Over the years, my relationship with writing has changed. It’s become somewhat of a condition. I cannot help but feel sick if I cannot dump things out on a sheet of paper or a blank screen every now and then. This decade has given me a lot in everything, but that’s not what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about the things it took away from my writing.
When the last decade began, I had just started to string words together. It was my best attempt at lousy poetry. I don’t know where or how that started, but I vaguely remember a broken, adolescent heart was involved. Yet, there has been a search to find my voice; to seek what I want to talk about, and string words about, and go on and on about. I think I have managed to find an inkling, a first step to what writing is for me.
After much thought, I’ve realised that I cannot write about things I don’t experience myself, irrespective of how noble the cause, how worthy the conquest; if I wasn’t there, the words feel dishonest. After much learning, I’ve realised that I cannot write about different ways to help people; the best I can do is share what I do, to the best of my ability, and hope that someone finds some knowledge in it. After much time, I’ve realised that the only person I can write for is myself; that I don’t owe a single word that forces itself upon my hands to anyone else.
This decade slowly stripped my writing away for everything unnecessary. It took the innocence out when the heartfelt poems started feeling ugly to me. It took the audacity out when the articles started feeling ridiculous. Finally, it took the naivety out when I found myself unable to grasp at the nuances of the world.
In the end, nothing much was left but the honest word which belonged only to me: the word I didn’t write to please or help or inform or change; the word whose rightness or wrongness didn’t bother me; the word that may or may not go unnoticed. I realised that was the word I wanted to write.
I realised I’ve written words for almost ten years now, but it was this year that I had finally begun writing. That’s the thought I’ll end this year on, I guess. It’s not the only one, but it is an important one.