Writers are Paranoid



We, writers, may be well known and respected for portraying our thoughts in words but there are few secrets that every writer keeps to himself. Now, I may be exaggerating but these are my worst fears and to be honest each of it is a byproduct of paranoia.

Writers are Paranoid

From the moment we pick up our pens,
till we start with the first letter on the page,
we are afraid.
Afraid about starting the thought our
mind has instigated & what will be the best way to begin?

From the first chapter’s completion,
till the transition of next, we are afraid.
Afraid that if we fail to write again
and live in our real world,
we’ll get exiled from the world we created.

From the introduction of the protagonist,
till the elevation of events, we are afraid.
Afraid that our imaginary friends may leave
us high & dry in the middle and
our story would never proceed.

From the triumph and the climax,
till the final verdict of the book, we are afraid.
Afraid about any plot holes we may have
left in our world.
The story we invested everything in.

From the forming of another plot,
till the publishing of current,
we are afraid,
Afraid if we can even live long enough
to tell the world our stories by our pen.

I agree we are paranoid,
but we’re the fuel.
We’re the ones who remember,
the tellers of truth & tales.
We’re the thinkers and the ones
who never give up even after rejections.

It’s because we know our worth.
It’s because we know we’re writers.

©The Honest Fabler
©Handwriting credits – @theartisticmess


The past few weeks were buried under academics and extra-curricular activities. I almost forgot the feel of blogging, but it’s really great to be back♥ Wish you guys a great week ahead!

Today I bleed, again.

​I know I’ve been hurt before.

Running after ma, as a toddler,
and bruising my knees against the solid ground.

Or fighting dada over the smallest things,
but he showed he cares when my tooth fell off.

It didn’t always hurt to bleed, though.

Like when I donated blood on turning 18!

I still have the yellow smiley brooch they gave me.

Numerous times I’ve cut my poor finger.

I had a tough time to learn cooking,
Daddy’s princess turned a queen, you see.

The best of all? It was when I bled to give birth.

It seemed like aeons lying on the table, pushing harder by the minute.

But oh, her little cry still rings in my mind like a sweet jingle.

Every time it was worth the pain.

What about now, you wonder?

Now when I bleed, it isn’t blood that transpires.

It’s my emotions.

Emblazoned in bold on my wrinkled skin.

They shine at the brightest now,
after being concealed for so many years.

They are forgiving, I must say,
for I’ve let them out for my own selfish needs.

Yet they don’t complain.

I wish every human had this quality.

I wish I had this quality.

Such a pity it took me 80 years of life and 
a month’s solitude to realize the value of forgiveness.

I hope, you’re smarter than I was; that you learn from my mistake;
that you be the superior one, and forgive your wrong-doer.

Dada ~ an elder brother
Ma ~ mother

©The Honest Fabler
©Cover Credits-Google Images