And then I was called 'Ms. Cribs-a-lot'

That mail was a bitter pill to swallow. Writing exercises in the vacation? Oh come ON! I was cribbing about writing. I don't know when that happened. That which I thought was a piece of cake; MY piece of cake had now turned into my sore spot. I knew. Although I bent over backwards, it would still blow up in my face. It started even before I could begin – the cribbing. I know I’d be damned if I did, because I was sure to fall off my perch but I’d be damned if I don’t. The stagnancy felt like I was on pins and needles. Come hell or high water, I decided to burn the midnight oil until there was something substantial on that blank screen. Just when I felt like the child was taking birth, metaphorically of course, my mother gave me a run-around. She made a mountain out of a mole hill, a petty task of picking up her clothes from the tailor’s - hardly inspiring. But all the different colours and faces in the crowd going past was some stimulation. It was almost as if I were invisible, perhaps owing to the fact that I’m vertically challenged.

On being back home, having recharged my batteries, I sat to write but all I was doing was overworking the back space button. I decided to work the Idioms’ way. Anticipating the criticism gave me cold feet, after all it was 6th grade grammar. But what the hell, I was writing for myself. It is what it is.