Writing is an unceasing journey – it has no end, no destination. Continuously moving forward is a compulsion, or perhaps that is just its fate. Each work is like a pause; there’s happiness and satisfaction at having reached this point, but more than that, there’s an enthusiasm to move ahead. But sometimes, this sequence gets turned on its head. A writer can be so happy with the work and so satisfied with the ensuing fame that the enthusiasm, instead of spurring them to move ahead, keeps returning to that work and circles around it, captivated. Is that the reason why I haven’t even written ten lines in the last ten years? No, I’ve probed every corner of my mind with great honesty; forget being captivated by my past work, I’ve never even been content with it. I’ve not written anything that has given me complete satisfaction, either in terms of its quality or in terms of how much I’ve written. So then? Did my concerns, my priorities change? Writing was never my first priority nor my main concern in my order of preferences. I had to find the time and convenience to write while I looked after my daughter and...
