I have so much to say, but I don’t feel like writing about it. Or rather; I don’t want to write about what I can or could, but simply what I feel and desire.
Words may express a mood, an experience or even a fantasy. In their simplest form, they boil down to an expression of my will. I write because I want to. I write because it brings me joy.
There are many well intentioned reasons to put pen to paper, but every now and then even they fall away. I can force, and push and complete the task; but there will always be a certain spark missing. Many readers may not even notice what or where things went wrong, but the text will lack a certain cadence; a je ne sais quoi, a magic.
Writing can be taught; it has its rules, regulations and even skill. You can’t however teach a person to become a writer. That comes from themselves. It comes from an alignment with self. An exploding desire to express, and then the decision to follow through on it.
I have found that technically correct writing can sometimes be beautiful, but authentic writing will always be beautiful. Simple or complex; if it speaks from the heart, other hearts will feel it.
There is an ink our eyes cannot read, but it exists in the lines, discernible by the very place that makes us human. Bathing in felt truth, I can give you an experience of the same. Putting forward a skill may amuse you, but it won’t enchant you.
This past week I’ve been very tired and it affected my writing. It’s a new feeling for me, but it’s real and I’ve been trying to decide how to come to terms with it. I feel it’s been a buildup from the last nine months. A form of an ongoing marathon with its effects concentrated in the now.
It feels almost like when you’re running a race, and you push yourself to the final sprint. Finishing brings little relief as you are caught between catching your breath and the feeling of throwing up.
Your body desires water, air; but even they bring no comfort. It takes a minute for the pain to pass before you return to your skin. A moment of pause, elapsed time; emotion changes from difficult to an appreciation of where you are and what you’ve done.
While I was going through the process of creation, I didn’t feel things as much. I felt the writing, but managed the burden of my choice to write. Coming close to a milestone on the journey; the weight feels heavy in retrospect.
If I love something and it’s meaningful to me; it has my all. There is no burden in that reality, and there is nothing I wouldn’t give up or endure to see a valued vision come to light. Still, what I choose to endure, comes at a cost.
Not everyone in my life shared or even understood my passions, and the journey to actualization has had its mental and physical difficulties. Some obstacles I faced were professional in nature and others were personal. Some were necessary challenges to overcome, while others served to injure me.
I remember my girlfriend at the time and to be honest, girls before her, who considered my work just a passing phase. She would often tell me, no one really cares about my writing. That only 16 year old girls read it online; and my work would go unpublished.
She said I should worry about building a real career; buying a house, cars and vacations. I’d think to myself, I have these things; but even if I didn’t, I would never trade a life of purpose for them. For me, mission is what matters; all other things inevitably come after that. (If you provide value; they truly do come after that).
It didn’t feel nice hearing these demoralizing comments from someone who was meant to be a pillar of support to me. I have shared the gist of what she said, but in truth it was conveyed even more harshly than written here.
I would sometimes feel alone in this aspect of my journey. My immediate family wasn’t understanding of my trauma, and sharing my writing was not something I did with them. It was simply me, a keyboard and a state of being I wanted to convey.
In the midst of my choices, there wasn’t even a confirmed path forward. Would my writing ever leave my hard disk? Was all this time and effort even going to be embraced by curious eyes?
I would find solace in the fact that this work mattered to me. No one said it would be easy; and I would put one foot in front of the other till I got to where I was going. I had a general roadmap, but this road was not one often travelled and certainly not one I had travelled before.
I wasn’t doing what I was doing for the money or validation. I was doing it to empower like minded souls, and I was doing it because I wanted to. At some point I would like my effort to sustain my lifestyle so I can focus more of my attention on it. It’s something that I believe will be a natural part of the journey; not an eventuality that drives me, or even something I actively need to seek.
Finding truth and alignment means something to me. Discovering the nuance of what it means to be alive, means something to me. Connecting with divinity means something to me. It means more than money, a girl friend and to be honest even my own existence. So to all of the above complaints, slights, and objections; I would simply say, one day things will be different. Even more plainly, I would nod and say; okay.
It became a bone of contention I had to acclimatize myself with. My life is not conventional, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. My journey is clearly different, and on a personal level; I just need one more person to respect that.
Everyone claps for you when you’re at the top of the mountain. I decided it was okay if others simply wanted to accompany me for a time; I would climb regardless. It would have been nice for someone to see me, rather than judge me; but all I could do and what I did do, is say okay.
On the professional front, things weren’t any more encouraging. Everyone who read my work seemed to enjoy it, but the harsh reality was that most simply didn’t read; I was on no one’s radar.
I remember the fifteen hundred or so agents, magazines and publishers I contacted. I’m estimating, but it felt like sixty percent of them didn’t even respond to me; the rest said no. I’d reply with, “thank you for taking the the time to consider my work. Do follow my journey on instagram”. That was that; the end, moving on.
The agents seemed interested in representing authors who had written before; and the big five publishers wouldn’t talk to you if you didn’t have an agent. It was an interesting situation to be in as they wouldn’t publish me if I hadn’t been published, and I wouldn’t be published if they didn’t publish me.
I could accept a response where my writing didn’t resonate with them, but all these nos I was getting weren’t rejections on content or quality. They were simply nos from technically not fitting their model.
I stayed with it, continuously seeking new people to contact. Eventually, by some chance of created luck, four publishers did read the selection I sent them and it resonated. From the thousands of manuscripts they receive monthly, they had shortlisted mine.
It felt nice to be shortlisted, amidst so many rejections. One publisher communicated that less than 1% of manuscripts make the cut and even fewer are chosen to proceed into books. The battle was everyday, and I was ready to fight it everyday. Winning the war might be one moment, or even one announcement, but it is built on todays. This small victory felt encouraging.
Three publishers eventually went on to give me an offer and the fourth became pending due to the covid pandemic. I picked the one that resonated most and proceeded with them. It wasn’t a big five publisher, but it wasn’t boutique either. I felt the fit was right, and sent them the complete manuscript.
This part was under control, and while challenging; I hadn’t expected anything different. If someone hadn’t said yes, I was all set to do whatever it took. I’d even sell everything I had, put my cash and manuscript copies in a backpack and literally go knock on doors until the nos became a yes.
I can be pretty convincing when I want to be; and I had first of all convinced myself that this was happening. How it happened was up to the universe, but I wasn’t leaving without a yes, and so I persevered this impediment fairly well.
A month and some time later; my chosen publisher sent the manuscript back, and that’s when the real test started. Writing and creating is the most enjoyable aspect of this vocation, the next most enjoyable is reading and the impact from the final product; editing however is and feels like work.
It has its moments of joy, but that veneer of polish takes an effort that is different than the one needed to initially create. The experience becomes particularly grating when you are put on a timeline.
I had twenty one days contractually to complete my edit review (edit of their edit), but I knew I needed forty days for the same task. We concluded thirty days would be appropriate, and I proceeded accordingly.
During this time, I worked eighteen hours a day, without a day off. I worked out at the gym when I could, and slept between four and six hours a night. There was no concept of a schedule. I would simply stop when I physically could not go any longer.
There was a day in the middle, I did speak to this girl I thought was cute. We spoke on and off for about twelve hours; and then I got back to work. It’s nice to take breaks, but it’s best to stay on task. That was my one dalliance over this period.
Stressors rose to a fever pitch as the Karachi monsoon took hold. My usual staff was away, the generator wasn’t working, the house was wet in all kinds of strange places, and my deadline hadn’t changed. Editing by the light of my cell phone as its battery was dying, almost brought me to tears.
I was mentally and physically exhausted, but I would not sleep until I met my target for the day. Sitting still for a moment; I took a deep breath, reduced the brightness on my phone, and kept trudging forward.
There were days when things went smoothly and others where I would get stuck on a word and it felt like everything was upside down. The longer the editing persisted, and the more tired I got; the more susceptible I became to my age old nemesis, self sabotage.
It wasn’t the editing itself that was the challenge, or even the hours I was putting in. It was the fact that my defenses were slowly but surely being worn down. I could feel my engine overheating, but I had just a little bit more to go. I wasn’t about to hit the brakes, but I was very aware of the pitfalls of keeping up this pace.
Some days I’d look at a piece and think that this was the worst garbage I have ever read. I couldn’t see it in any other light, but cognitively I knew that it wasn’t the writing that was at fault. By and large the pieces were of a quality I was happy with; yet now, it didn’t appear so.
Towards the final week there was even a moment where I was like, “what the fuck am I thinking, and why am I doing this?”. My brain had slowed down to the speed of molasses. Nothing made sense and I felt like I was swimming in a void.
Work I could have completed in one day, was taking me three days. Every subconscious bomb that could be thrown at myself from its arsenal was being used. The most interesting thing is that I knew this was happening, and it was still happening.
I simply either had to give up, or get up. If I wanted to finish, if I wanted to win, if I wanted to matter; I needed to make sure I did whatever it took to complete the manuscript edit. I needed to finish it in time, and I needed to do it in a manner that reflected a standard I was proud of.
Some days self care took the shape of an extra hour of sleep. Other days, I meditated twice in the day instead of once. Still, at other times, I simply confronted the machinations of my own mind.
I’d say to it, “so you’re feeling like X, explain to me where it’s coming from”. An apparition from nowhere, as I investigated it back from the emotion to its root; it would disappear as it should have.
My work mattered to me. The writing I was doing was purposeful. There was a personal impact, but hopefully a much larger community one as well. There was no reason to feel negative, slow down, and most certainly to give up.
Quitting isn’t something I ever considered more than in jest. The writing and editing were happy challenges I had taken on; it was the battle against myself that was brutal.
I felt like I was in a cage match fighting an enemy that knew all my weakest points. It knew where to hit, and it knew where it should have hurt me most.
At a point in my life, this is where I would have imploded. I’d done it before; you’ve heard me talk about it plenty. The most it could do now, and all it succeeded in doing was to tire me out.
I was exhausted, bruised, yet determined. The cage was mine, the combatant was me, and the path to victory was a secret I had worked long and hard at discovering. In many ways I felt like Neo and Smith, from a time when Neo still had to fight to win.
Doing just that, on September 13, 2020 I submitted my edited manuscript. There may be additional steps, I’m not sure; but I am certainly one leap closer to holding a book in my hand that I authored. A fun read, and simultaneously an incisive dive into what love means and choosing the right partner.
When I sent in the document, all my fatigue and misgivings and struggle seemed to hit me like a punch in the stomach. It felt as if for each letter I wrote down, someone scratched the same onto the inside of my gut.
I surmised that it is understandable and even acceptable to sometimes feel like this. Self sabotage challenged me, it pushed me, but it didn’t break me. I held myself accountable and was dependable to my cause. I pushed myself to the limit, and on occasion, this is what that space feels like.
Despite being tired, there was a certain level of satisfaction. I was having a massive emotional fallout, but now I knew I was having one in a space where it could do no harm.
Part of me wondered if this allergic emotionality was the self destruction I held back. I felt like this was the last remnant and gasp of an old pattern, and the establishment of a new one. Fighting is something I always did; now it was time to start winning.
Sitting down to write, I had intended to pen an article about the Israel-Palestine conflict and a one state solution. I wanted to take into consideration the difficulty of Indian Muslims, South African apartheid and the Native American genocide.
The subject is of interest to me, a long time student of politics and economics. For the moment though, I needed a mental disconnect. The task was too daunting to do well with a few days turnaround.
I decided I would speak about it later, when I felt more compelled to. Right now I wanted to write about what was germane to me. Share an achievement, or a soon to be one, with the rest of you.
Many of you have asked me from time to time, and it appears it is finally going to happen. More details to come, but soon enough, you will get to see a book written by yours truly on a bookshelf near you.
I hope you get the opportunity to read it, and it helps you love more meaningfully. I hope it grows our family, and brings other like minded souls to our tribe.
I completed the book as I did this article; from me, for you. It certainly isn’t what was expected of the moment, but it is what I wanted to do. From one loving heart to another; I hope it brings magic.
~Frumi
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