Update

There are average stories told greatly, and great stories told averagely. Unfortunately, there are very few post-80's books that tell a great story greatly.

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I'm a fairly happy person - I cry often, but for about five seconds; I laugh as easily as I get angry; and I'm great at reassuring people that it's okay to take it light. Too bad I don't listen to my own advice. There are at least ten instances every day when I feel my BP literally go up; most often in reaction to things I can't take personally, much less change. 

Does any one know how I can take my overall laidback happy-go-lucky nature and apply it on the job front? I'm not an overly competitive person, but I can't seem to stop putting pressure on myself to outperform me. Goddamn K-schools.

I feel like I can take the least high-pressure job in the world, and I'd still stress about it, even when everyone around me acknowledges I'm great at it (or maybe the stress is brought on by the weight of their expectations? Or maybe I'm just trying to pass the buck...). I guess we'll only know for sure once I actually start my teaching/writing stint, assuming I do. 

I'm surrounded by a whole host of if's and then's, not to mention maybe's - there are quite a few balls in the air, and I'm waiting, with a fair bit of restlessness, for them to fall back in place. Unfortunately, they seem to be doing a bit of a Rajinikanth stint in the air, performing cartwheels and somersaults and generally taking their own sweet time to descend. Patience is a trait I only pretended to learn.

PS: If you're feeling let down by how this blog's become all job-job-job-I-want-to-write-a-book-job-job... it could be worse: at least it's not husband-husband-husband-I-want-a-baby-look-at-me-cook-husband-husband. Amen.

Drafts

I don't want to write a book which no one remembers.

I don't want to write a book which sells for Rs.100 on Flipkart, a week after it's release.

I don't want to write a book which can be referred to as chicklit, in a condescending off-hand.

I don't want to write a book that can't sell itself on its own merit.

How only am I meant to write when there are so many don't-wants to keep in mind? I have visions of myself in my old age, writing, crumpling and discarding yet another 150 pages. Because oh, I know you'll like reading it, but I don't want it to be my book.

The Wife*

The interwoven lines of destiny, burned stark against her parched skin, silently shout the story her eyes strive to hide. 

Meanwhile, the yellow-bordered sari gloats triumphantly around her head, a jaunty salute to the blood-mark of sindoor splitting her head into two.

*A work of fiction, obviously. This is part of my endeavor to stop writing about writing, and just write instead. Here's hoping this helps me find the elusive writing voice I've been hunting for.

The end of the world, as I knew it

Life's been... interesting, ever since I left the big G. 

I've had moments of deep insecurity, when I missed my pay packet + perks, resented people who were working less and getting more; and wondered if I should just go crawling back. I've woken up every morning, terrified that I've made a mistake joining a startup, because how can a person as shallow and as impatient as me last the year or so it'll take to build a career from scratch?

There are no guarantees, and no way of knowing if the choices I've made are the right ones. What I do know is that when I close a sale now, the person's buying me, not the brand. Every time the company's market value goes up in this city, I know I drove it because, hey, look around, there's no one else in sight. And I am the only person I know who got a promotion while on probation. So along with the insecurity, comes more confidence than I've ever had.

At the same time, something in me shifted when I left the comfort of a big company. I'm not okay with complacency any more. I don't want to say, 'Let's give it a year,' and sit on my ass because it's easy to do that, or the safest route. I still obsess like crazy and don't take enough risks, but at least now I'm constantly restless at the thought that I can be more, do more, live more. 

What if 2012 is the year the world ends? I want to spend it writing a book. Traveling. Not worrying about the number of leaves I have left. Let's hope I get up the guts to try some of that stuff.

Just a Post

This is not a new year's post. I severely object to those, particularly those coming from people who blog only once in a year. Why not take stock on your birthday, huh? That's technically when you complete a year. (I'm just grouchy because there's only one time in the year when my Reader's full of posts, and I get all excited, and then there's nothing to read for the rest of the year, unless I want to buy it off Flipkart.*)

Moving on. Today's subject of discussion: friends who ask how married life's going. It's a Damascus sword type question, isn't it? I mean, you can't exactly bring out the mush, or they disown you and/or write you off as being one of those wives who puts up <3 type messages on Facebook. And if you're all cool and collected, they assume you never really loved him anyway.

*And I probably won't make it through those books either. Lately I've been using books as sleep-inducing devices. I'm making my way through Mrs.Dalloway. Yes, I know, sacrilege.