Crazy

If he was successful, he would have been labelled eccentric, not crazy.

“Even as a kid, I had these totally blacked out moments, amnesiac really, with my writing–I wrote poetry then–with what I wrote and who wrote it. I would stare at a paper with my handwriting and I would have no recollection writing it.”

He came out rather late, with his writing, and it took a long time for people to notice him. He hid behind pseudonyms, randomly posted new and old writing to blur chronology. It wasn’t his writing that made people notice him. He was persistent, very persistent in fact, with queries about writing, not just his, theirs too.

“No, I was not after what the writer meant. I was after the soul. It is there, you know, that soul of creativity; impregnated, growing, reaching out, most often in a cryogenic deep slumber; it is alien.”

He was not antisocial but could seem so. He hated it when people noticed his work when it was shortlisted for a prize, or when it was accepted for publication. He disappeared from the scene till people forgot. He was realistic, though.

“Sure, I agree with you. How will people know unless it attracts their attention? But, I think they lose something that way. ”

He was not violent but he was quite harsh towards those who wanted to know him better.

“Damn them! They don’t read what I write. It is my writing, not me, they should focus on. Now, if they are not at all interested in my writing, it might make sense, though quite pointless if you ask me. I don’t exist. But some think they can understand my writing better if they get to know me. As if I have got something to do with my writing…”