Writing is a good form of expression. I like writing or typing anything that comes to my mind. Through writing I hit another person without injuring him and I make love without her consent or even restrain from it after her consent. I can murder him or even rape her and choose not to land up in a prison cell.
I can take the form of any character from a notorious killer to a great lover. And the good thing is one does not need pen and paper or a laptop to do so. As long as one is alive, writing comes in the form of thoughts, feelings, beliefs, opinions and assumptions. I don’t know about the enlightenment, but writing does free me from stresses. I write to express myself and not for others to read and the rules come later.
From the number of blogs maintained by Bhutanese, writing seems inherent in our blood. I read almost all the blogs and appreciate the writers who maintain them. Reading them makes me feel we are all same though we may be different in many ways. Their blogs show that we have frowned in the same queue in the bank or ran through similar ardent and patriotic feelings upon seeing His Majesty on our televisions.
This blogsite gave birth to a short epistolary novel, Dear Seday…the letter from the mountain and I thank my fellow bloggers who gave me strengths to take it to the market. Expressing oneself is simply different from writing for others to read – to write a book is willfully walking a street with a pants down unless you don’t have a good story, interesting characters, good command over language, editors, designers and publishers.
For a newbie writer, it is almost impossible to get a publisher, which is the most de-motivating factor and to top it all, reading is not fashionable here. That makes making a living by writing nearly impossible in Bhutan.
Currently, I am writing my second book, which I intend to complete next year. The tentative title is FOUR YEARS and here is an excerpt:
Four years? Why four years? In three years you will become a venerable Tsampa like me, what will you become in four years?” shouted Jigme’s drunkard father.
Jigme, infuriated to see his father holding second bottle of ara even before dawn, got up from bed and ran toward the door.
With a door half opened, Jigme muttered, “In four years, I will become an engineer and not a drunkard Tsampa…” and slammed it.
I am excited with the next book and hoping it fares better than the first one.
(Original draft before publication in K2)