After wrapping up my second novel, I realized something; a truth of absolute importance -- that it takes more or less two years to write a novel. These two years are meaningful when the writer within me embarks on a journey both physical and psychological like Marlow, the narrative of Conrad's "Heart of Darkness". I experience a few naïve emotions like dilemma, dissatisfaction, frustration, a strange and pathetic symptom called 'writers block' and much more.

The journey begins with conceiving an idea, along with which comes a big question. Like Hamlet, I am crushed with self inquiry: Do I or do I not? Is this idea good enough to turn into a story or is it like a hundred other mundane ideas that will soon fizzle out?  Even if I do hold on the idea, putting it down is the second most daunting task. But, one fine morning, I do start typing. Slowly, gradually, a routine is set for the next two years.

Typing, deleting, writing, rewriting, editing- it progresses somewhat like this. Some days, it moves fast, 10 to 12 pages. My creative zeal amazes me. The very next day, I am utterly shocked. I can't write. And it doesn't seem I can ever. Pas Problem! This phase also goes by. The season changes. I turn older, wiser, loner, read more books, learn some skills, adopt few techniques and ignore a few. And by now, though I don't acknowledge it, I have become an unsocial person who dreads any sort of gatherings.

According to some, "One should never marry a writer. They are too occupied with their writings." I have come to the sad conclusion that it's true. When I am working on a novel, I think of its plot, characters, climax, anti climax while cooking, eating, taking a bath, taking care of the kids, and sometimes even in my sleep. The only thing that matters is the progress of the novel. And yes, it will finish soon. But then I have a surprising second thought: 'Is it any good?'

Sometimes I feel what I have written has never been written before. Other times I have a horrific notion that the best place for this novel is the nearest waste-basket. Still, I console myself, the most important thing is finishing the novel, writing the last page, the last word. And I have achieved it! I have come to the end of my journey.

Then, I wake up with a start. Wait!  I haven't edited it properly. It's simple. I just have to re -write it again, from the very first word to the last. In other words, the journey has just started. Don't growl! I am a writer. I can do it. So silently reciting Frost's poem, I begin the journey all over again:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

And miles to go before I sleep.