Peace.

I always make mental notes of what I want to write and how I want to write it. I usually have about a hundred notes for a post. Most of them, read separately, are almost incoherent. But there's always a moment when these untied strands string together and drape themselves into posts. The notes work themselves backward and forward, until they eventually become quite plausible. I, then, merely write.

So, a post happens when these moments unfurl upon me. Else, the mind gropes in the dark alleys of a hundred incoherent notes, in vain. These notes remain as vague phrases and metaphors, prancing in my head.

Let me marshal the facts. Three months of rummaging through ‘notes’. No ‘moments’. An article on Scott Fitzgerald’s writer's block. I was overwhelmed by nausea. I always thought I could sidestep the block!

“One more day like this and I’m sunk!,” I told my mother.

“Read all your posts this weekend. It might help.” She said.

I read about ten sentences of my Somerset Maughamly.

“This is genuinely strange to me; there are whole sentences I don’t even recognize!”

I stared at my mom in silent horror. I found it scarcely possible to give credence to her idea.

“It is often the way,” she said.

I read for two days. Here and there, I felt the sense that these metaphors, this line, that paragraph, these phrases were exactly like the notes in my mind and the fact was I had written them into posts. It made the whole thing begin to seem far more like a practical working proposition.

I think my mom suspected that all was going thoroughly well.

So, she asked, “How’s it going?”

“Well, I suppose this was inevitable!” I joked.

P.S: Here, in this pool of posts, I found the fetus of my once deserted notes, my aborted themes, and the serendipitous joy of constructing an unsuspecting post!