It's been a while
since I sat down at 8 in the morning to write. There have been a handful of
instances across time when I have done this and it seems to me that that is
what makes it so special. It also usually means that I'm supposed to actually
do something else but I've just indulged myself and let loose. Today, however
was different. I woke up about 20 minutes ago with a fully formed thought in my
head that I wanted to write. I didn't know what about and it didn't bother me
because somehow once I found my laptop open in front of me, I was sure that I
would find my fingers racing across the keyboard and indeed that is what
happened.
Well I've settled
on what I want to write about. I want to write about writing and the strange
fascination I've always had for it. I have always unequivocally loved reading,
there has been no doubt in my mind about that. I may be picky about what I read
sometimes but I'm quite convinced that I could read anything in world out there
(provided I knew the language of course!). Writing however has been more
elusive. Like a houseguest who you aren't sure how long they would stay. Or
when they would be back again. But the way I feel about it has always remained
steady like a gnawing pain that won't go away. I didn't have words to describe
this feeling for a long time and then I heard it in the movie The Hours. It describes it
perfectly:
"I wanted to be a writer,
that's all. I wanted to write about it all. Everything that happens in a
moment. The way the flowers looked when you carried them in your arms. This
towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread. All our feelings, yours and
mine. The history of it, who we once were. Everything in the world. Everything
all mixed up, like it's all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed. No matter
what you start with it ends up being so much less. Sheer fucking pride and
stupidity."
That's how I've
always felt. Like I want to write everything but somehow every time I take pen
to paper, it always feels so much less than what it was in my head. The colours
in the scenery just lack that lustre and it cripples me then to think that everything
I will ever write will be that way and I will never be able to say everything
that I want to. But I've slowly realised over time that its ok. It doesn't
matter that I couldn't get it out perfectly or that I never will. It only
matters that I felt happy about it. When I don't expect to do something great
I've managed to write some things that I am exceedingly proud of. I go back to
these from time to time and wonder how I wrote them. But there is no secret,
its just practice and discipline and habits being formed and most importantly
being happy with what you are writing. Its about not assuming that you can or
cannot write in a certain style. Its about never limiting yourself. Its about
just writing down whatever comes to mind without second guessing yourself. And
most importantly it is about getting over the fear of that nagging
disappointment that comes when you've finished writing something that then
looks nothing like what you imagined it would be. Its about celebrating every
word for what it is and coming back to write more and more and more. No matter
how agonizing it is. No matter how much your palm sweats from the effort or
your head hurts or your eyes just want to close because its the end of a long
day and you just don't want to write anymore.
I don't suppose
anyone in the world can ever write it all. But when we all write our own little
parts, these stories come together and become so much more than just the sum of
the parts. Its the richest and most complete story ever spun because each and every
thread is unique not matter how much they seem similar. Like pieces of music
that are made up of the same notes but each different from the next. Our words
are what stay and tell our story long after we have uttered them. So put it all
out there in the universe, your voice, your story. There are enough things in
this world to inspire. The cup of tea I had this morning with the steam gently
rising from the surface made me think about time passing slowly by. The patch
of sunlight on the floor right now makes me think about strength and solidity.
The dance steps I was attempting to learn last night (unsuccessfully) was proof
of how much I love my friends to even think of attempting something like that.
Watching the sun set over the sea yesterday evening just gave me an assurance
that it would keep happening again and again till time itself stopped. The
clear blue sky that I can see outside my window right now is humbling, makes me
acknowledge how really small and insignificant we are in this universe. It all
matters, it all counts, so never ever hesitate to write it down.
Cheers!
