A must read autobiography of a writer

A few letters scribbled here and there, some blank spaces, many pauses…sentences evenly spaced out. So many smilies! I didn’t want to judge the book by its cover as it made a point through a refrain; read between the lines….   
This autobiography by an anonymous author arrested my attention. I wouldn’t call the auto-biographer (a self –coined term) an author as the person made it specifically clear that his/her bonding with writing was strong but that person didn’t  want to be recognised as a writer. Perhaps, the very term writer denotes typical name and fame; the trap which doesn’t belong to writing. Writing throws light on innermost thoughts in the deep caverns of mind.
Yes, a lot of this writing had rather come from an unconscious mind! No wonder the book had no specific structure, no theme, no characters. It wasn’t the story of anyone yet it was everyman’s narrative.   
The autobiographer had a lot to tell. A few success stories and some were written off… While I turned pages, I realised the expression evolved and the writer, too, was turning a new leaf. Yes, autobiographer started the story with the burning fire in his/her belly to reach out to people. The autobiographer was all here to brainstorm and deliver a message.
At one point, the autobiographer was out with a ‘classic’ piece of writing loaded with many rhetoric, verbose and phrases. It had a very intense theme and autobiographer thought it may either revolutionise or touch some lives. The book wasn’t old still pages faded as autobiographer was striving to keep the crux alive. Thus, it looks the author stopped the process of ‘reaching’ out to readers though author never mentioned it explicitly though.  
The author’s romance with writing is equally intriguing as the person was ‘technically’ perfect poet too. A meticulous metre and a four line stanza with rhyme extravaganza….
The poetry continued just words became silent….
The next few pages were blank. Towards the end of the book, manifestations were somewhat simple and wordless.
At the end, it was a portrayal with vibrant hues and myriad moods. It wasn’t O Henry’s Last Leaf though…
Why simplicity is so arduous? The back cover read. Finally, myself and autobiographer were on the same page. We may not be one but most certainly we remained no twos.


Popular posts from this blog


A window wonder

To read or...