Depression Diary - Log VI

And so one day I thought I would start writing. I don’t know where the thought struck me. I was like I should write a novel. Maybe that will make me famous. People might recognize me and not look at me as if I was a bum, when I walk into the superstore to buy grocery. So I went out and bought a notebook. It had a black cover, with two white birds flying to the extreme right. I liked the design. It spoke of higher things in life. I imagined that if I wrote in this notebook, my life would take a flying course as well. It was during the time when we and Sarah were living separately. I thought maybe I could win her and my daughter back too. I remember paying too much for the notebook. They said it was because of the cover. It was a painting by someone. I was like, do I care? It’s a notebook, not the painting. They made me pay for it, anyway.

I remember sitting and staring at the pages in this very room. I was like, what do I write about? I thought of the various novels and books I had seen in the stores. How on earth do people write about things? Such thick books? For a few days I used to come back from work and sit and stare at the pages, thinking about what to write. Nothing struck me. Then one fine evening I was like, I should write about myself! I should write a novel about someone who goes on to commit a series of mistakes and ends up regretting about things in his life. I would take incidents from my life, my mistakes, and write it all up as a novel. This seemed to me a brilliant idea. I am sure not a lot of writers would have thought of that!

And so I started. Laboriously. Every day I would come back from work and sit and write in that notebook. It was tough. Very hard on me. I would stay up late till night, trying to frame sentences that I thought the readers would like. Because of this I was constantly late in the morning or else sleepy at work. They used to tell me off, even threaten me that I would lose my job. I kept cursing them in my head. You guys wait till my book is published. Then I will be the one grinning while you will give me the respect I deserve.

And then came that evening I was so hoping for. I finished writing it. I was so proud of myself. I was so happy. Almost as happy as I was, the day I married Sarah. I went out and bought a bottle of “good stuff” and drank it in celebration of my success. Of course I could not go to work the next day. Woke up late and then I remembered that I had to send my novel to the publisher. I went out and gave the notebook to get it typed, so that I could mail it to the guys at the publishing house. I went to job the next day but they had kicked me out. I was outraged. I told them to wait and see and that they would come begging to me asking me to join work again. They laughed at me and sent me away. I was so furious at them. I came back and saw that my notebook had come back with nicely typed pages. The front page read “Bum and his Bummer” in bold letters and beneath it in italics “A story of a lifetime”. I was so proud of my creation. I immediately sent it to the publishers.

I waited for almost a month before the reply came. It was an envelope with my novel in it. Along with it was a single page reply from the editor. My hands were trembling as I opened it. What did he have to say?

“Dear Mr. ____

Thank you for sending the manuscript of your novel Bum and his Bummer: A story of a lifetime. We have gone through the contents of your manuscript and we regret to inform you that our publishing house cannot accept it.

Your book, for all practical reasons, is “obvious”. We do not see the reason why someone would spend money on buying a book that from its very first line itself seems so obvious. We do not believe that there are people in the world who would be interested in reading the accounts of everyday life of a street bum.

We are sure it must have taken you a lot of time to write the manuscript, putting yourself in the shoes of a street vagabond and writing such a dreary book. We appreciate the effort you have put in but for all practical reasons, we terminate the conversation about it and reject the manuscript. We have sent the papers back to you.

We would welcome any future manuscript that you would write (which is not so “obvious”). Till then, we wish you good luck. Hope creativity sows its seeds soon.

Yours sincerely,

_______”

I was outraged. How could they insult me this way? They called it obvious! What the hell? How could they? It was the work of my life. The hardest I had ever worked. I thought I should sue them for insulting me. I drank myself silly for the next few days. I was so upset. I guess I still am. Had to go back and beg those guys for getting a job again.

I don’t know how I remembered all of this. It was sometime in the past. Don’t even remember how long back. Perhaps it was not all that long time after all. I was trying to get some sleep last night when I suddenly remembered that cover. The birds flying. I want to find the guy who painted that and smash his face into his own canvas. I want to find that editor and throw the notebook at his face. Couldn't he see that he ruined my life?

I am angry. I am disappointed. I am tired. I want a drink. Later.

- U. E

05:05 AM, Varanasi

May 19, 2013