I’m a Writer

Hi, there! I haven’t blogged in nearly 8 months. But I’m a writer, so I write, simply because that’s what I do. I think I want to share my passion for writing today because well, it’s something that’s been in conflict in my mind recently.

I started writing shortly after my grandfather died; I have almost 3 to 4 diaries scrambled with all sorts of rubbish piled up in my mind. I write mostly when I’m low, rhymes flow effortlessly when grief strikes me, stories are weaved in my mind whenever I’m struck with inspiration. I think, out of all the qualities and talents I possess, writing is one that chose me, instead of me choosing it. I am mighty grateful to writing, for if I wouldn’t write, I doubt my life would have been half as bearable as writing makes it. I love to read too. But it is a hobby I chose. I don’t know what distinguishes writing from the others, but I feel deeply that I owe so much to it, for choosing me. And maybe spreading kindness and hope through it is my duty.

It chose me and I made it my companion, a companion with whom you would swing to and fro in the garden, but mostly a companion, who sits by your side and listens as you complain about the misgivings of life.

I love to experiment with writing as a chef does with his ingredients. I love getting introduced to different forms and styles of writing, and try them in my own unique way. I enjoy writing for others as much as I do for myself, provided it includes the aspect of creativity. I write poems for my friends, build characters out of the blue, give them traits and build up scenarios. If the machine that could transform thoughts into words existed, I would already have many worlds built in my mind on paper. Then again, I don’t think I’d want ALL my thoughts on paper. But writing takes real effort, dear writers, don’t you agree, that thinking of writing and actually writing are two different things?

The 8 months that I haven’t blogged hasn’t stopped me from writing, I have still filled diaries and journals, written a few poems (not everything can be shared). The problem, however is, lately writing doesn’t feel like writing to me. It feels more like a burden, like it isn’t even writing anymore. I’ve noticed a transition in my poems; they’ve gotten more longer, have become darker than the night, and generally less likable, to me, at least. In literature, I learnt about the confessional form of writing, and was happy to learn that perhaps, what I write can be included under the genre of confessional writing. Yet, whenever I write now, I feel like I’m writing a complaint letter for filing it to God. I have had so many thoughts about stopping writing and deleting my blog from the face of the internet forever. I want to be able to write like before, not just turn pain into art, but include every array of emotions into it. I’m not sure if this can be called a writer’s block, but I hope I can overcome it soon. I write with the hope that the happiness I derived from it returns again. I’m a writer, so I write today, without hoping for large views and the same, but because I simply want to write.

If you read this far, thank you for delving into my mind. I hope you resonate it with any activity that you do to ‘complain about the misgivings of life’. Let me know about those activities in the comments, or drop by a kind message. Here’s to the renewal of my blogging life, I hope I can keep it up this time. Until we meet again, stay safe and take care folks! Also, Happy Republic Day to my Indian audience🇮🇳🎉

~Devangi

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