Reality

I thought studying journalism would make me an accomplished writer. I also thought life would become easier once I got a job. In my defence, I had not yet had a job. After a nine-month course, I joined an organisation that shall remain unnamed. I spent six months as an intern, a period that mostly involved getting my backside kicked, before becoming a permanent employee. According to my ID card, I am a scriptwriter. The accomplished part is taking longer. Somewhere between joining the office and becoming permanent, my days began to look suspiciously alike. I go to work, come home tired and think about doing something interesting. By then, a nap feels more appealing than anything I had in mind. I want to write something of my own. But when I sit down to choose a subject, everything either seems uninteresting or too much effort. This is an awkward position for someone who thought writing would be the great pleasure of his life. There are plenty of things I don’t want to do. Going to the...