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When I write, I just forget the world. I just keep writing till I have got what I want. I write when I am happy, I write when I am a little blue, I write when I am contemplating something new, I write in those rare times when ennui sets in. And, I read. I read and read till the words start haunting me.

These two passions – writing and reading — are pretty much intertwined in my world. I have been writing for the last 9 years for a living. Though I have not any pieces of fiction to my credit. While I was a teenager I did briefly try my hand at short story writing. The callow effort of it makes me smile now in retrospect. But an intense study of the masters of literature convinced me that I wanted to write for a living.

I became a scribe with some leading newspapers — it was a step towards exploring worlds I would never have dreamed of entering. The world of fashion designers, models, glamorous film stars, chefs, artists, authors, politicians, sport stars, the not-so-glamorous bobbies on the beat, became mine to inhabit. With it came the dexterity to write on almost any subject and the opportunity to experience what the other half of the world is rarely privy to.

For a year now, I have struck out on my own. And, this freedom, the freedom to write my stories at my own time and own space, is what makes it precious. As Maya Angelou says, “A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.” 

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