Monday, December 31, 2012

I write, just because

Then why didn’t you become a writer?” a colleague asked me once – too quizzically, I began to think he was mocking me.  I was telling him writing is, was, and has always been my therapy and my passion. He smartly asked me back why I wasn’t working in the media.

Well, you really don’t need to be in the media to write, do you?

Some six years ago, I found myself fascinated by this craze they call web logging or blogging. Publication in an instant. I fell in love with it. And who wouldn’t? You have the power right at your fingertips (literally) to say something however and whenever you want to. There’s a downside to this, though. This newfound freedom to put your thoughts in the cyberspace is prone to abuse. Some use it as their personal venting space talking gibberish. Some use this to spread false rumors and inaccurate reports. As for me, this kind of new media allows me to be a writer in my own right. I have always been the quiet type around people. But when I feel strongly about something, I want to be heard. And although I am more vocal now that I’m older, I will always go back to my first love: the written word and its beautiful progression – from being just a faint wisp of idea floating around this universe until it finds its way to me. Inspiration strikes. And when it does, it hits like a storm. Unstoppable, unrelenting. Words sail through like bullets and I find myself furiously typing my thoughts out in pure white heat.

Six years ago, in this same blog, I said that people have their own reasons why they write and that the reasons vary from time to time. So now, six years later, I attempt to list down the reasons why that burning flame of passion never seems to die out.

I write because I’ve always been such a dreamer. Of things. Of places. Of times. A hopeless idealist. And when reality frowns upon that idealism and shatters it painfully into a million pieces, I retreat to where it all started, my heart bleeding profusely over a love lost, friendship wasted, or failed endeavor. Living in a world that can’t stop talking, my pen silently bears witness to every sorrow as it slowly ebbs away, giving in to joy and ultimately, to hope.

I write to create memories. Someday, I’d like to look back and imagine how I felt during each milestone in my life. I write to NOT forget. I think we often suffer from some sort of memory loss, although I highly doubt it is deliberate. Human as we are, we have a natural compulsion to remember all happy thoughts and just forget the ones that ripped us to shreds. Sure, it’s easier that way. But we have got to remember the lessons, the wisdom that kept us going until we finally found the strength to pull ourselves back together. I don’t want to forget these things – the little details and the experiences that made me who I am today. And who I will be tomorrow.

I write to keep my personal sanity in check. It makes me think. Once. Twice. Many times. It makes me argue with myself. Crazy, I know. And I don’t actually know how to explain this without sounding nuts, so I’ll leave it to the expert(s) to do the explaining. Norbet Platt said: “The act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our equilibrium.” If you were to ask me, life does not always manifest itself in the obvious. You have to scratch beneath its surface, dig through your thoughts, and burrow through your own fears and doubts to find the gold that truly matters. Whatever that gold is, I leave that up to you.     

I could go on and on. Tomorrow and the day after, I will only find more reasons to write. Even if it means I have to face my demons (sloth, lack of discipline, perfectionism) to get my writing done, I will keep writing. Until I become a better writer. And until I become a better person. :)

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