My literary ambitions are mixed up with feelings of being isolated and undervalued. I know I have a facility for words and a power of facing unpleasant facts and situations, and I feel that I’ve created some sort of private life in literature in which I can get my own back for my failures, especially academically, in my everyday life. I do not only report to others but also to myself first and foremost. I like the communication aspect of writing since it gives me a ‘somewhat’ safe platform to question the authority, societal rules, culture and identity. I write not only to find a way into the world but also to hold it away from me so that sheer, senseless events would not devour me. I usually feel this powerful adrenaline rush and if I am in bed, I jump out and reach for my ever present pen, a paper and my old flashlight in order to pen down my sentiments. As most writers have sagely implied, during that compulsive state of inspiration, I replica a pregnant woman in labour pains
Where Words and Worlds Collide