Early mornings in Plittersdorf, Bonn, Germany, can be strange, especially when the freak summer is being led like an unwilling horse towards the first blushes of autumn, leaves turning brown and falling from the trees simply because it’s too dry.
Don’t know when I wrote that, not even in which year. And Plittersdorf, an erstwhile fishing village, is not half so poetic, believe me.
Nevertheless, that’s the kind of place I live in, an expatriate Indian and now a naturalised German who has spent more than half his life in Germany, and half of that again in penning novels in English about India. Ha, about!
I’ve even used up two literary agents in London, one of them ‘as famous as anything’, as we put it in India. Those two good souls have tried to peddle two of my unpublishables for a total of eight years without success or remuneration, bless ’em. Before they finally gave up.
I should be suffering from the ‘sad writer’ syndrome but I don’t, funnily enough.
Maybe it’s because if I don’t have fun doing something, then I just don’t do it – and that applies to blogging as well.
I think all of us have as much of Don Quixote as of Sancho Panza – if we’re talking Cervantes – or as much of Bottom the weaver (A Midsummer Night’s Dream) as of Ariel the ‘airy spirit’ (The Tempest) in us – if we’re talking Shakespeare. Together, they constitute the magnetic field from which all human activity, including blogging, draws its energy.
And now it’s time for the blog folk – with a genuflection in the direction of J.R.R. Tolkien – to kill me with trolls and bury me in spam.