On Writing and Not Writing

I miss those days when I would sit in front of my screen, and words would string themselves together, and I would just write. Write my heart out about anything, and post it on my blog, and see the views gather really slowly. I would just be delighted to see that a few people had read a piece. But now, with so many ideas circulating in my head, jostling each other, pushing each other – I find it hard to choose, and to sit and actually write it out.

So what do I write about? Author of How It Happened, Shazaf Fatima, once told us – a group of students who had gathered to listen to her talking about her book and the very act of writing – that one should just make it a daily habit. In fact, a writing habit should be regulated the way one regulates their bowel movements – that is the analogy she drew. But I have fallen out of it. Wonderful times those were when I would write once a month and this dear, neglected old blog of mine would get some attention. Now deadlines encroach on my peace of mind, and I would rather be reading assigned texts and writing papers due than a heartfelt piece about something I have been thinking about.

Paradoxically, writing would always give me that peace of mind. When in a flurry of thoughts, to sit and write, is a form of therapy. It is to release emotions. To write for yourself is to give shape to haphazard thoughts whizzing around in your mind. It is to capture them and to see them finding a pattern in the form of words and sentences. And I truly miss watching that happen.

It is hence, that I resolve to continue to write – about anything and everything. To make sense of many nonsensical things, to string together scattered thoughts, to carve out a form of escape for them.


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