Glad to learn that Arvind Adiga won the Booker Prize, or, is it Man Booker Prize. The media is blaring it in scrolling texts in its ticker tape inspired, screen bottom animation of news. One just sits and stares at the words that scroll past. Indeed a proud moment for India, for it's millions of struggling writers, and for the writing craft itself. What that means for us is another novel to read and to write about. We are also a bit despondent because our career in writing hasn't taken off. We can only hang one's head in shame, despite having been tried our best, the feeling remains, through the curtain of loneliness that has been our won't recently, that the dream will never come true, however hard we tried, and that perhaps writing a few words on this blog is what we have been destined for.
And on the train an urchin screams in his throaty, high-pitched wail: novel, imported, novel imported, as if anything imported - even novels - is better than what is perhaps Indian. Oh, bollocks, go to hell, will you, we feel like screaming. We grow more depressed hearing that. Aren't we good enough? Aren't we just a cowardly good-for-nothing writer, who hasn't made an iota of progress in our craft, because we didn't try hard enough, taken enough risks and put oneself to the test in the craft? Questions, questions, questions, and no answers. We contemplate the life of a writer, the diminishing role he has in modern life, how insignificant he is, how without purpose.
Congratulations Arvind Adiga, be prepared for what they are going to say about your writing, and don't let success get into your brain.
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