The other day, I read a post online about being a good Literary citizen.
I have always been a homing pigeon to literary gatherings. I don’t mean the ones where writers air kiss each other, drink delicate tea and talk polite shop. I like the ones where people sit in a circle on the floor and talk about their WIPs, with stars and ever dreams in their eyes. a writers’ meet, where both local and international fare can be enjoyed, dissected, discussed and dissed with equal glee. At the very least, I need a forum, where you can participate as much or as little as your time allows you to.
So, in case it’s still not clear, I like being a part of the community. I hold workshops and writers’ meets whenever I could. I connect with other writers as much as I can, via twitter, FB and plain ole email. I offer (often unsolicited) advice to budding writers. Most of them welcome it, thankfully. I don’t do all these frequently or lavishly, but only when it is possible and practical. As I said, I love to belong and I’d like to think of myself as a passable Literary citizen.
A long time ago, I took a vow that I’ll never wind up like some of the writers who appear like the pope once a year, in prestigious literature festivals, and grant their darshan to us humble folks. That view of mine has not changed. Where is the fun in playing hide and seek, if you do not get to share it with others?
How do you actually do that, though? Your location may have zero lit events. You may lead a busy life. You may be an introvert, and you may be a budding writer who thinks she does not have anything “worthwhile” to offer to others. Life is all-encroaching, and limitations are endless when art tries to triumph over routine (though here is a lovely article about how limitations actually are blessings in disguise).