I have several writing rituals, pertaining to dates, events and occurrences. You could say, it's my way of displaying severe superstition with regard to my sole talent- making way with words. Every writer likes to believe (unconsciously so, even) that their words can make the mountains melt and move, people into a pool of melting emotions and even execute operations. Words make the world go round. However, it's on every new year's eve, I sit down and spend the last couple of hours writing, as if my life depended upon it.

This year and the year before that was spent in creating several different accounts, with respect to my writing. New (and now abandoned blogs) projects were initiated and taken on as I increasingly found myself fumbling with words on my professional front. I guess, I should have seen it coming. I'm suppose to write 50k meaningful, academic words that make some sense and convey something which hasn't been said before in my supposed area of research. Before it ends up sounding bitter, I must duly acknowledge what changed. I began to think before I typed. I examined every piece of writing I encountered, I went into the layers of content floating on the internet- purely to understand the construct and the idea behind the formation of the same in the mind of the creator.

On the surface level, I did a lot of other things. Got more rejections (for writing) than ever, got the least amount of published work to my kitty and broke down inconsolably at least 16 times in the last 365 days. Writing became punishment and reading abhorred me. I couldn't look at the face of books. I didn't say it out loud but I was thankful to every person who didn't bring me a book this year for my birthday, Christmas and other noteworthy events. Not to be ungrateful but books as gifts have to be stopped now. There's no space at my residence for humans, pets or books. We can no longer accommodate any of the aforementioned three. Other than books and a overdose of that, I got very few things this year to be thankful about. This year was a colossal test to my mental health, how long until you snap out of frustration towards where your life was heading. As a writer, you don't have a schedule until you make one. A fact, I'm still trying to grasp. Better part of the year was spent juggling braces, boxes and bad reviews on each submission I made. The positives are that I know I can't do academic writing to save my life, be in academia and teach or do anything else and also, I'll have better teeth very soon.

Soon, being that moment in time that'll arrive in moments from now. It's like 2008 to '09 turn. You know, sitting in your room, life will be changed. You won't know for better or for worse but you'll no longer be doing the same things as you were doing for a long time in your life. I sound positively melodramatic and downright idiotic. But the fact of the matter is that I won't be doing what I'm doing for long, trying to understand the way of life and things as a writer in making, as a potential researcher and maybe, even as an academic. I might even be jobless and do nothing at all next year, but it's a hopeful idea to wait for, to roll.

The choice remains between hustlin' and sleeping. It's time to move and make a call. Six months of sitting in the hood of a wannabe academic until we know where the winds will blow.

Oh, and if you see me looking out to enrol myself for another degree in the next seven or eight months, slap me hard. You've the permission.