Acceptance. And once, he was advised by a friend to write on topics that would be well received. Accepted by all unanimously, or at least, be read. Of course, he knew of such topics, and above all of the importance of being accepted. He didn’t blink while his friend did the talking. He listened intently like a patient listens to his doctor’s prognosis. ‘Acceptance is important for any artist. If it were not so you’d be writing in a diary and hiding it in a shelf than come out in public like this.’
His friend was correct. He hated it when people stated the obvious, especially when those obvious statements happened to be correct. ‘But what good would that do to him?’ he had thought after he had retired to bed that night. ‘I stare at the blank screen more often than the fingers start weaving the quilt in the form of a story, or even before a line appears on the screen’. If it were a recitation of poetry or perhaps even singing he’d have chosen the poems or songs that were in trend, would have even undertaken the onerous task of studying his audience. But writing was not like that. One doesn’t get to chose the hue and quantity of blood when injured. It just pours out.
Writing, for him, was pretty much like the blood pouring out after an injury. Sometimes he would end up writing a long piece. So many words around him, as if there is blood from the wound and even more of it puddled around the body. And at other times there is nothing. The screen is whiter than it was. And his state of mind gloomier. He’d shut the lid down.
Rejection. And would his friend have believed if he had told him the truth? About the rejections that he dreaded the most. The ones that he faced every day. When the words rejected him, and the story refused to get on to the paper, and when the articulation discarded him as if these words were not something he had learned, one after the other, over the course of time, nurtured them, used them in the sentences. He knew that the words owned him. Sentences were the veins of the body he aspired to create everytime he sat in front of the screen. He was forever bound by these words. Bewitched by their nuances. And this creation, of a body of work, and these rejections in the process of doing so were more overwhelming than what could all the readers together produce.
Acceptance was a destination that only a few managed to reach, rejection was a journey that every artist has to undertake.