So I found this piece of article in my computer which is almost 3 years old. I find it kind of cute now.
Yesterday I read a novel which made me think, why do people write? Is it for fame? Money? Satisfaction, maybe? I can’t figure a single reason. I have multiple reasons why people would write but not a single reason enough for why they do. There was this person who said, “Writing is easy. You just have to sit in front of a typewriter and bleed”. Only those who have tried to write know how very true that statement is. How difficult it is to write really? Very. That’s the only answer I have. Now that I think about it, isn’t it really strange, the way we do stuff? Like writing, for example. We have this sudden urge to spill out everything that is going on inside our heads into a piece of paper. Little does anyone know that piece of paper becomes a piece of clothing for the writer. When that piece of paper is out for everyone else to read, the writer feels naked. His clothing has been stripped and he is exposed in front of everyone. It bugs me that most people don’t get it. They start criticizing. Criticism is good, it is required for development but people tend to be a bit too harsh while criticizing. I can’t stop thinking how very analogous it is to body shaming. But then it is “body shaming”. A little whiff of that reaches the sensitive people and then you have the usual weekly strikes, banners of freedom, liberty and all that jazz being waved right into your faces. Let’s not even forget the internet. Pretentious people take over the internet with appropriate hash tags and memes and what not. In the end the person who was facing body shaming makes an appearance saying that it’s alright and that people will always be there to judge. The case is closed till another person faces the same and then the cycle goes on. But is that what happens with a writer? No. Up until the shaming part, it is all the same but then the writer has to battle his war all by himself. He is all alone out in the rain without an umbrella. He is probably going to catch pneumonia. Then why should he even bother? Bother to tear his heart open and squeeze it into paper and watch people stomp over it? What is the entire struggle even worth of? When you think about it, most bestselling authors wrote because they had a vision, a vision that they wanted to show to the whole world. Isn’t that brave? It is totally different that their vision became the vision of other people and hence their books became best sellers. But is that all? There are millions of people who write and don’t show it to the world. Maybe it is too personal or that they are scared or maybe it was never meant to be for the others. Writers can be categorized on the basis of why they write. For some, it is the source of their livelihood, for others it is an escape and for another set of people, it is for fun. These are only broad categories but only a writer knows what kind of labyrinth he lives in. For writers, surviving is exhausting. I don’t know how they do it. With the amount of stuff that’s going inside their heads, it is impossible to live in this same world. But I know why I wrote all this for. I wasn’t meaning to sit down and write some five hundred words. I just wanted to let it out because it wasn’t letting me live. I don’t want to be a writer because I know I can’t be. I don’t have it in me. But I want to write. I want to write because it is relaxing and exhausting at the same time. It makes my blood rush. I can feel the adrenaline and that is one of the most satisfying feeling. If that’s not a reason enough to write, I don’t know what is.
I wish I could say the same right now but unfortunately that’s not true anymore. I am so scared to write anything. Even if I just had to write something very simple, I find myself thinking about it a hundred times before finally giving it up. It’s exhausting. And I keep on being hard on myself. If I have somehow managed to write something, I will be continuously thinking “It’s not good enough. There’s more to the topic than I have written. My writing doesn’t do justice to it. There’s more. There’s more. More. More. More. More.” I keep myself driving crazy to the point that I delete the entire thing and leave it. It’s tiresome. And cruel.
It has begun to feel like all the colors of the world are slowly getting drained and all that’s left is borders and greys.