It was about 10 years ago that I had written fiction for the first time. I had written crap.
However, it was a time when I loved myself for what I wrote. I loved my detective fiction stories that were half borrowed from Enid Blyton, half made up. I prided myself on phrases and paragraphs that were made up of a gazillion grammatical errors and spelling mistakes.
They were also, however, made of passion. A passion for writing, a passion for the self.
A passion for the self.
When I entered high school, and later college, especially college, I lost that passion like it had never existed. Like it had only been a dream. So many brilliant writers and poets surrounded me that their accomplishments engulfed the whole of me like a tornado. I was breathless. I couldn’t write if my life depended on it. Words betrayed me. They left me.
And then, one fine day, just like that, the realisation dawned upon me that every one of those talented writers started from scratch. Their ocean of accolades was formed with tiny droplets. It didn’t matter how accomplished they were, what matters is that they write because they wish to, because it pleases them. Writing is like elixir to their soul.
A broken soul. That’s what we all claim to have. I knew what my sickness was, and I knew the remedy. I decided to write again.
I also decided that I won’t count on bombastic words and flowery metaphors to embellish my writing. Although I did worry that my work won’t appeal to anyone, I’ve been growing out of that one since a close friend said, “As long as your work appeals to yourself, don’t worry about others.”
But again, what should I write when I have lost my passion and inspiration? What should I write when my head is like an empty bowl that I’m scraping for the cream that isn’t there? Only if my mind had a diary of its own to capture the words that escape as quickly as they arrive.
All I have is my heart that’s brimming with unsaid words- words that demand to be heard. And sometimes, that is all that matters. As long as you are capable of thought, you’re good to go.
That’s the thing about words, you see. You don’t need to adorn them, you just say them. Pour them out like wine from a bottle. Which is what I’ll do here, on my blog. I’m going to breathe out words, without thinking, without contemplating. Unless of course I need help with vocabulary. Not kidding.
When words abandon you, leave you stranded on a strange island, try to get yourself a little intoxicated. Not with alcohol, but desire. You’ll be surprised at how much your heart has to say.
To an awkwardly abrupt ending, and a beginning.