I read three books about creative block, and I feel personally attacked

I have been reading a lot these past few months.

Mostly because I have been able to manage my time in a way that nestles any reading between slots scheduled for different projects that I am currently involved in. I usually read after work and before I travel back home — at the precise time when the office hour traffic is in full throttle. I sometimes go to the library where the noise of passing vehicles nevertheless sneaks in. Sometimes I make my way to a quiet café, where cats walk like models — their whiskers touch my ankle every time they cross paths.

The last three books that I read couldn’t be more different from one another.

The first was the book, Bunny by Mona Awad, a dark academia novel with elements of horror carefully sprinkled around. Our main protagonist — Samantha — is an aspiring writer enrolled in a prestigious creative arts program — a simple premise that was enough to sell this book to me. Samantha’s internal conflict is that she feels compelled to compare her writing to others, as a result of which she misplaces the passion and intensity she had for writing, which means she is not able to write as much as she wants to and often tells a lie when asked if she has written anything significant recently. Samantha seems to almost be in a state of shell shock, or locked in inaction when it comes to her writing. I cannot stress how much I related to her conflict, so much so that I fear that, just like her, I am also going to be seeing bunnies soon.

While I have improved the pace and quality of reading, my writing has been static, at best. It has not receded to the dark crevices of my writing folder, but it has also not come of age. Every day as I sit and open the particular Word file to write, the words that are already there on the digital page staring back at me as though asking, is this all you can do? The damned cursor blinks rhythmically as if to mock me by saying, come on, I dare you to go further. And so, I just… don’t.

I loved Bunny, the book. It’s a piece of art. Reading good books always inspires me to read more, so when I picked up my next book, I was in high spirits.

The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid has been around for a decade. I liked the book Exit West written by the author, so I knew this book had potential. And it didn’t let me down.

This book was fantastic. It has an overarching macro theme of the changed sentiment towards an entire religion caused by the 9/11 attacks. It also has the micro theme of finding one’s identity and coming to terms with it, especially when you are living in a place that has inspired hate against people who look a certain way. I think every immigrant living in the USA can understand the predicament of our main protagonist, especially when allegiances are tested as a result of preconceived notions against a race or religion.

The way the book tells its story seems very personal — the characters are speaking so that you listen intently. One of the supporting characters of the story is Erica, who, you guessed it, is an aspiring writer. She has lost a loved one and is dealing with that trauma while trying to make something of the passion that she has for writing. While reading, I felt an abundance of sympathy for Erica, every time she is not able to let go of the past and as she tries to picture a story for the future. It is a tussle — a mental push and pull.

I am going to share some spoilers here, so if you haven’t read The Reluctant Fundamentalist, then jump to the next paragraph, while covering this one with your palms. Thank you and sorry!
An unfortunate resolution in this novel and about the character, Erica, who wants to become a writer, is that she dies in the end. She, allegedly, jumps from a cliff while she is admitted to a mental institution. She does finish her manuscript, yaay, but her mother gives it to our main protagonist, who never even reads it! I mean, what a waste.

Writers are already a niche group of people. With the future that we will be dealing with — AI, evolving technology, and whatnot, creatives like us are going to be in the minority. And if this book suggests anything, it is how powerhouses deal with minorities. So, if we dream of prestige or fame or if we want to make money through our passions, then we are already completely doomed. We might as well start doing something else.

So, with very little optimism, I started reading All Alone with You in the Ether by Olivie Blake. This book is a love story and a good one at that. I was up until 2 AM, and I could have been up for more if I was not reminded of the work I had to do the next morning. It had been a while since I had stayed up late at night reading. Watching Netflix, yes, I had. Reading, no.

The last two books made me hopeless about writing and the state of writers — vulnerable as it is. And as I read this book, I started getting stressed when I found that the female protagonist of the novel, Regan, was going through a creative block of her own. The only difference between her and the two women before her was that she was an artist and not a writer, but the conflict was the same. Regan was a bit manic, which I came to know later was too close to home for the author. The entire story was very character-driven, so we spend a lot of time inside her head — of all the voices that gaslight her and talk her down — which eerily resembled the state of my mind on some particularly bad days. The one little voice inside our heads that usually amplifies if left unchecked, says we are not good enough, that we will never be good enough, that we are wasting our lives, and that if we had chosen a different path, we could have become someone else, someone better.

But we can’t be someone else.
We did not choose a creative life. The creative life chose us. That’s the truth. We could do anything in the world, anything, and what pulled us in, as if we were a mere metal in front of a magnet, is the empty canvas on the easel and the brush not yet tainted with paint. We are ensnared by a blank page, by what we could do with it. We are lured by the blinking cursor.

When Regan finally produces her art, only for her loved one to see, it confirms the power that creativity holds. In the grand scheme of things, it matters very little whether our story will reach an audience, or if it will be received in a way that we would want it to be, whether it will change our life, or inspire people around us. Those things don’t matter. All that matters is that we stay in the present and remember that our passions are all that keep us afloat. It is our only lifeline.

So, be who you already are.
Be creative.

And if that doesn’t urge you to get up (or rather sit down) and do your thing, I trust these words by Mr. Neil Gaiman will:

“Anything you do can be fixed. What you cannot fix is the perfection of a blank page.”