Smaller than Life
Why a blog? Simple. Cacoethes Scribendi -- the urge to write! My literary pretensions and caprices bring me here. Like any writer I write to be read. All my posts, though fettered to my small world and trivially myopic, will live and yearn that somebody connects to them someday. Cognitive frenzies, sardonic musings, aimless banters, incoherent ramblings and trivial indulgences; this is simply an episodic narrative of my trivial world -- in a grain of sand… Smaller than Life.

Graffiti

When I am dead,
I hope it is said,
'His sins were scarlet,
but his books were read'.

- Hillaire Belloc

This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me, --
The simple news that Nature told
With tender majesty.

Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

- Emily Dickinson

The thoughts of our past years
          in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction

- William Wordsworth

Wednesday, May 19, 2004
 
The Satisfaction of Blogging

One of my friends, a regular reader of my blog, remarked in her mail to me: The satisfaction from reading an original piece of writing/poem is as much as that from writing an original working piece of code; sometimes much more.

Interesting thought! But having had to contend with the dichotomous pursuits of writing pages of codes and inditing pages of odes (!) in the past four months, I feel urged to add a small thought that emerged from the writer's perspective. When a code works it works. Period. You find the satisfaction of a job done successfully for the day. You are reasonably happy with yourself. And you think no more about it. But, as a writer, while writing (blogging) is satisfying as an activity in itself, it leaves you with just those teeny weeny butterflies in your stomach. You open your blogspot every day, biting your nails, hoping to find an increment in the Comments counter, hoping against hope that you have been able to connect with the reader...



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