All around I can feel the sandy landscape
Clawing me in with its dusty hooks
I am reverberating like a chinese bell
Only the dunes can hear my sound,
My vibrations

I can feel the ache now, the
Fleeting, familiar ache
That is far too burdensome,
Far too greedy to able to be
Dipped into a foreign universe

All around I am crushing pretty little dolls
That leak their perfume, their poetry
Details of their self contained worlds
To a singular audience

I cannot hear, my ears are drowned
In sand, in that tickly darkness
All I hear is a rush, a whirl.
A strong, nostalgic sound.

When the night spreads
Its soft starry blanket
Across the horizon
I will not remember anything
The beige ocean, the sand
Sand, sand.

Our AC in the living room completely fuzzed out today. Well, it still blows air, it just blows normal air, and doesn't chill the room at all, a bit like a fan. I'm reminded of Karachi here. We had AC in only one room, and the rest of the house just had overhead fans. I remember waking up in a sweat and taking a shower straightaway, to get rid of the heat.

Also, in my Nani's place, we had AC, but there would be moments where we would have powercuts in the morning and then the AC turned off; leaving the heat to assault us cruelly for a few hours. "Its the heat" i tell myself. That's the magical thread connecting all these memories together and bringing themselves towards me right now.

It wasn't just today mind you. Yesterday, Karachi just randomly came into my head. I remember playing hide and seek in that huge house. That house was so mysterious because there were locked doors that you didn't know where they lead to. There were so many hiding places, so much space to run. I also remember really old pieces of furniture caked with dust. Old, off-date packets of Oreo. The milk tasted different in a funny way and the cheap cereal bowls that seemed to be made of tin.

I don't really know what it is about these images that stay with me. I don't know why i associate the heat with childhood either. These memories are just such an effective tool to get lost in, especially when you're in a different country. Although i seem nostalgic, I'm really just looking back at these in a happy manner. There's something special about the eye of a child that captures little details, little snippets, and makes them seem to last forever. In a way, our heavily dated memories are unmisted by opinions, by feelings. They're fair and they're true. They feel authentic. When i remember from back then, i can remember exactly how it is. Nowadays, remembering events always comes with the extra adult baggage. The emotion, the opinion, how it all fits in etc. These things just come with time. Its really important to get in touch with your childish, narrative voice. Its special not because it can see things that we cant; its special because it doesnt see anything at all.

I've been reading Murakami's latest release. Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. Its a collection of short stories that Murakami wrote in the mid eighties. I've been used to both formats that Murakami uses, his short stories and his epic novels. They're both amazingly good, and he shows such deftness and mastery over them. This particular collection has sent me reeling though.

Murakami's short stories are like biting into those snack-sized chocolate from the chocolate boxes. They're so rich and so tasty and all it takes is one little bite. You barely put any effort or time into reading it, and you're rewarded back hugely. What i love about Murakami is that he's always so straightforward yet he can see the tiny, hidden details behind all the simplicity. "Nowadays if you want to catch the reality of anything, there's always a whole slew of convuluted extra's that come with it : hidden advertising, dubious discount coupons, point cards stores hand out that you know you should throw out but still hang onto anyway, options that are forced onto you before you even know whats happening."

And Murakami's romances are always so fascinating. I've never been into mushy romance stories, but Murakami's romances have the tenderness of a lover's heart, but with the sting of reality to balance things out. His romance stories always tell the bigger picture - how their actions affects their enviroment, how the enviroment bounces back to provide a new obstacle, how there's always something more after a romance. Murakami's never really jumped onto romance as his specialised area of writing, but he's chosen to utilise it in such a way where he uses it as a tool to explain why we humans do things the way that we do. Why we sometimes allow contradictions to take place.

"I'm not saying that there's a lesson to be learnt from this romance story. But something happened to him. Something thats happened to all of us. Thats why when he told me his story, i couldnt laugh. And i still cant."

I'm gonna try to be as straight as i can in this blog entry.

I don't feel good.

I feel really sluggish and bloated, i think maybe its the temperature (as i write this, i'm in Doha) and i feel really moody. I'm switching on some of the darkest Tool songs and letting their sound cover over me. I had a bad dream, i remember now.

I woke up this morning and had some breakfast, but it was still really hot, so i went back to my room and turned the air conditioning on. I was still kind of sleepy so i went to bed and thought i'd take another nap. And then i dreamt a bad dream.

I was in an apartment building of sorts. But everyone was walking around, doing their things. It was everyone i knew. Shabazz, Osman, Ashja, Ismael, Carina, Tehreem. Everyone was there. Lots more, but i cant be bothered to name them all. They were trying out racing cars, opening briefcases, cooking food. I was like a ghost, i tried talking to everyone, i tried to touch them and to let them know i was there, but nothing happened. It was like i was completely invisible. And as i carried on, i saw my body disintegrating and fading away. First my legs started slowly going, and then my hands and so on. And i remember feeling like "No ...no..i dont want to fade away" but it was happening. When i completely disappeared, i woke up.

I need something to cheer me up. I feel so dark and i can feel the malice bubbling up inside of me. I dont want to feel like this anymore.

When i look back on the process of writing, i notice a strange ripple in the pristine logic that all quick assumptions follow. Although words and lines come to my head very naturally and flow quite easily, the actual journey of getting to that stage was very long and far from smooth.

Lets take for example, i've been reading books as far as i can remember. Many people tell me stories of how, as a child, i was never interested in toy cars or playstation and that all i wanted was books. I can really remember the enthusiasm i felt while getting a new book or reading ones i particularly liked all over again. You can argue this was simply chance, because i was lucky enough to have a dad who worked in the library and bought me back books everyday. Maybe it was luck, or fate, who knows - all thats relevant is that this is the way things were set up in the past.

I remember struggling with particular books, not understanding words, wanting to read more but not knowing how, or where to get books from. Simple child's worries. And i spent a lot of my life reading; a good couple of years. The actual process of expression and thoughts of words come very easily, yet my past in literature shows nothing but a long and slow process of refinement which for around 4-5 years (the years when my teenagehood began) seemed to disappear indefinitely and bear no fruit.

I'm trying to convince myself that my past, present, and future in literature is precious and its something i should take seriously. Also, i'm trying to set down that its not something that was easy or came handed to me on a plate, and thats why its nessecary for it to be improved and refined even further otherwise a huge bulk of my childhood suddenly doesnt mean anything anymore.

When you're getting into any kind of field, the best thing to do is to see where you've come from and where you can go, and to split that into stages where you can clearly see how those short periods of repetitive behaviour (i.e learning) can be pidgeonholed into different stages of learning. And then from there, you can see where you can go and what's holding you back.

Thankfully, i've gone past the initial obstacles of literature that i think other people cant overcome yet. A book wont intimidate me if its monstrously long, or if its with a subject matter i dont like, or if it uses over complicated words or is overly pretentious. There's probably dozens more reasons why books arent read but the fact that they havent occurred to me or that i've conquered them makes me feel very satisfied.

And then comes the issue of writing. The first obstacle of writing is finding your voice. Your voice is your character, your soul, your essence. Its essentially the voice in your head. Finding your voice takes some confidence and faith (not too much though, thankfully) and the ability to think for yourself. If you have nothing to think about, you have nothing to write about. If you dont feel anything, or that you dont let your emotions take very defined, significant places in your own mind and heart then when the time comes to express them, you'll feel like nothing's there. I've felt like this is the number one problem with my own experience with writing. You cant be afraid and worry about if what you're saying is right or wrong, or if its accurate or inaccurate, you just have to have faith in your voice. You have to let it speak, you have to let it think. You cant let other people get in the way of it developing, and most importantly, you have to listen to it. Sloppy writing comes when you dont have faith in what you're writing, and writing is a sense of rhythm, a kind of dancing. The moment you doubt what you're doing is when you break a step and the whole flow is lost. Most people keep their voices to themselves, out of fear or introversion - or maybe others just let their superiors do the thinking for them. The fact of the matter is, if you cannot find your voice, you will never write.

And then comes the discipline. Punctuation, proper sentences and structure. Beginnings, endings, a sensitivity to structure and rhythm and emotion. These things cant be taught. You have to learn them in time. And you learn them by reading other authors and really trying to feel them within their own writing. You can tell someone how to ride a bike or how to swim as much as you want, but until it clicks in their own head, they'll never learn. Writing sensitivity is one of those things that can only be learnt, and not taught.

Once you've got those things out of the way, then in comes things like imagination and inspiration. I think every writer dreads the "Writer's Block" when no inspiration comes to your own mind and you feel very blank. To combat this myself, i've always made sure my imagination is running free at all times. That there's plenty of soundscapes, pieces of art, dream lands and blank pages for my imagination to roam around in. This is something that actually takes a lot of discipline, because you've always got to be looking for the next new thing. You've got to be constantly keeping yourself stimulated. Its never sure or secure if the next brilliant line, or paragraph, or chapter will come to you, but you sit there and have faith, while all these stimulations are running around you. It also solves the problems of writing within deadlines. Because if you're constantly being stimulated, then deadlines are no problem. Because constant stimulation can mean constant writing. I know i have a tendency to "write whenever the fuck i feel like it" but getting serious about literature is about writing within deadlines, writing under pressure. Writing underneath a structure. Keeping your imaginary worlds healthy and colourful is the key to beating that.

And yes, there's more. Once you've got the scene, the imagination going, then in comes things like plot, planning, setting, context. In comes the gritty details. This is the stage that i feel im currently at. This is where you sit down and let the imaginary truly be born into reality. What i've learnt so far is that as long as the inspiration is strong, and as long as you're constantly being creatively stimulated by other art forms, the story will write itself. The plot will shape itself abstractly. The tiny details like plot holes, dates, character pasts. All those start to come in once you begin writing. And then, the bigger picture emerges. You can almost see a timeline of the story in your head. Where it came from, where it is, where its going, and how its going to end. When JK rowling said that Harry Potter came into her head fully formed and that she knew how it was going to end from the very beginning, i totally believe her.

And what a fine time to mention Rowling herself because the next issue is something i feel that has occurred to me very personally. I struggle sometimes with the bourgeoisie mentality that everything has got to be a higher form of art or consciousness, and that whatever i write has to be faithful to my emotions and that im essentially selling my own selfishness to people charitable enough to read it - yes, thats all very enjoyable but its not very practical either. Its my personal dream to reach the bestsellers list and that matters more to me than artistic faithfulness or bourgeoisie does. And to do that, you've got to analyze just what exactly makes a bestseller.

I never really was a fan of the whole art vs business discussion. But i've realised that business is infact integral to art itself if you're looking to share it as much as possible. It always upsets me when people dont read books because of the obstacles that it has, and sometimes i feel it could be made so much easier for them by us, the writers, adapting to the needs of the modern man/woman and inviting them into the world of literature that we love so much. That in turn, creates more writers, and expands the creativity of the world.

A shocked voice suddenly shoots out from nowhere.

"What Adnaan? How dare you? Are you saying that you're selling out? Are you going to purposefully dumb down what you write, and craft shallow experiences instead of the long, vast experiences we've come to expect? All for the sake of money?"

Its not about money Mr Elitist. Its about sharing what we love to others and not keeping it to ourselves. I perfectly understand just how exquisite, classical writing is capable of providing incredible, ego-stroking experiences and feelings. Its just that self therapeutic writing and pretentiousness is only the surface. We cry for being such lonely beings yet we never try to break out of the shell of our own experiences, however self satisfying they may be. Writing for others and writing for the joy of others is something i feel that relates back to ancient history, like folk tales, storytelling and ghost stories. There's a great joy to be had in that.

The voice laughs and spits in an energetic manner.

"You're crazy. How can you give up on the artistic life? Didnt you remember the words of Wilde, of Shakespeare? You're a fool. Its other people's fault if they're too dumb to read into the great writers of history and are unable to unlock the incredible sensations of classical art on their own. It should be treated as their loss. We should try to create our own masterpieces, our own works of art to bring our experience to a new level of complication and sophistication!"

Now thats just pure ego Mr Elitist. This is what kills the essence of writing for me. There's eternal happiness to be found in telling other people stories. There's only so far you can go in writing for self therapy. Only so many words, characters and wisdom that you can pull from your own narrow experience. Only so many solutions to the same repeating problems. This is why the bestseller list is destined to be my dream. This is why i spend my time reading on economics and business theory. Because its all so wonderful, that i cant just keep it all to myself.