It’s not that difficult to decide whether you are a hack or a writer, when you mechanically, monotonously and quite without a definitive surge of emotions, string together words so that they make cohesive sense as a whole, syntactically or otherwise, just that and nothing more, without giving a damn about what you have written, and caring even less to read again what the mechanically regulated volcano has so unenthusiastically spewed out.  You are definitely a hack. I had been a hack for some last four months or so, as when I wasn’t donned the hat of a Chemical Engineer, I was otherwise engaged as a content writer.

The term ‘content writing’ had a sexy aura to it, when I hardly knew about what it actually was. I took a fancy to all those bespectacled, cute girls who had ‘Works at Content Writer’ on their Facebook profiles. I imagined a world in which I would be surrounded by bonny lasses with sharp literary bends of mind, wherein I would hone my writing skills and try to become a more sociable personality. That and the fact that I hadn’t felt so weak-willed in my entire life, made me plunge into this domain.

That, the last year was disappointing, would be an understatement. I have always looked upon life as a race. To be injured and be advised to sit out the game, was something I couldn’t just fathom. I felt rejected (I actually was by all the B-schools I applied for), and had that romantic notion that the world simply didn’t care about me. No other victory was joyous (my academic achievements, included), celebrations and happy occasions gave short-term gratification, and I actually made an attempt to conform to other people’s opinions, acting out as a regular guy, when I knew, I wasn’t – all in the pursuit of a girl who couldn’t find my personality any less appealing. Add to that, my brother informed us, in no unclear terms, that he wanted to be a Physicist. And my family supported the idea; I was devastated. I became an Engineer, when I really wished to pursue creative writing, just so that I can help in bringing about a change in the fortune of my family business, and here my brother was allowed to go scot-free.

I reeled under the mountain of uncertainty, I swirled in the sea of chaos. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do. Vismay Harani, who had already decided to be a chemical engineer and pursue his father’s business when he was in the seventh grade, didn’t know what to do. I felt like I had wasted my four years of life- conscientiously studying, working extremely hard and constantly planning what to do next, whether an education from a B-school would help and whatnot. I wasn’t selected (while my friends were), I was stuck with a shitty backup plan (in a job as a production engineer), I discovered that I was extremely lonely. I could have chased girls, I could have pursued writing, not as a hobby, but as a full-time profession – all these thoughts began to cloud my mind. I couldn’t share everything with my parents, and I wasn’t close friends with anybody.

Insecurity is the mother of action. My ego had already received a 7 Richter scale jolt, I was that setting sun whom no one felt any longer attracted to. The morass of dejection and disappointment was pulling me towards taking a negative step, but I made one last feeble attempt to tap into that great source of inspiration, J.K. Rowling. At her Harvard Commencement Speech, she spoke something about hitting the rock bottom. I realized that this was my rock bottom. Even at the bottom of the curve, I had an ability to earn more than the most (I am not that shitty an Engineer, you see), and though I couldn’t flex my writing chops in a more professional manner, I could still pursue writing. So I submitted a resume (a ‘Writing C.V.’ of sorts) on the online job portals, applying for the post of the content writer.

Though I hadn’t had any experience in the domain, one of the firms decided to try me out. I send in sample articles, and they took me on board. No bespectacled girls approached me with alluring smiles. My job was built around online correspondence. I drafted an article, and send it via mail. I received the payment directly to my bank account. Yet, I had been pretty much excited. Reclaiming my confidence in me, I tried to sew back my life, one stitch at a time. I kept grueling work hours, or so it seemed to me at least. I worked as an Engineer, a writer and also kept up with the barest amount of preparations for the MBA. I didn’t allow myself a moment to indulge and wallow in self-pity. I took my jobs head-on.

Content Writing was pretty challenging stuff, initially. Commercial articles and SEO engaged me. I discovered that this was one of those low-paying yet hugely in-demand jobs, which was a direct result of the boom in the online retail scene around the world. I was supposed to write articles on motorcycle tours through the mountains, cab services in Australia, Wedding Caterers in London, Towers for Cable Industry and a variety of pharmaceutical products which mankind used to to look beautiful and treat its erectile dysfunction with. I tried being imaginative with my writing.  I perfected the art of innuendo while writing about stuff we did after we switched-off the lights, wrote with a kind of religious fervor about the role of cable insulators in shaping the country, reasoned with imaginary foreigners as to why Goa is a perfect destination for performing Yoga and Tapas.

I used to take about an hour and half in writing a 500 word article. The time span was reduced to thirty minutes. With the help of professional plagiarism and grammar checks, I improved upon my writing skills, and learnt the art of paraphrasing and rephrasing the factoids on the internet to support my claim, as to why such-and-such product was so good for the lush growth of your eyelashes! Sometimes I was tasked to come up with unique content for different firms selling the same product. I had to sell the old wine in the new bottle over and over again.

I recovered. I gained a respect for my being. I began to love myself again. I still sucked at Mathematics. But finally, I began to accept myself for what I am.

Today, I decided to opt out of this profession. Because, I hated peddling shitty things to gullible people. And because repetition fatigued me. Though content writing spelled my redemption, I was now raring to get out. I wished once again to write Science Fiction short stories, dumb as they might be. I wished once again to take a flight of fancy, which was stopped midair, in my misguided quest to firm up and mature, a year or two ago.

I am what I am. And I am once again very clear as to what I wish to do in my life. I would try to help my father in his enterprise, I still wish to go to a B-school. But writing is something that I would pursue as my primary profession, and not just as a hobby. I am inching towards that goal.

Tomorrow, my backup plan won’t involve an Engineering firm. It would involve a career in journalism and suchlike.

Maybe, I won’t earn much. But I would be happy. And that is the sole purpose of my existence.