Disclaimer – Dear reader, no brain cell was exploited in the thinking and writing of this post. Any resemblance to the kind of posts that you may have come to expect from Ishaisms is purely impossible, (although mild and poor attempts have been made at it at the introduction and conclusion). However, if you’d like to read some absolutely random thoughts and take a peeping-tom-ish glimpse into how the brain of this writer works, you are most welcome.
On cold days with horror-movie possession metaphor
Dear reader, ’tis the beginning of that season at home, the mists rising, damp beads glistening upon leaves, and from some remote corner of the town, the faint, tickling fumes of burning logs… Sometimes the fog envelops the town in its fold and all you can see for miles is the rising mist, the towering pines pulling heavy blankets over them that sweep across the sky, threatening the town with impending showers…and strong winds, and a chilly day that will surely possess you like a misty spirit and last for days unless you protect yourself beforehand with charms of warmth and extra layers, for sunshine cannot be relied upon in this town…
On Hogwarts and Wuthering Heights and such other ‘feels’ I get from my town during this season.
This season feels different given the current climate, pun intended, which is like being in the steaming, haze laced, Hogwarts express, with no where to go…but within. And think, and write. Perhaps that is why most people who ever wrote great books were ones who were trapped, by circumstance or by choice… I think only of the Brontë sisters when I say “most people” here. My thoughts of windy moors, and truly rich writing, start and end in Wuthering Heights. Perhaps that is why people in the most confined circumstances read a great deal, created great fictional sets and characters or came up with great inventions, skills and artistic knowledge…becoming unknowingly, the fittest to survive…emotionally.
On ‘be careful what you wish for for you just might get it’.
The world often spoke with longing of being in another time, or with envy over how times were simpler for our parents and ancestors, or with sorrowful resignation about how technology is taking over the world and making everything impersonal and fast paced. Well, looks like nature just forced us into a do-over. Everything is slower and as personal as it gets. Everything is reminiscent of earlier times and technology has adjusted to it – something no one in the last five hundred years or so (hyperbole, not statistic) deemed possible…
On hope and (wordpress) writers.
I know that this post is getting hopelessly long, but I don’t really know how to end it. I should end it right here but it doesn’t seem right…I usually like to leave on a note of hope – but I don’t really know how, today. Not that I don’t have hope – I do, even when the days are terribly stressful, I cling on to it, like my boatman clung to his dagger the day he set off to murder the moneylender… (This is a reference, and spoiler to my boatman series – I’m alluding to it so I feel like a great writer whose work is worthy enough to be alluded to). Anyway, so yeah, hope. Writing this post, has helped me see that no matter what, there is certainly hope in a new day. So many new possibilities. So many new things one can do. I cannot speak for everyone, but I am a writer and can certainly speak for us writers here – work on that novel you’ve always been putting off, work on a new genre of writing, or create your own, be part of a writing challenge or anything you can do to write more. I may not have words of great hope for the global collective, but I know I can reach the writers whose quarantine posts on sorrow and hopelessness have made me think and feel for them. Maybe it will help you see through the mist and spot that coveted ray of sunshine that suddenly breaks through and brightens everything, as the threat of rain dissipates into thin air and the song birds break into a tune that you finally can hear, not because they’re only singing it now, but because you chose to listen.
© Isha Garg