Yesterday, I got a good scolding from my younger brother. He said I have been wasting my time since past few months writing. According to him, there are two prerequisites for being a writer, either a broken heart or a residence out of the city in the middle of some woods (like Robert Frost had). According to him, if I can’t write about, or I don’t have either of the two then I can’t be a writer.
So, here is the story of my first love, then the second one, and the finally a failed marriage. He has no idea how many times I had the broken heart and how many times I had to make a move.
