed to cool my embers and simmer and cook slower. It felt okay to write or not to write that very minute of that very day. Quota? It can wait.

THEN IT HAPPENED.

Between reading a lot, a lot, writing a lot, a lot, and hanging out with just the right people, a story emerged. IT HAPPENED. It came from a deep and desperate place, drenched in writabilitiness. I held it and wrote it while constantly on the verge of crying for two days.

And I kinda died.

It was just that kind of story. It was a story that forced me to stop writing to breathe. To stop, stoop, spot and justify the fallen tear drops on the pages that will always, always remember every excruciating minute spent on bringing them forth to the world.

And this is where I kinda sucked: That it’s been nearly two weeks and I’m still recuperating.

Okay, so in those two weeks, Eid also happened, and no God-fearing Asian would dare to skip on the elaborate ritual of repetitive and meaningless small-talk if they still want to have a fighting chance of getting buried in the family lot.

But it's been two weeks and I still haven't grown the ovaries to touch that story that crushed me and everything writer about me.  If any of you happen to know someone, get a certain something that would help an idiot to recuperate faster between creative cycles and explosions. YOU'RE A PAL.

Nevertheless, write we must, for writing we like. Bruises and blues regardless. Along with all the bric-a-stuffy-bracs that makes a writing HAPPEN. Along with the hours of reading, the risks of hemorrhoids, and social estrangement. If anything, writing hints that I am well. That I'm in no shortage of awesome brainfood to read. That my bottom is fairly comfortable and my heart is beating in its place. That the electricity and internet are running. And that my family and loved ones are fine. That we have plenty to be grateful for.

Hamdillah for everything that made THAT sentence happen.