A novelist, like every artist, is someone who is yet to make peace with herself. After all, the most striking works of art come from the most wretchedly discontent humans— those who chop their ears or die of poison. She is fully aware of the insanity in labouring about a world that’s invisible to others. She’s a cold-blooded murderer of her reality. She probes through her own truths and the fictions of the world in the dead silence of the night.
A novelist practises a dignified form of schadenfreude. She revels in the freedom to be whatever she wants under the guise of a novelist. She invents men whom she can insult with the choicest adjectives in her mother tongue. They are now fictional characters not loathed by one but by a bevy of ardent readers. She constructs hair-pin bends, potholes and highways to hell in her plot just to make everyone else traverse through her pain and pleasure.
A novelist is astute yet a coward of the highest order. She never dares to pull the trigger, kick someone in the balls, escape from her bland house, and confront reality with a searing intensity as her writing. She writes everything that she yearns for herself but never asks or tries.
A novelist’s highest qualification is her spectacular failure in one aspect of life. Her subject matter expertise being in analogy. None can beat her on the way she justifies failure and bad behaviour. She buries her ruinous nature as idiosyncrasies in her characters. She takes cheap pride in knowing her protagonist who is as flawed as herself has fulfilled her dream—one that’s besides writing her debut novel.
A novelist is someone I like to be.