On Writing

This is going to be a tough task. I am supposed to write about writing today. About what it means to me. What I feel during writing and what is it that I feel about this craft. Hmm… this is a thinker. Usually, when I write, I think about the characters. I think about how I am going to phrase the next sentence. I think about how it feels when I am reading it after I publish it. I think about what would be the next thing I write. I think about how the pen feels in my hand, I think about how fast I can type and how great I am doing. It is a momentary thing that I feel, but once the article or the post is ready, I post it, without thinking much. I do a few edits, do a proof read, that is for sure. But I don’t think about writing. I look forward to it, but I don’t think about it a lot. Now that I have to write about this, I need to think about writing. And that is going to be pretty tough.

The thing with writing is, it can create world, I hope I can say literally. Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t. Usually, it doesn’t. At least in my case. (small chuckle, as no one around me is laughing. Damn it) Anyway, I usually write. I think about what to write, but never about writing. But if I had to pen down my thoughts about writing, then here they go. (Thoughts, please come back to me. I know I neglect you, but don’t leave me. Pleaseee!!!)

In the words of Hemingway,

There is nothing to writing. You sit at a typewriter and bleed.

Well, not literally bleed, but metaphorically. Take everything that is inside you and put them into words. Sometimes those words wouldn’t even form a right sentence, but they have power. They have power of the anxiety, the stress, the excitement, the happiness, the sorrow, all of the emotions mixed in your brain, flowing through your hand and into the sheet of paper or the word document (you’re saving paper, great guys!!!). In the end, it is basically a group of words thrown at a place. You just try to make sense out of it, at least that is what you could see yourself doing.

This happened to me a lot of times. What I write just doesn’t make sense. Even for someone looking for cryptic clues beneath the letters and between the words, it would be gibberish. Slowly, I have started pouring my emotions into it. It was as if it wanted to color itself and the only thing that it could find was words, which took birth in my emotions.

Everyone in this world lives more than one lives. Some we remember, some we forget. Some we never want to lose, some we never want to have. A writer is someone who captures every life of his. No matter how good it is, or how bad it is. Good, it becomes a good story. Bad, it becomes a greater story.

Writing keeps me sane. It is for sanity that I write. It is for peace, I write. It is for happiness, I write. Writing is an ordeal sometimes, but the downsides are no match compared to the upside.



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