Nepal, Aug. 3 -- It all began with my writing professor's categorical remark: "You have the words, but not the writing." Having squandered nearly a decade trying to learn the craft, that unequivocal statement came as a death blow to my feeble hopes of writing better works of fiction-my sloppy career seemed to come a full circle. I began ruminating about the hours wasted in reading the great works of literature, wishing that magical formula of craftsmanship would materialise out of the yellowing pages. I began contemplating the endless drafts, the countless visions, and revisions. The bouts of nihilistic moods of depression transported me back in time to the moment of impulse, the epiphanic impetus of scribbling.

The more I thought about ...