It was flaming noon.

The sacrosanct sun was on its timeless journey as ever. A passing façade wizened by ageless patience. Lost in thought.

Maybe remembering the constellation that caught fire eons ago. Maybe in silent communion with some pregnant clouds that yearned to birth when the time was right.

It felt powerless today. It felt like trying to chasten a few orphaned clouds that careened in haste. A déjà vu moment. The journey seemed just a fading reflection. Limited by orbit. Trapped in its own myth.

On mortal earth though, the little shadow lengthened. Then lurched forward.

He was not a myth though. He was not limited. His journey was different. He needed no direction. He was a natural. The burning sun and the glazed earth were beyond his comprehension. Yet he too was drifting across time and space.

He roamed the streets of solitude. Especially when the pavements overflowed with people. He sometimes let out muted screams. Especially when he realized that the cacophony of voices around could never hear him. It seemed like he never existed. Except for the street dogs when he curled up next to them. In the darkness. And under the countless stars.

But he was happy sometimes and sometimes he got lucky. Days when the bins overflowed. Allowing him the fragrance of wasted food left over by bloated stomachs. It did still the hunger. Just for that nanosecond. Still a blessing though. And a promise for the morrow. He never complained. A trespasser on earth.

Life seemed all a blur. Time was a tide. There was never a twinkling thought. To reflect. To remonstrate. It was all ordained. Rain or shine the nothingness of fate was copious in its wake. He had tried odd jobs too. But too far and too few. The pandemic took all away. The cloak of dignified existence was an illusion he could not simply afford.

He had no choice today. He had never done it before. He had to do it today. The hunger pangs hung him alive. Sweating inside a closed palm, the other arm outstretched, he lisped. To one and any near and far. Plaintive psalms for alms that had no grammar to stagger. All pretense washed he raised his voice and let himself be heard. Some benevolent gazes gave him strength. The feet started to walk the miles of hope.

Rounding the corner, he almost ran into me. He looked at me askance. At close quarters I shared a glance in silent empathy. I wished I could make a little difference.

The dirty façade stilled my step. Just for that that one, one, one little moment. I tried to reach out. But he was gone.

Leaving me Shameless. Nameless. Faceless.

And a Pauper of Words.

The ashen owl blinked. The dung beetles on the ground kept burrowing, as if in haste, for eternity’s sake. The sun was past its prime, the smooth transition almost second nature, from orange, to crimson, to green, yellow, violet and purple. A blink and miss. It was gone.

It was as if the jungle was a stage and every living species was an actor. A Shakespearean tale re-invented, reimagined, and reborn, every single minute. The fireflies were still in wait. To light themselves in gay abandon. To the untrained eye, there is a lot that you can miss. Trees whispering to each other. The panther hiding in the outgrowth. The huge gentle elephant by the nullah. His silhouette darker than the darkness. A wild dog pack resting in a ravine. The nocturnal actors were just getting warmed up. The night was still young.

She lay by the jungle pool, resting, reminiscing. She had to pull her act together today. The last two days she had to rush her charge. The chase ended nowhere. The lantana ambush did not work. It irked her. She was not a bounder. She liked to stalk but her final charge always worked. She licked her wounds. Time was running out. It was a tough ask.

The moss-laden cave was perfect cover for her young ones. Yet the jungle was unforgiving territory. Till they grow older, there was no place for complacency. Maybe she should change her beat. Maybe advertise her presence less. The long-throated call that echoed across the sholas was her trademark callout. Her DNA. Her forefathers have taught her that. To ramp walk while the denizens of the forest froze in fear. Whatever be, she better act fast.

The four little bags of fur had no qualms though. They lived in the present. All that mattered was the presence of their mother. Some ancient wisdom in their veins kept telling them directives. They were creatures of instinct and habit. Learning was breathing in, breathing out. They were growing bigger. Yet they did not understand why their mother moved them to a safer abode when her partner was around in the thickets nearby. It did not matter. Time was of no essence. They wrestled each other with impunity.

The watchman on the giant tree had his task cut out. It was something he liked to do. His ilk and loved ones needed him to do his job well. In fact, the whole neighbourhood. All shapes, sizes. Of course, his team would take turns, but he wanted to be the best. A motley crowd of his brotherhood were on different branches, sleeping. Little pesky ones. The frisky teenagers. The gung-ho adults. The weary oldies. Rest was a weapon too. To be ready for the morrow. He peered through the darkness. Stilled but alert.

It was time to move. She liked the sudden rush of adrenalin. The hunter instinct ruled supreme. Her familiar beat it was but some innate calling grew louder. She turned course abruptly.

It was not according to the script. Maybe she decided to broaden her territory. Right up to the shola forest by the river. A stone’s throw from the giant tree. The track by the nullah bore her huge pugmarks. She was quiet. Stealth in motion. The soft web of her foot stepped on a small loose rock. She gently clicked it back in place. And looked up.

Then all hell broke loose.

The watchman on the tree called out. She just simply charged. Years of jungle wisdom and cunning instinct. She uttered a series of angry growls and tried to bound up the tree. She slipped twice and roared. The crescendo was terrifying. He was unnerved. He clambered higher. The roars echoed. He totally lost it. He made an attempt to leap up to the next tree. For the first time in his life, he felt himself falling. Stunned, he hit the ground running. He did not remember anything any more.

The cubs too did not remember the vanquished in their wresting bouts. They lay tired, defeated, one atop the other in sheer exhaustion. A low familiar growl brought them to their feet. Framed in the moonlight at the cave’s entrance was their mother. There was food too.

The theatre of the night replayed its favourite scenes. At many a beat across the vast languid landscape. The script was the same. The actors switched roles though. Sometimes the jungle surprised itself. A few rules were broken. It was about birth, procreation, recreation, and death. Nature as always had enough. For everyone’s need but not for everyone’s greed.

The dawn broke its fast as if on cue. The giant tree awoke with its resident dwellers scurrying around. The breeze seemed lost in thought. There was a new watchman. He was on the topmost branch. The birds chattered to each other. Stories of the present. Dreams for the future. The past never existed. It was a new day.

A vicious snarl woke her slumber in the cave. She recognized the unwelcome intruder. She bounded a few yards and stared him down in anger. He was the male of the species. He was a threat. She had her task cut now again.

She needed to move them to a safer abode. Till they were bigger and ready.

To be part of nature’s theatre. A new script each day. To play their roles to perfection. Like their mother. Like the langur watchman.

Hearken his heart beat, hymns solemn and stately wild,
Memories prayed, flitted with the sunlit leaves,
Ballads pranced haste, swan-songs fond and bare,
As the accordion voices rose, the mind meandered,
A melody in spate, held by wasted truths to truce,
The dreams deluge then, of ballads born and reborn.

The chapel chimed, the sundown missive as the dusk dulled,
The nightingale rhymed, no reason as the breezed lulled,
Shadows and stars in silent gaze, the man arose swelled,
Soul-bound, the Journey Home, The Journey Within.

Whilst the man in the mirror froze,
Musings rose, mortal medley waves in race,
The visage wilted, as the deluge rose,
Stillborn in ebb and a race to tide.

The haunted past held its peace, sated,
Yet breathless, chained cold to echoes sold,
The voices spake, shameless, haggard,
Of dreams lost and the longing past,
Of love and lust, on tempest trust,
Of conquests cold and bygone eras old.

The silence caved, the heart stilled in beat,
The soul braved, for symphonies to spate,

The winds woke wanton, the breeze broke space,
The mirror lanced its light, to sight,
Seasons in riot, delirious truth so be told,
The zillion images danced, around a candle bright,

And in the womb of time, the silhouette drew images true,
A faceless fossil, The nameless nomad and the Trespasser on earth.

Hold on, well was that a good opening line, an attention grabber? I just feel like I am struggling here.

Yes, the opening salvo sounds a little barren. Not exactly what I wanted to write. I would phrase it ‘jaywalking copy’ if I were to let my thoughts echo loud. Defintely neither here, neither there.

Yes, words don’t lie. So what do you do when you have a copy writing deadline to keep with a hands-on client?

Yes, there is a way. The simple way. Nothing better than that to fall back on the buzz mantras, the solid stone hedges, the building blocks. It is the only way.

The buzz words ring true, a crescendo in cold thought and warm reason too. The same old time tested action verbs. Converse, engage, seduce, reach out, persuade .. But, does it have to be so hard most of the time?

Well, the merry truth is that it need not be a labour of effort.

Just swim, run, let go, flow with the tide and come back and let go again.

I am sharing here a few things that never let me down. I am not the greatest fan of lists but here we go.

The key then is to start somewhere. A line or two.

Get the first few lines going. It won’t be easy but it will definitely be worth it. And then, do the following, in any order that catches your fancy.

• Dump the corporate lingo and let the tone reach out
• Divorce the passive voice if you can
• Keep it simple and sweet
• You might love damp earth but hand hold the brief always
• Know thy audience nay love thy audience
• Paint scenarios, let the heart beat
• Flirt with synonyms but marry the context
• Let specific be the new generic
• Breathe grandeur, but in grammar
• Build campfires with metaphors if you will
• Amplify the message, compare and contrast
• Importantly let the persona shine bold

And if you like, refine it again if you can and let go once more.

The above have worked for me most times and whenever you dig deep, the benefits are awesome.

What next then?. Well,

Sir Henry Cooper, the man who once had Muhammed Ali on the mat in the their controversial bout of 1963, was once in a conversation with the Baroness Edith Summerskill, about the brutalities of his sport.

The conversation went like this.

Baroness: “Mr. Cooper, have you looked in the mirror lately and seen the state of your nose?”

Cooper: “Well madam, have you looked in the mirror and seen the state of your nose? Boxing is my excuse. What’s yours?”

Well, there are periods when your blog hits the doldrums, when writing seems a chore, when the writer’s block looms large. This blog too has seen the winds fail the sails recently. I took a sabbatical. Embraced change with a slew of web development projects. Fell in love with catching up on some SEO experiments that I always wanted to do. Too much of time spent on client projects is my rationalized excuse. What’s yours?

Hey, wait a moment. This just does not sound right. Especially for Content Marketers and aspiring bloggers. Learned experience and borrowed wisdom all point to the fact that there is never an eureka moment; to shift gears, to let thoughts translate vision to reality. What is important is the need to partake the journey and keep the juices flowing. The key here is just get started. And once you have decided to get going in the mind, it is just a matter of time before you hit the sweet spot, the dream post that packs a punch literally.

Is it going to be that simple? It is not. If writing is an art, then blogging is not far behind. In fact it is both an art and a science. It becomes pristine art when you forget that you are the medium when you are writing. It becomes popular science when users linkbait your post to viral stardom. The way forward is just keep writing and making sure that readers find it useful all along.

It of course helps if you can accept that “orginality” can find its orgin in stimuli all around you, not always from within. Take time to do your homework on your chosen topic. Read everything under the sun. And sometimes ideas do fall in your lap. Especially when you go in search of them.

Please watch out for a spoiler in disguise. Procrastination can take any garb if you allow it a little leeway. Your feedreader will have zillion feeds rocking for attention. Read them all only if you can allow yourself the time to write. That is when you give yourself the best chance to blogging nirvana. Once you decide to say it, how you say it best can never be far behind.

Smart writing is about providing insights that can be spelt out in simple terms. Yet follow your unique style. Question the answers and understand the questions and keep it entertaining. Keep the faith till you find your voice.

As Muhammed Ali would say

“Champions aren’t made in gyms. Champions are made from something they have deep inside them-a desire, a dream, a vision. They have to have the skill, and the will. But the will must be stronger than the skill.”

Very True. Floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee, is it not. Keep writing. Everyday.

In March this year, the Farmer / Panda update hit headlines and in April, a second version of Panda hit the web sphere. May saw Panda 2.1 and finally by the end of June, Panda 2.2 update sought to add more teeth to Google’s quest to clean up the search results. All through these tumultuous months in search, Google Dance was the norm for quite a few sites affected by the update. If in 2010, the buzz words were new web indexing system (Caffeine) and long tail queries ( Mayday), this year with Panda on the prowl, the clarion call is all about quality, social assent, solid credibility and user experience.

The road ahead for SEO might seem hard in Panda’s wake for those hit, but the fact remains that focus on quality for all parameters for your website is the only way forward. For those lost their way, down below are ten commandments that can help regain lost ground post Panda.

• Focus on your most important pages. Send solid signals through robot.txt, xml sitemaps, internal link architecture etc.
• Get rid of those non performing pages ( having high bounce rates, duplicate content) or start work on improving them.
• Remember every element of the website should accentuate the user experience.
• Good design does make a point.
• It is all about compelling high value content people can link to and share.
• Ensure you have less or nil intrusive advertising.
• Over optimized pages need to be toned down. It simply serves as a red flag to Google.
• Get links from authority sites to your important pages.
• Fast page loading is an important cog in the wheel. Test repeatedly till you get it right.
• Social Assent matters. Let your website be social media friendly.

Also it makes sense to not put all eggs in one basket. Ensure that you don’t depend on Google alone for traffic.

If you think you are a high quality site that has unfortunately been hit by Panda, you can take recourse to letting Google know here.