I hate writing. I hate the process of it. The loneliness. I hate staring at a blank page knowing it must be filled. Yes, must. That’s the key word. I’m convinced that no one writes because they want to. Why would anyone put themselves through the process? What level of masochist am I as a writer? Are we as a group? What’s wrong with us? With me? I guess that’s the question I ask every time I start something new. And then I sigh, and I am buried in the writing. Lost in it. Transported. And slowly, I feel the relief. The drug of it inside me, freeing me, giving me a kind of permission. To be. To create. To tell a story. Again. And again.

www.arjunbasu.com