“Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.”
Several drafts later- written, incomplete, saved and others trashed- I gave up on the exercise and accepted humbly that the previously complacent thought that writing comes to one naturally was the misconception of an unevolved mind . Writing is indeed a very conscious and planned effort- at least writing that makes sense. But I wasn’t prepared to be defeated.
Then a random conversation later with someone about my inability to write, armed with a simple piece of advice- “start writing and see what you come up with”- I sat to type away. However, it was not as seamless and effortless I had imagined the exercise to be. It took several cups of coffee, many short breaks, various distractions I hate to admit it mostly welcome, to pen this one down. Several sittings later, a lot of music, random articles and separate unrelated conversations I sat back determined to finish this piece. The mind sure does have a mind of its own. And there I go diving into randomness yet again. It then struck me that my wish to write and to make some sense was my biggest incentive. My biggest fear intellectual stagnation, this inability to write. What could be a better idea for a blog post and so I write about my struggle to write.
Ideas need to stem from some kind of stimuli, need time to germinate and time is the luxury of the affluent. When one is struggling to make a career, to prove a point, for sustenance, to survive, to pay bills and the kind, for ideas to grow and evolve and also culminate to something that remotely makes sense to an external entity is next to an impossibility. The mind is a funny place. Or should I say entity… I don’t know for sure at the moment. I started the blog in an attempt to pour out my heart and my mind only to find I had nothing or sometimes no time to put something worthwhile. Read a lot, spent nights wondering what to write about, talked to people, regular bloggers, prospective readers asking them what they would like to read about and so on and so forth. But then nothing I had any conviction about materialized. I had become lost on the way somewhere of my true purpose. Sitting down to think, I realized that I had not really thought this through. It seemed harmless enough to start the blog. But then it made me think of the bigger picture, of things around me, making me conscious and aware to my surroundings, hoping for some kind of trigger, a miracle. Every little incident, every conversation I had, every scene that would evoke an emotion, a reaction, I investigated deeper. I was grasping at straws.
My dear wish to write had suddenly heightened all my senses and pushed my already hyperactive brain to the brink of chaos as every sensation comes plummeting in. My urge to write makes me suddenly aware of every thing, so much it runs the risk of becoming a flaw. Often accused of over-thinking every situation if there is any such thing, I realize to develop a writer’s consciousness, apathy has to go out the window, and an honest wish makes one earnest and sensitive without any ulterior intentions.
I have run out of things to say but I have managed to say something and have also arrived at a conclusion that I had not been aware of- I write not for others, not for recognition nor distinction.This struggle is self imposed. I write for myself to set free my thoughts and perceptions. I write for ME… I hope I never lose sight of that again!