My first blog

I got influenced by a friend to give a shot at blogging. After following the simple steps of creating an account, when I came to the dash board what hit me was that I would have to start writing , somebody might chance upon my writing, I might be scrutinised...... The words and unwritten stories that crowd my head when I am going to bed and actually dont take any form, due to basic issues like lack of a pen and paper, husband wants to sleep, yoga class next morning, got to make it to office on time- there are whole lot of reasons- none of the same story ideas seem to be coming to me right now.

Still I am feeling nice . It gives me a platform to write endlessly- is this freedom of speech- or is it the anonymity - whatever it is – it is a feeling of liberation.

I remembered reading Virginia Woolf ‘ A Room of One’s Own”- it’s a long essay written in a rather roundabout and tedious way ( pardon me for saying this). Fortunately I have an erudite & encouraging elder sister – she provided an immense amount of moral support to me and I did finish reading the book.
I was exhausted after the experience – somewhere little bewildered- did not really know how to rate the book. And somewhere I desperately craved for an Agatha Christie. However once I got out of the sheer exhaustion of reading Virginia Woolf , I felt somewhere she did make sense. A woman cant be a writer unless she has money and a room of her own!

I was barely twenty one / twenty two then. Now after 12-13 years when I am writing my first blog, I remembered Virginia Woolf. Even without any talent, as I have a personal laptop and enough money to afford a cook and an uncomplaining husband who does not really mind me not serving hot rotis to him, I have the luxury of writing my first blog at 9.30 at night- and I am feeling good, empowered and many other emotions.

I remember finding some letters written to my father by my mother ( when she was twenty and already had her first child) and odd bits of poetry hidden in the diary where the shopping list, telephone no.s, laundry list would be crowding most of the pages.

Ma was brilliant- emotional, naïve but very authentic and honest.
May be if she had some money may be she would not have had stopped writing . These days her diaries are organized – there are no poetries.

Virginia Woolf- you were right.