A Labour of Love

A Labour of Love

Ah! The magic of creation is too wonderful for words. The urge…the sense of expectation…it’s almost agonizing. It is a momentous discovery and I am ecstatic. I am carrying a little spark within me…a tiny speck of ‘me’ floating in unchartered territory…struggling to find expression. There! Finally it has latched on…it is almost palpable. My mind is a blur of thoughts and my body is throbbing in anticipation. How is it going to be? I have embarked upon a journey and I wonder what the ride has in store for me and hope that the destination is beautiful.

I am completely consumed by my state and oblivious to the world around me. I go about my work with an air of nonchalance whereas my spirit wants to scream from the rooftop and proclaim to the world. It’s too early, I tell myself and resume my engagement with the mundane. There’s a spring in my step and a lilt in my voice as my very being is swelling up…insidiously. Unable to contain my excitement, I decide to explore. My fingers seem to have developed volition of their own and lead me on. Maybe I ought to take it easy but…….

Aborted! Discarded into the wastepaper basket.

I await my turn again. This time I promise myself that I will be cautious and will not jump the gun. The conception is usually easy. It is the long period of gestation that gets my goat. But I am better prepared this time over. I take it easy. I let the whole idea sink in slowly. I let it grow on me... I let myself grow with it… I ruminate and ponder about it over copious meals and numerous drinks. At one moment, I am going about my life as usual and then, suddenly, I am seized by the awareness of its presence. The impulse to explore is so compelling that I have to exercise supreme self control to ward it off. I tell myself that I must not nip it in the bud but wait for it to blossom in good time. I can feel it shaping up. I am tickled to tears. And yet, at the same time, a sense of foreboding casts a gloomy shadow over my bubble of joy.

With time, I experience a maturing of sorts. I get the feeling of being pickled…soggy and well-blended. Just when I think I have settled, I feel the thrust. It propels me into action. It’s not time yet, my mind screams but….

Premature delivery! Stillborn!

I plunge into the depths of despair. Shattered…I give up.
Then, as if by some inexorable script, lines from Kipling’s IF rouse me from my reverie. “If you can watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools…”
There’s hope still, I tell myself and gear up to make yet another attempt.
In due course, I feel a little flutter inside of me. I wait and watch. I stretch and squirm in tandem. I lead a vicarious existence. I partake of the crests and troughs in the continuum of experiences. I live different lives. I am engorged with it. I am so full now that I think I’ll burst. I am ready.
And then comes the most laborious part. I heave and huff through it. It doesn’t come all at once. At every stage, I have to eke it out of my system with painstaking effort. And yet, it is enormously satisfying…a labour of love.
Finally… birth! It’s a story! My darling brainchild! I check for vital signs; spelling errors, line spacing, punctuations. I am spent. I throw one last glance at it, fondle it with a last reading and gently send it forth into the world to fashion its own destiny.