Karishma Grebneff, encapsulating the feeling of writers block for the trailer for BASMATI BITCH by Ankita Singh, 2023
Ankita Singh stumbles into a writing routine, only to watch it slip away just as the deadline for her first play looms. Here, she shares what she’s learned while trying to find her way back, and explores the deeper question: What does it really mean for an artist to be ‘productive’?
I started taking writing seriously during lockdown.
I’d just begun my Master of Creative Writing. We were two weeks into the course when the first lockdown was announced.
As depressing as a global pandemic was — turned out, this was the perfect environment for cultivating a writing practice. No one to see, no shows to go to, and no work on the horizon (thanks student allowance). For the next 12 months I was forced to focus my attention on one thing and one thing only: finishing my master’s, which entailed writing a feature-length screenplay.
While the world was being irrevocably reshaped, I was pottering in my little bubble, subconsciously developing a routine for the first time in my life. Without anyone on my ass I’d leisurely wake up at 10am, do some yoga, make a coffee, and sit down to write five solid pages every day. Then I’d go for an evening stroll in the park, come home, make dinner, maybe even bake some banana bread, relax, read or study a hobby till midnight, then sleep and repeat it all the next day. My class would also meet regularly over Zoom to conduct table reads and discuss progress and ideas.
I was able to knock out my script (and then a second draft) with little friction. I thought I had locked in a perfect writing practice.
Everything was perfect. I was a writer who wrote, goddammit!
Then … it all went to shit when Covid restrictions were eased and I was ushered back into reality.
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With no more student allowance, freelance gigs piling up, friends, shows and cafés to visit, my perfect little writing routine was quickly annihilated by the everyday rhythms of life.
Allgood. I thought. I’ll fit it all in.
So I did. For a little bit. I took up producing again while trying to balance writing and every other obligation that would land in my inbox. Time fragmented into endless little shards.
Five pages became four, then two, then none. I’d stare at emails for hours before responding to them. Brain fog all-consuming. Doom scrolling became my main hobby. The brain rot settled back in.
I knew it was bad but couldn’t stop. What the hell was wrong with me?
Eventually, I resorted to my tried and true strategy for getting shit done: using intense fear and spite to push through exhaustion. Deadlines and pure resentment motivated me to write late into the night — to prove people who’d done me dirty wrong.
I’d show those assholes how productive I was … by ruining my sleep schedule, sitting for eight hours straight and eating one meal a day.
This was obviously a far cry from my peaceful little cottage-core lockdown routine. And obviously not healthy. But what other choice did I have? I had to hustle and keep all the plates spinning.
Sure, it worked for answering emails and organising production logistics, but this strategy was completely useless when it came to tackling the biggest project of my writing career.
My first play.
