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When I was a high school student, the writing habits, rituals, and preferences of various authors fascinated me.  I am still intrigued me to know whether a writer prefers to work in the comfort of their own home or in bustle of some public place.  Do they prefer writing in the day or are they night owls?  Do they write sitting down or standing up?  Pen, typewriter, or computer?  Do they drink or smoke while scribbling words?  Do they wage war with an empty page or do they compose it all in their heads beforehand and sit down only when they knew exactly what they want to record on paper? But of all of these questions perhaps the most important one for me is this – do they listen to any music while they write or do they prefer silence?

Over the years I have come to the conclusion that the hows of writing are as vast and varied as writing itself, especially when it comes to presence of sound during the creative act.  Many writers need absolute silence.  Some go as far as to unplug everything in the house that might emit any noise at all; others prefer to shut out the world by plugging their ears.  Then there are writers whose creativity thrives only when with the presence of some sort of sound. For example, I once read that Stephen King writes to the throbbing throes of hard rock music.  He claims he does not really listen to the music, but uses it instead as means to drown the world and his own distracting thoughts out of his head.  

I can write fairly effectively in silence and unexpected sounds like a ringing phone or the furnace clicking on do not usually bother me.  Nonetheless, after an hour or two of silence, a strange sense of isolation and loneliness begins to gnaw away at me.  I first discovered this while I was still in high school and I made attempts to fill the void hours of silence inevitably conjured  by turning on the radio I kept on my desk.  Because I was in high school at the time, I gravitated to rock and pop stations first; unlike Stephen King, I found the rhythm and beat of rock music distracting.  The frequent news reports and pockets of witty deejay banter were also not conducive to my creativity.  After reading Jack Kerouc's On the Road, I turned to jazz.  Jazz was slightly better than pop and rock-and-roll, but not much.  

One night, quite by accident, the dial on my radio landed on a classical music station.  When I heard the long moan of a cello, my fist instinct was to crank the dial as fast as I could and find another station.  I was fairly ignorant of classical music at that age and though I had no real dislike of classical music, I had an innate notion that it would do nothing for my writing.  Nevertheless, for reasons I still don't understand, I remember lifting my fingers from the dial of my radio and picking up my pen.  I wrote for three hours that night and, to my utter surprise, not only did I not experience any gnawing sense of loneliness during those three hours, I also succeeded in writing several pages of excellent prose.  A few weeks later, I discovered Charles Bukowski and found out, rather unexpectedly, that he also listened to classical music when he wrote his poetry.  Whatever stigma I attached at the time to classical music melted away and the rest, as the old cliché goes, is history.

Ever since then, I have made listening to classical music part of my writing routine whenever I can.  I highly recommend it to anyone who struggles to write in silence, but finds it difficult to create while other forms of music play in the background.  With the advent of the internet, I searched the world for classical music stations that played the maximum amount of music with the minimum amount of interrupion.  To my mind the best remains Radio Swiss Classic, which only interrupts its music programme to inform listeners of the composer and title of the next piece, but because it's based in Switzerland, you are free to choose to listen to the announcements in either German, French, or Italian.  If you don't speak one or any of those languages, the announcements will simply blend in with the music.  I usually listen to the German announcements, which are brief enough to keep me from being distracted, but long enough for me to subliminally brush up my rather rusty knowledge of Deutsche.  It's also a great station to have on while reading or simply relaxing.  Next time you are on the net, give it a shot.  You can find the station by clicking on the link below.  You won't be disappointed.  And if you are, you can always grab the earplugs or crank up Metallica like Stephen King does.    


 

One of the most gratifying moments in a novelist's life is the completion of a manuscript. After months or years of intense focus and work, we are finally able to put down our pens or step away from our keyboards knowing that we have completed what we have set out to do – write a book. Finishing a book is a significant accomplishment for any writer. If you'll pardon the cliches, it's as special as scaling Everest is for a mountaineer or winning the Stanley Cup to a hockey player. Within the confines of the written word we have captured the ideas and visions and scenes and characters and conversations that had taken possession of our minds and imaginations. It is not quite as we pictured it – it never is, nor can it ever be – but it is close enough for us to confidently say – There! It's done. The book is finished.

After I finished my novel, I was in a state of rapt joy for weeks and as I basked in the glow of attaining one of my lifelong goals, I became determined to let nothing diminish the happiness I was experiencing. This immediately made me consider the dangerous realm of expectations. When I began writing my book, I had only one expectation – to finish it. It was a large expectation, but one I knew I could fulfill if I remained focused and disciplined. I accepted that I could never perfectly transcribe the story the way I saw it in my head, but I knew I could come close enough to do it justice. I would not have bothered beginning the book if I did not believe I could fulfill my expectation of completing it, because if there is one thing life has taught me it's this – nothing, and I mean nothing, causes more sadness, anger, and anguish than a failed expectation.

Most would-be writers fail at this first stage of expectation; they harbor a preconceived notion that they will be able to write a book, but lack the discipline, skill, or endurance to fulfill the goal they have set for themselves. After a few weeks or months, they realize they are making no progress and secretly slide the first pages of their manuscripts into a desk drawer and try to come to terms with their unmet expectations. Sadness is usually the first emotion felt. It is often followed by anger. Then the self-pity comes. The problem is, most people hate feeling sorry for themselves, so they invent ways to forget about the unmet expectations and engage in a little self-indulgence. In the end, most console themselves by swearing they will return to their writing when the time is right. Others abandon the craft altogether and move on to other pursuits. I'm only mentioning this because it is a road I have wandered down many times in some of my earlier attempts at completing a manuscript, which beings me back to my earlier point about not starting the book if I was not convinced I could finish it.

Though completing a manuscript is a huge accomplishment, it often exposes writers to a far more vast and dangerous minefield of expectations – publishing. Once a book is done, every writer longs to see their masterpiece in print, gracing the shelves of bookstores around the world from which it is plucked and devoured by hordes of eager and appreciative readers. Some authors expect to be represented by a large publisher. Some prefer to represent themselves. All strive for success. Big success. Bestseller success. Of course, only a handful, regardless of whether they were picked up by mainstream publishers or chose to self-publish, ever reach that level of success. I can only speculate how other writers deal with unmet expectations when it comes to the publication or marketing of their work, but I imagine there is a tidal wave of bitter, disappointed, and resentful authors out there. In addition to this, I'm certain even the bestsellers have their share of unmet expectations they carry about with them like crosses.

After I made my decision to self-publish, I approached the situation without expectations. I was grateful for having the opportunity to get my work into print and I vowed to explore as many avenues as I could to try to bring my novel to the attention of the world, but I refused, and still refuse, to form any expectations when it comes to success of the book. This has kept me from falling into the anger trap, into the I'm mad that my expectations were not fulfilled quagmire that creates bitter memories and resentments and often leads to complaints and criticisms and excuses. On the contrary, expecting nothing has allowed me to approach the experience of publishing the same way I approach the experience of writing – with gladness, joy, and laughter.

Of course, on the surface much of this talk of expecting nothing might sound insincere, but it isn't. It isn't a cheap cop-out either. Nor is it a statement of lowered expectations from a defeated man. Rather, it is a testament against disillusionment. I can't speak for other writers, but for me writing is not a choice. It is not something I choose to do. It is something I am compelled to do. There is a force inside me that demands I write. It is bigger than me, this force, and I dare not disobey it. I don't know why it demands me to write. I don't know why it doesn't demand me to do other things like play the trombone or become the next internet billionaire. All I know is that the need to write has always been there inside me and I cannot put myself in a situation where I view writing with bitterness, anger, or resentment. I don't know if my writing will ever reach lofty levels of success, but that is not my primary motivation for writing. That I am able to get the stories in my head into a book and out into the world is all that matters. That is all the only expectation I harbor. This has not only kept me happy, but has also kept me from being a carpenter of my own cross.

Sudeshna is an indie book blogger from India who was kind enough to review the novel.  The link above will connect you to the review.  Enjoy and, if you can, share with friends and readers.