A Writer’s Block, A Mother’s Love, and A Surge of Emotions

I want to write.

It's 8 PM, in the month of November. I am not expecting anyone to knock on my door.

I have been desperately planning to start writing my next short story, but one task or another keeps coming up, and it has been lingering for the past two weeks. It is giving me the feeling of being an irresponsible man—someone who finds an excuse in everything he undertakes and comes last in everything. I don’t like that man. And I know no one likes him, not even his own family.

Then what keeps that man motivated to keep going with the same mindset that draws him such treatment? I don’t know, but it would be interesting to know that man’s perspective on life, hardships, and ambitions. This is tempting me to try wearing the skin of that man and start thinking like him. That way, I could interview him and look into the inefficiencies and intricacies that made him the person he had been.

But is that going to serve any purpose? Would there be an audience for that kind of story? I don’t know. The best I can do is write everything as real as possible and without any specific expectations.

I sat on my sofa and placed the laptop on my lap. Getting ready to start writing is always as exciting as preparing for a movie shot in front of a giant crew and bystanders. I can feel that when I am mentally preparing to write, I am being watched and observed by countless people. They all reside in my mind, and peeping into my thoughts is their full-time job.

No, they don’t make me nervous, but their combined will is, at times, far stronger than mine. I have experienced this many times. So, I always try to stay on good terms with that cohort of minds residing within me. Sometimes, this cohort plays games—convincing me to do something and then, at a crucial moment, switching my mind to the opposite.

But I can’t do anything about it. There have been moments in my life where strong action was needed, and this cohort of minds took decisions in a fraction of a second to ensure that what was needed was done rapidly and perfectly.

There is a problem when I want to write while sitting on my sofa. I really like my sofa. When I sit on it, I can’t focus on anything else with my entire mind. A part of me is always fascinated by its look and feel, and this always happens without exception. Gradually, other thoughts fade, and my obsession with the sofa takes over.

When I am in that zone, I try different postures on the sofa, exploring every corner to find the most comfortable position—a ritual in which I seldom succeed. Yet, I cherish every minute I spend there. It’s like being with my best friend in the inanimate world. With best friends, we explore zones we didn’t know existed within us.

While on the sofa, I’ve noticed my creativity spikes, and I become very thoughtful. Maybe that’s why I always plan to start writing there. The problem lies in execution. While I can think well on the sofa, the moment I try to write, I get frozen.

I spent a good 15 minutes and made two attempts to start writing. Both times, I wrote a small opening sentence, only to delete it absentmindedly—a reflex, maybe.

Now what do I do? I cannot hold onto my thoughts for long. If I try to hold onto a rich thought or a few connected ones, they start slipping away, like sand slipping through a fist no matter how tightly it’s clenched.

I don’t know how other writers operate, but my gut says they start writing the moment a thought worth writing comes to them. Editing, I believe, should be done afterward, not while thinking.

I need to change my place and start writing. If I don’t write today, I fear I may never write, as everything is so conducive right now. I have no worries this week, I’m not expecting any disturbances, the weather is just right, and I took a refreshing afternoon nap in my garden while the sun was setting.

If I don’t write even today, it would mean the cohort of minds is working against my true will. But I don’t want to dwell on that gloomy thought any further.

Why should I blame the cohort of minds for my failure to write? Maybe there’s something good in that failure I can’t see yet. I write for pleasure, but what if something I write stirs me in a bad way? What if I discover my writing is substandard despite trying very hard?

Wouldn’t it be better, in such a case, if my writer’s block stayed as strong as it could? The other side of the pasture is always greener until you visit it, no?

I think I’m drifting away from my focus, and it will make me unhappy. I should try to write without worrying about the opening lines. I can always edit later.

But for that, I need to leave the sofa and sit in my office chair. I’ll be more attentive and relaxed there. Yes, ergonomics matter for productivity. If it weren’t for my love of the sofa, I’d have started at the desk and filled up pages by now.

My room is a very efficient unit that houses a three-seat leather sofa, as you already know, an office chair with a large wooden table, a queen-sized bed, a bookshelf holding around 100 books, side tables, and a small club corner with a big mirror, a wall-mounted ebony wood wine stand and high stools. The walls are all shades of gray, and the window opens up to a view of gigantic mountains and large farms surrounded by tall, thick trees.

And yet, there’s plenty of unused space in my room. I like unused spaces. They are non-committed and hold potential. The promise of potential is truly miraculous. That’s not to say the occupied areas mean less to me. I love the depths, shadows, objects, and arrangements.

I perceive consciousness in everything and welcome whatever holds a place in my life, no matter to what extent. The chair I’m sitting on now feels like the perfect fit. I stretched my legs, relaxed my facial muscles, closed my eyes for a moment, and focused hard on eliminating all thoughts so I could start writing.

But no plot came to mind. Since morning, I’ve discarded at least 15 plots, maybe more. Now, by evening, I’ve convinced myself I need a great opening line that will attract the right plot, brick by brick. After all, I’m aiming for a short story, not a novel.

Ten minutes passed, and still no progress. I put the laptop aside, opened a new writing diary, and took out a blue gel pen. Holding it in writing posture, I waited. Nothing changed in my mind—no new ray of light, no fresh current of air. Everything remained gray and stale.

A subtle panic and overwhelming denial began creeping in. What is the problem with writing your heart out? Everything I wrote felt bland, flavorless, and without promise.

A do-or-die moment was fast approaching. I thought, why not write continuously for 30 minutes without pausing, no matter what comes up? The idea felt good, but I was afraid of wandering aimlessly. I thought I needed a good primer to start the journey of words on paper.

I decided to write about death—how inevitable it is, how horridly it’s perceived, and how complex it can be. The subject had vast scope, but I wanted to shape it into a short story.

I thought of a man who had just lost his mother and was worried about her well-being in the afterlife. I started writing, and words began to flow. After nine pages, I realized I was going in circles. The write-up was more of a vent—an assortment of memories and expressions of insecurity. By no standards was it a short story, nor could it be molded into one.

But I felt good because I wrote something. The day wasn’t wasted. A certain alignment of energies was established in my mind, and I found myself thinking deeply about my recently deceased mother. Tears filled my eyes, unstoppable. I prayed to God she is safe and well, wherever she is.

I switched back to the sofa, lay down, and closed my eyes. My mother’s smiling face filled my heart with a haunting warmth. That radiant face always lit my life with hope and reassurance. I can’t believe she is no more and that I will never see her again.

She wouldn’t have liked me obsessing over her death or writing about it. But I can’t help it. If I think of her, the thought of death naturally follows.

It was a painful, slow death—72 days in the ICU, gradual dying of brain cells, and organs failing one by one. She suffered so much. She wanted to live, I know that. She was always afraid of death. But I couldn’t save her. She must have felt so helpless while dying.

The sense of loss suddenly felt fresh. Tears rolled down aggressively from my eyes, and I started crying loudly. After crying for 5–6 minutes, I cleaned myself up and returned to my bed.

I drank a glass of cold water and lay down. My mind felt like a slate wiped clean of wet mud—not starkly clean, but just manageable. No more writing for today.

I miss my mother, and I will try to sleep now. Who knows what happens in sleep? I believe whatever happens there occurs in some alternate dimension or reality. I hope to meet my mother in my sleep, cry my heart out while hugging her, and feel her presence, which is so precious to me.

A dream is now my only hope of meeting her. What if a dream is the mind’s consciously created thought process during sleep—just like writers do when crafting fiction, a short story perhaps? All fantasy, no reality?