Blog fright!

Oh wait.. too late!

I have blog fright. It's not a blogger's block. Quite the opposite of it. There are words running amok, sentences screaming bloody murder for being cooped up inside, virtually under house arrest in my head. And yet, I'm scared to let them out on to the clean white slate of the compose sheet. Why? About the same reason most people are more scared of public speaking than death: the irrational and completely unproportional fear of potential self humiliation and embarrassment. Well, least that's the reason for stage fright. Blog fright also stems from an irrational and completely unproportional but slightly different fear. While I'm pretty certain that I'm not the only one afflicted I don't know if it's as common as stage fright. Either ways this post is both to get over it as well know for sure that I might not be the only dysfunctional blogger( in this particular aspect.. Of course I'm not the only one) in cyberspace.

Yep, looks like a blog I know

Keeping a blog, it's a bit like keeping a gold fish for a pet- relatively low maintenance but you still need to feed it regularly and occasionally it's also healthy to change the water. Most blog die because people don't have enough time/creativity to dedicate to keeping one alive. Or least that's what's tooted around and the statistic does hold true for a good number of deaths. But I don't buy that can be the only reason. Some deaths can be blamed on blog fright as well- the fear of being known.

It's ironic that the very reason you started the blog might be the end of it. True, there are some private blogs whose notes and thoughts accessible to none but the creator. It might be possible you created it for convenience's sake compared to lugging around a diary and a pen. And yes to a million other reasons why you din't create one in the secret hope of anyone who's ever penned anything- that posterity might prove you right if not now and you are/were brilliant. That the world will shuffle through your mundane dreams and hopes and hit pay dirts of wisdom. Well, it worked out rather well for Anne Frank so why not for you, right?  

Whether you admit it or not, you write for the sole reason to give and communicate some permanence to your thoughts. The need to imprint ourselves on others,something more than our share of genes, is hardwired into us. Else, whisper it to the wind. Why else do you stain the pristine white with scratches of black (ink)?! But the permanence has meaning only if they are alive and for words to live they need to be read and shared. 

Though in all fairness, whatever secret megalomania we may harbour deep within ourselves, in reality we bloggers are humbled the moment we start because we realise when we finally write it down it is quite mundane and are quite overwhelmingly grateful when someone likes a post. 

Anyways, where were we? Oh yeah, the need for some permanence though writing. So we write to reach out and pass on bit of ourselves. And a couple of people ( mostly friends and family) read it, comment on it... some even like what you wrote. We get our kick and feel quite validated. It's all hunky dory so far. Then all of a sudden some of us get blog fright. Let me see if I can break it down to what it is.

Those dark stains we leave of ourselves.

The problem starts when we want to write something more personal and intimate. Not because the content or what we want to say is something controversial or anything, It's just something we have never told anyone because we thought it was too trivial or too random and occasionally more happy/dark/philosophical than some people expect out of you.  We hold back because suddenly we are wondering what will all those people think. Actually, no. It's not that we are bothered by what people will think as much as what people will know. Not because people will misunderstand, but precisely because it'll help people understand. 

Most people are scared of being misunderstood but this special breed of sane looking people are even more terrified of being understood. It usually afflicts those of us who are more closed in the real world but tends to be more forthcoming while writing. This usually happens because when we are communicating to the clean white sheet,  we have the perfectly non-committal and perfectly non-judgmental ear to our wisdom/follies. Wish people, even the ones who love and cherish us, could be so non-judgmental.

I know.. So emo kid! :-P

Keeping aside my wish for an unblemished humanity, the unflinching honesty with which we write doesn't always make for happy writing and sometimes, for an unhappy reading. What do you do in these situations? This is usually the start for blog fright. The more practical lot will choose to edit it and draw up the post with the acceptable lines of ourselves and spend the rest of the time rationalizing the lack of honesty as perhaps poetic license(?). The more unreasonable lot will be torn between facing the consequences of honesty ( and the corresponding acceptance or un-acceptance) and letting the post dwell in that dusty place called 'Drafts' rather than be faced with the terrifying possibility of being understood. 

I guess the main fear of being understood is perhaps we fear being predictable. If all our motivations are understood then what mystery will be left? Or maybe because we are not sure where the line is between the mundane and the monstrous. And finding out where we lie, on which side of the line, is something we really don't want to know because both are equally chilling. What ever your subconscious reason is, once these thoughts creep in, it seems almost impossible to click that 'Publish' button. That's when you realise you have fully manifested a case of 'Blog fright'! And there seems no cure in sight either.

SIGH!
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'After Earth' quote.

I wrote this sometime in the space between last year when I was in the middle of  blog fright. Like most  irrational fears it can be vanquished if faced, or well, as in this case written about. I wish I had written it to completion because looking back, it all seems so funny! And hopefully it helps some other frightened blogger to realise that s/he is not alone! And hopefully this is the last time I get a bout of the fright!

Take care,
Phil and his muse! :)

Book review: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

I found my way to the book thief purely by chance. Well if I'm being perfectly honest it's actually due to a faulty memory. I was browsing for some light reading preferably something on the lines of fantasy. I did my share of Terry Pratchett and Gaiman and was looking for a change of flavor. Racking my brain for a name I have not yet tried, the book thief fell out. Its only after I started did I realise that I was looking for 'The thief lord'. 

And its a mistake I'm rather grateful for. Had I actually remembered the Funke series correctly who knows how long it would have taken me to find my way to the book thief.

And being completely unprepared, the book managed to take away even more of my breathe than if I chose it knowingly. On so many levels. Just thinking back on the book makes my heart ache again. And after I finished the book I could not bring my self to believe this is a work of fiction. Though set in the dreary and grey background of the 2nd world war, the characters shine through with the kind of light that is reminiscent of Anne Frank; imperfect yet captivating to say the least.

Because there are so many aspects to explore the book from, I don't know where to start. To start with, the book felt intensely personal. Maybe because it mixed children and books and quiet rebels, my favorite kind of mix in a novel ( of course it comes as no surprise that my favorite book should be 'To kill the mockingbird', with roughly the same mix). But honestly, it transcended for me the space of a book telling an extraordinary tale and rather felt more like I was reading like a lost diary of mine, of life I had perhaps lost. That is not to imply that I write half as wonderfully as Mr. Zusak but that I could identify with the emotions like it was my own. This even when you know the narrator is Death himself. 

For such a morbid sounding narrator the book is full of color and light. How easily we paint death with shades of black. Maybe because the finality of death seems so harsh and unyielding to us, the living. Like a rock. So we imagine Death to have the same unyielding, hard character. But this book reminds us how we can be so wrong. That death can be tender, comforting and beautiful. And that Death can be understanding. I love the way Zusak gently guides us to different perspectives which breaks away from the hard and unconscious  prejudices we have formed. 

Its one of the hardest things to write from a child's point of view because they can be such contractions. At once unconditional and unforgiving in love. And for all their innocence and nativity they can be intuitive in a way no adult can be. They are fierce in their wants and yet pliable their demands. And we always tend to believe children to be so easily swayed by adult idiosyncrasies, that they grow up pumped up with ideas of their environs, like rudderless boats in a swift stream, helpless about the direction of their lives. Markus Zusak politely and firmly points us our follies by creating characters which sparkle with all that is human like Liesel and Rudy in an atmosphere which was tense with inexplicable hate, a demonstration of considerable skill since he also keeps them true with the kind of pettiness and pride only children can have. 

And the magic of a book. Of it's ability to warp or transform if you only let it. Of all the aspects of the story that is told, it's that unabashed and wild love of books which spoke to me. Every time Liesel stole a book from the mayor's wife, taking one at a time, I was, weirdly enough, proud of her. 

I was lucky enough to have been born into a household with loads of books and of love of reading. If I have to choose to reduce myself to one word, the word I would pick would be 'reader'. And maybe this is why I feel like this could have been a lost life of mine. Like Liesel, with life and odds disproportionately in favor of not reading anything leave alone anything worthwhile, I might have still found a way to books simply because it's encoded in my DNA. Or so I like to believe. Who is say who and how I would have turned out to be without books in my life. 

Every time I speak of Liesel I realise I end up talking more of myself than of her. But that is how the experience of reading her was. Usually when writing a review I try to separate the emotional experience of reading the book and try being more objective( I don't believe anyone can truly divorce the two). But this time I don't want to because it is a rare and wonderful experience to be immersed so completely within the character and the story. I don't even want to try to dilute it by looking at it rationally least I lose the feeling. 

And I'm also well aware that this feeling might be skewing this review by speaking only of Liesel and having thus far made no mention of Hans and Rosa Hubermann and of Max.

 As much as I love Liesel, she's not by far the favorite character in the book. The whole book lights up because of all the delicately etched characters. When we realise how stubborn the gentle Hans is (FYI, he's my favorite, the unsung hero ) and how soft the iron fisted Rosa is. And I can't start on Rudy without tearing up. Hell, Death himself gets all cut up about this specimen of boyhood so you can hardly blame me.

If you ask me, this whole book is a testimony to humanity. Both the best and worst of it. The dark history is the large background against which Zusak's people shine. That within grime and grit, it is still possible to love and find beauty. So do yourself a favor and pick up the book. You won't regret it! :)