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I am an essentially shy person concerning my writing skills. I have to my name a few creative writing prizes but beyond that I have no other degree of excellence by which you can strengthen your judgements. Yet I sincerely believe that what I write can appeal to a large audience,provided I remain constant at this treasured hobby of mine. My mainstream concern shall be principally based on literary fiction though I would also like to dapple with psycologic thrillers and novels. I enjoy reading classics, obscure as well as well known ones. Another intrest of mine is vested in the pages of historical reference books. I have my prejudices and I have a tinge of fairness as well, all stitched together on one colourful fabric, which I should hope wil not let ,'things fall apart.'
My follies rest on the single fact that I cannot sit on one topic for very long, which is quite a compulsion if a novel of some importance has to be moulded together. I belive whole heartedly in the concept of the stream of consciousness. I usually work on this method, having been inspired by great 20th century authors including James Joyce and Virginia Woolf. My written word upholds the dignity and freedom of an individual. My thought process and style is an imitation of a great number of people of greatly differing dispositions and ideas. Yet, all in all, I strongly feel that my style is distinctive as it wields and harnesses inspiration from others in its own fashion. In simpler worlds I take over Dickens horse but I use my own saddle for it, I feed it with the grass that grows in my backyard.
I have hopefully in no possible way misconceived my fallacies and achievements.If it is so I must realize that there is no tomorrow but only one today which I must use to the fullest.
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MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- I have nothing progidious to my name,
only a few beliefs which i hope shall not prove lame,
and a wild power which I must learn to tame. - I know I can do it and Im going to do it.
- I know what today means to me and I shall not let it pass from between my Fingers. I respect time to the utmost, the destroyer of worlds, the only critic without an ambition.
- I know what I want and Im going to stand up for it,through thick and through thin.
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MY RESIDENCE INFO:
City: Chandigarh
State/Country: UT, India
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BOOKS PUBLISHED:
The wilderness.The storm.They were all inevitable now. They would come with the wind. Surely,they would come. Come.......but would they go? Would the wind prove massive enough to sweep them off into unknown lands? It was all so desperate,desperate in the way its ugliness aroused beauty in my heart,my senses. Desperate in the horror that mangled my exhilarated dreams. So very deperate that the world was forgottern and all yearning thrust on livingbeings so very imajinary and non existent.
It was difficult to trust and above all, it was difficult to judge the authencity of the fate that had sealed my life. I was incapable of trusting my own emotions, incapable of probing my own ideas, incapable of knowing if I believed in what I wanted..
I could not bring myself to believe , to believe in anything. I needed a straightforward truth, a fact to go out and fight for, however barbaric,however inhuman its consequences were. But there is no such thing. everything,everything is so....what can I say? Confused is not the word.Certainly not. It does not have enough power to scream out with the agony that I suffer. There is no word I can give it,for the desolation that gnaws at me from within, in this subtle nothingness
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I told them everything without any remorse or regret. I wonder if they were pleased, or perhaps slightly amused. I rushed home to tell mum all about. It was only when I stepped into her room did I realize that she was gone,gone far,far away. I sat down, ran my hands through my hair and a dozen other things and yet did not realize anything. It was all too difficult, painful in its certainties. The little sense of achievment which had welcomed me in a warm embrace meant nothing anything longer . The past was overlapping the future in a feverish melancholy of desire. And then the the inevitable regret seeped in, destroying the entire fabric. The mind itself was now under siege, my only refuge was being slowly destroyed, my only solace was being trespassed on . And the intruder, it was but a myself who knew no civilization, who knew me to well to let me live in peace, to let the the outer world give me the blissful solace I yearned for. I myself had become my own blackmailer.
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