I have decided to take my writing career seriously. In the age of AI, of course, that could be meaningless. But still, AI cannot manage my original voice. When you read these texts, you know a living, breathing person is writing them.
There’s a character in Bengali movies— Sukhen Das. "There was" is the right expression; he died long ago. Mr. Das’s specialty was that he was a misery-magnate. No matter what, even during good and happy times, this man would lose one of his limbs in the movie. The happiness of everyone rode on this man’s sacrifice. I don’t want to be a melodramatic Sukhen Das, but the point is, no writer can afford to write anything without being deeply personal, secretly eyeing some sympathy. And that means I have to be a nag. Words will be wasted without conveying anything meaningful. You won’t end up being any wiser—quite the contrary, actually. Not only will you not get the wasted time back, but you may also permanently lose some of your gray cells.
Sorry to add this disclosure at the fag end. You would have avoided this piece like the plague otherwise, and a struggling writer like me does need a reader. Thanks for being the only one for me.
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