Writers aren’t born, they are made. Created are they from the hollow remains of a war, sodomized by the plight of a thousand hungry, baffled and mind-fucked by the very horrors of society, they once looked up to in blind faith and gratitude. Divorced parents, drunk dads, incest, unemployment, mediocrity, ignorance, rape and violence…the society of the inhumane.
But just the other day, I heard a little sparrow say, that writers are in fact born. The mind, to make my point clear, is a dangerous thing. You can never be sure, between the two of you, which one really is in control. Much to your plight you’ll find, it always gets the better of you.
Hemingway puts a pistol to his head and splatters it like a watermelon and this after surviving grueling world wars, bad marriages, diseases, depressions and everything else in between, this after becoming what had become of the old man and the sea. His is not the only story. Generation after generations of perfectly competent writers, whose brilliance is but without question depict this unusually perplexed trait. Some convert their agony into joy by escaping it for a bit on the back of Haroon and his likes while others choose to stay back in another hundred years of solitude.
So I ask myself this. Is it really worth all of it? Is writing the best piece of literature really worth dying for? And my answer, every breath of it, every breath.