Was it just the breeze

that made me a butterfly

Was it just the clouds

that made my heart soar high

Was it just the rain

that made the poet in me come alive

Was it just the grass

that made my feet dance by

Was it just …..

There is something about the weather that can bring out the artist in all of us. Some may want to sing, some may want to draw and some may just want to use their culinary skills to conjure up a dish that suits the weather. I definitely don’t belong to the third kind, so I write.

Nature, weather, surroundings must be essential for a writer. This explains why the Writer’s Retreat business is booming. Although considering the charges I wonder, do the people who conceptualised the idea realise that more often than not, writers are underpaid to the extent of not paid and live through a lifetime of rejections. Apparently we cannot afford such costly luxury, and by the time one of us rich and famous we are inspired enough to let the ink flow. Moreover the marketing trends in current times make sure the book is sold before hand.

Alas it doesn’t work well for a struggling writer to spend money before hand on a retreat. The writer has to juggle between the sustenance of daily life and pursuing passion. Is this the reason that most of our books revolve around common folks, heat and dust? A perfectly curated lawn really doesn’t appeal to my senses as much as the imperfection of a view does. I would rather throw around poppy seeds of various colours into the soil than shape some perfect hedges, bushes into my view.

Of course I believe in perfect solitude while writing with a ambience to inspire. Alas, life is imperfect for even now as I write (type), I have to manage it with one hand because my other one is held my little one who uses it as a comfort cushion while asleep.