Our new series, Writers’ Rooms, provides Kathmandu Tribune’s readers with a narrative and visual snapshot where writers create. 

I always observe first and then sit down to write. In eight years I’ve moved from the once serene Kathmandu valley to the exotic plains of Hyderabad (I heard from my friends that a train runs inside its belly; I had left it before leaving India), and to the morose skies of England where most writers were born from the dreary weather, and back to the heart-choking capital of Nepal, and finally to the Atlantic region of Canada where I am lost in the snow-storm. Staying in one place for a long time makes me depressed. It robs me of the inspiration. The inspiration that I encountered in the rays that passed through the school’s room’s ventilation. It was a breakthrough for my silent soul. An answer to unburden the troubled heart. Since then I’ve continued writing: to calm myself, and write what I’ve seen.

Is writing a therapy to me? Perhaps. But I also believe writing is a responsibility to the place, people, and past. Although writing doesn’t come easy and ideally it cannot be taught or bought, it comes from practice and discipline. If you play sports then you know the routine. I’ve done it all these years–devoting few hours to writing. Till now it is usually poetry I’ve written. On the go. People often ask me whether I stop, think, keep my writing away, and come back to write. I do not do so. I write at once and complete it. And it travels with me to places I’ve never been too. Writing is for future and is futuristic. I write for future, not present or the past.

trial bay gaol at south west rocks

Yet I’ve questioned myself if writing is what all it matters. Will others read what I write? One is often bogged down with the idea that getting published is the ultimate goal of a writer. But, for me, it isn’t so. A good writing will never stop with publication. It will be carried on by another writer. And I’ve often carried the shadow of Plath, Keats, Wordsworth, Hughes, Blake, Yeats, Sexton, Morrison, Tagore and the list goes on. Yes, I’ve seen their faces in their writings. The surreal feeling often takes me to the unexpected places in Murakami’s wonderful metaphorical stories. In the process of observing their fading appearances, I’ve discovered mine own, tit-bit, here and there. With this self-discovery and acquired perception, I open myself to the world and weave a story. The reason to tell the story is simple–the feeling is so strong my fingers automatically type alphabets and letters to paint the picture in words. When the picture is complete I feel I am complete too. There’s a strong association between words and my existence. There’s no end.

And I often think if writing will do any good as everything is vain and the world is coming to an end. But I guess everyone has a purpose. A purpose to capture events for future. The present is confusing and full of distractions. There’s tendency still for many readers to read the past writers. So maybe I write for future. I write spontaneously. This spontaneous feeling comes from the reading of Woolf‘s To The Lighthouse. And most of my early poems were indirectly inspired by Sylvia Plath‘s The Collected Poems. I tried to imitate them but never really succeeded and now I believe I’ve discovered my own voice. Writing is inspiration first. It is essential to get inspired. Listen to voices of other writers. And then go for that long journey to get your own voice. Only to share with the world. For me, writing always has been a discovery. A wealth incomparable.

prisoner of Ipad (1)

And I believe that what I’ve written would direct others to take that long journey to self-discovery and stories to share with others and myself. Nothing comes without a price. I’ve learned it the hard way.

At present, my room is insulated. Means I am not going to freeze and die from frostbite! The house I’m living at the moment is almost hundred years old but is still rocking! The downtown area I live in Fredericton, New Brunswick is a suitable place for writers. The streets barely scream. The air is fresh and crisp. I often gaze at the window and look for inspiration. At times I stare at the walls. I don’t have a desk right now. I never longed for a desk to write. I write however I can. So facing the wall I open my laptop. Then Word 2013. The challenge is to encounter the blank page before me. I usually type the title. And off I go writing. I have never stopped in middle. I write and finish it once. If you know me then you’ll know me as a poet so far. I have usually written poems and refrained from writing stories. To my knowledge, I’ve composed maybe ten stories to hundreds of poetry. The charm of poetry never lets me down. There’s something between me and poetry. However, I do not disdain prose. I’m letting out a secret: I’ve negotiated with poesie to let me romance a bit with prose. I hope this deviated affair goes well. Only time will prove it. The future.

So back to my writing. After finishing it I look at it and then save it and I send a copy to my Gmail. I am sure Google or NSA do not care about it! I save it in one of my folders for future purpose. It’s difficult to trust laptops! This is how I write inside a room. I feel free when I sit down on my bed, or sofa and my fingers roll on. For me, writer’s block is not the problem but the problem is forgetting to preserve the images and voices that I hear before sitting down to write. It is a meditation. Observation. An enlightenment. Some people believe poetry is a meager imagination. Most of my poems are born from incidents and real images. Perhaps when I start romancing with prose passionately like I do with poetry: the room I am writing from will become a spaceship and fly towards Jupiter. Oh, I remember, I finished The Lost Boys of Kathmandu from my room in Northampton, England. Yes, it’s strange, but I have written more when I am alone, in a single room, and strangely when I’m in a cold place (I hate cold). This secluded feeling makes me erupt into multiple of unknown words. I know you’ve read it somewhere: Edge, and Poems on Sikkim.

For the past eight years, I’ve lived in three different rooms and in different parts of the world. Yet, to me, the room is same everywhere I go. It is a place to meditate, to unbind the observation, and make sketches on the blank pages of history for those who will find me in the future. These rooms, I believe, were ordained for a discovery of a lifetime. I am indebted to these isolated, lonely, and messy rooms where love has blossomed and withered–where words have come to life and got printed in the surreal pages of the future.

Arun Budhathoki‘s latest poetry book is Prisoner of an iPad.

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