On Being Unproductive

A number of factors culminated into a benumbing depression that has lodged in my heart and is consequently pumping through my body thanks to my highly functional cardiovascular system.

I’ll relate them as precisely as someone who talks too much can.

One: The Failed Writer

I met a man in his late twenties, with the classic look of a failed poet, deep, sensitive brown eyes and wavy shoulder length hair; pensive, ruminative air about him with a slight humor on the edges of his lips, rueful almost, at the joke that is his life.

He was, at that moment, completely inebriated, blissfully smoking a vaporizer as he babbled on about his miserable existence.

He told me, that he was one of the last men attempting to be a true author, a talent which today’s media was fast murdering. He had a typewriter, and enjoyed being the stereotype of an alcoholic failure.

The conversation went on, but the point I would like my (non-existent Readers to note would be about the typewriter as a symbol of old generation authors, who ended up accomplishing something.


Two: A regular teenager with a love for art, humanity etc.

ME: Do you have a blog?

HIM: No, I do my writing on paper.

ME: Oh, I prefer using a keyboard, I suppose that makes me less authentic.

HIM: That doesn’t make you less authentic.

ME: You know I met a guy who actually owned a typewriter.

HIM: Oh my God, that is so cool, I would love to own a typewriter.

ME: I wouldn’t be so sure, I don’t think I deserve a type writer, nothing I write is worthy of permanence.


Three: My father, a man who was born in the early 60s

My father is a quaint man in his fifties, with an impeccable sense of style and his own brand of charisma. Perhaps his most prized possession is his experience, for he truly has a vast array of it.

I had always known he had dabbled in printing presses and computer designing hardware back in the day. Today he told me he used to be a distributor of the earliest kinds of typewriters. He had owned almost all the latest models of the laptop of the 20th century, and what more, one of his most prized ones- a model he had bought with almost 600USD back in the day. (You have to consider the inflation rate, 600$ wasn’t an amount to be trifled with back then.) was currently rotting in our terrace with piles of useless computer relics.

His eyes shining as he described the evolution of typewriting mechanics,( I wont include it here in my effort to be more relevant in my work) while my eyes shone with tears.


I realized two things. Rather, one thing made me feel complete and utter despair, and the other makes me frightened beyond comprehension.

I’ll talk about the former for now.

In my heart I know I will perhaps never create something beautiful and stellar( Unless a guy knocks me up and I am forced to bring up a child on my parents pension money) and it saddens me.

I have been trying to understand why the old ways hold so much importance for some, why it just seems more genuine to be clattering away at a novel on a big black monster or scrawling them on paper. There is so much in the way that you do things that adds a flavor to your work. Perhaps that is why my writing lacks warmth, because, all I need to do is press a key to delete all of it.

The man I spoke about, the willing failure with his alcohol abuse, he had in his ready dejection, a certain amount of charm. My friend with the thoughts he guards so jealously, never letting anyone even peek at it, has his own comforts.  I just have a bunch of letters written in a steady fluctuation of apathy and emotions.

I feel the despair, every time I see the books lining every nook and cranny of my house. So many books, so many authors, so many people succeeding in what I am failing every day.

I sometimes feel like a barren woman teaching at a nursery or creche.







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