We shall overcome, some day-ae-ae-ae!

I have always wanted to write but never gone past a couple of paragraphs. I can read, I can speak, but I break out in sweat and start to drop things at the thought of writing. And it isn't as if I have never tried before. I have tried my hands at writing a blog (a grand total of two posts within a week, and done for the next decade), I have written the essays, debates and all similar stuff forced down my throat, I kept a diary for several years during the angst ridden teenage years (The entire content in those years can be summarized as "giggle-i-think-he-likes-me, frown-I-understand-life's-problems-now, tears-tears-tears-oh-life-is-so-tough, sigh-i-will-win-the-world-and-make-dad-proud" etc.). Once or twice, I have even tried my hands at articles (to feel adventure in my otherwise terror-wise life). That's about the extent of the actual action, but dear lord in heaven, I do not have a count of the number of times I have wanted to write! Every trip, every interesting experience, every turn in my life; I have wanted to chronicle it. When I passed out of college, I resolved to write about the brand new independence, the grown-up experience, wearing business suits, attending business meetings and (gasp!) being paid to do work. When I went on my first (only) business trip abroad, I resolved to pen down, once again, the brand new independence, the grown-up experience, wearing business suits, attending business meetings and (gasp!) being paid to do travel. When I fell in love, I decided to write about the journey (though I now realize that me not being able to write was fate's way of saving the hapless wanderer who accidently ventured onto my blog from agonizing boredom). I was hell bent on writing a travelogue about every incredible journey I have undertaken; the beauty of the Andaman; the sheer liveliness of NYC; the back-packing, hippie, tangled hair and tanned legs experience of Thailand; the sheep and goats of Rajasthan. And most recently, I decided to write a sarcastic, satirical account of the MBA universe and the wise, uber-human species that inhabits it (mainly because we have a birth right to mock, but also because some day, when I have lost myself in there, reading the old thing would help me get my bearings and navigate myself out of it). Every time I came across well-written, thought provoking blogs, I wanted to do the same. I even wanted to create a digital version of Tom Riddle's diary, because that would be pure cool. But of course, I did not write any of those.

Why can I not write? Why can I not put the thoughts in my head on paper? (Note to anybody reading this 50 years hence: A paper is something we wrote on in the primitive ages, forming symbols with sharp instruments on a thin, flat surface. In the context of 2014, the phrase is used metaphorically.) I recently came across the blog of a classmate (one of the wise, uber-humans) and the sheer expanse of poor grammar and everyday anecdotes stunned me. How are people able to put mundane, unbearably self-centered, uninteresting events (in bad English!) in words for the universe to read? Does my life lack mundane, unbearably self-centered, uninteresting events? Can I not butcher English if I wanted to? Do I have better things to do with my time than to leave my legacy on the internet for the world to ignore (until I poke and prod my friends on social networking sites to go read and appreciate the 'fresh blog post')? Despair overpowers me as I try to answer all these existential questions. As I sit here, while it rains heavily in the dark night outside ( talk about the perfect weather to crib!), and ponder over the problems, some reasons start to take shape. In no particular order, I cannot write because:

1) Laziness. (Read: "Laziness, period")

2) Being a prolific reader makes me more susceptible to cringing at poor writing than most others. Yes I know that is just an excuse. Haven't you understood the tone of this article so far?

3) I am not self-centered enough. Note to self: work towards being more self-centered and in the process, make life a living nightmare for the boyfriend.

4) I set my targets too high. If the aim is 'beauty in prose', no wonder all I end up doing is laughing at myself and moving on to easier things.

Since every MBA student is brain-washed into believing that making a list is half the solution to every problem on earth (the other half being post-it notes), I feel slight happiness after having made this list. In the absence of our beloved post-it notes, let me jot down solutions to my problem (in the form of a list, of course) and feel even better.

Solutions to not being able to write:

1) Write an entire 1000 word article cribbing about not being able to write. Get sympathetic audience (Read: the 2-3 people too nice to laugh in my face) to read and appreciate.

2) Resolve to write again, and even create a blog to help me stay motivated.

3) Screw grammar. Has it ever cared about me? Why then should I go around the world defending its honour as if it is my lover?

4) Decide to write all that comes to my head, in no particular order, defying every convention that makes good prose, and in general, focusing on my (internet) legacy, rather than my love for literature.

4) Feel good about the new measures taken to get my life on track. It is the very first step to writing that book about obscure mythology and enlightening the minds of millions.

5) Send article to the afore-mentioned nice people. Waste the remaining time watching re-runs of sitcoms instead of studying as I resolved 3 hours ago.

I will sleep well tonight.