A few days back, I read one of my posts from 2007, which instilled a sense of nostalgia in me for the simpler times. Though I still write all the forms of posts, as my friends who have read me through these years know, my love for them is not equal. Then why do I continue to publish them?
It was an early Sunday evening, and it wasn’t time for dinner yet. But my body clock hadn’t adjusted itself to the timezone yet. It was lunchtime at my place home, and my body wanted food. Local time be damned. But Sydney didn't welcome me.
Over the years, I have realized that my mind is a pool of copious ideas from varied fields. It is like an open pond, extremely prone to ripples from externalities, big and small. There was a time when I picked every idea up and started working on it. I do that no more.
I have discovered a few ironies of life, a few lessons for the writer within me over my 15 years of writing. I want to share a few of them with the writer in you.
I recently moved across the state. As I was planning this move, deep within, I was also thinking about what I can expect from the move. I was also signing up for a heartbreak.
