Creativity.

I don't know who, I think it was single-daddy who told me once that"Every Journalist has a novel in him." Sadly despite shitloads of ideas for a book and after years of panic driven reading, thanks to the fcat that I did, after all, study Literature at what has today been dubbed India's #6 college for arts by India Today (to which I say, fuck me and at the end of the day the rather intangible element will always leave only one or two arts colleges of any note in this country and believe you me, it will never be LSR). That said, Stephens had the worst possible educators, don't even get me started.
Anyway, this tangential habit of mine is one reason I can't write a novel. And so is the fact that it is nearly impossible for me to write fiction. I mean I know my reportage can qualify as lazy at times, but I have never invented people and quotes for stories. Quite unlike many other journalists I know. Fiction just isn't me. I love reading fiction, but can't quite get myself to write it. Or maybe its because after all the childhood trauma I had (yeah, right!) of coming from a broken family, and the stories of lost loves, sex in the balcony and all that jazz, I have enough masala to write a semi-autobiographical novel that could qualify as an airport bestseller.
Bossman made me listen to some really strange music right now. I mean strange because it was by bands I had never ever even heard of. And because I managed to shoot myself in the foot by introducing boss to Gaurav Sorel, Sunday Night at the Chinese and Thai Cafe will be fun. But I have a dinner to attend before that. Thank God, no wait he reads this blog, I should say - "I guess it'll be fun, I'll skip the dinner." Decisions, decisions.
Anyway, It has been a year since I went on my American sojourn to Atlanta, New York and Boston with P Siddy followed by our Parisian adventures with Arun the French Mallu and in Italy by Vishnu the Babalog anchor. Man, I wish I could travel abroad again, my passport is lying forlornly in my drawer with no new visas. I miss the US, a bit. Actually, I just miss the bloody 'ponic Hep made me smoke in Boston. I miss Hep's guitar. Hep is a student at the Berkley School of Music. Berkley is located across several campuses in downtown Boston and Hep had this really sweet pad. Anyway, one year on, I'm stuck sitting behind an ancient computer typing away non-fictional bullcrap and P Siddy is interviewing prostitutes in the red-light districts of Meerut. There are still good reasons to avoid going into TV journalism.
Anyway, I have to meet some guy now in Nehru Place and after that I have to haul my flabby self to the gym. Fuck, its late.