I’ll Write Again. Eventually.
“Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of job: It’s always you versus a blank sheet of paper (or a blank screen) and quite often the blank piece of paper wins.” — Neil Gaiman
I’ve been staring at my notepad for the past couple of minutes now, seeing it laid up on the couch — the pages as blank as it was the day I bought it, was a bit … taunting, to say the least.
My mind keeps rummaging through thoughts, things that I felt but had the most difficulty putting into words. I went from being able to express myself in written contexts to wondering if my views were important enough to be shared. These days, It’s become increasingly impossible to get any writing done, especially when I’m constantly getting nudged at by my peers, asking when I was going to write, or if I was ever going to snap out of my writer’s block. I wasn’t even sure if I still could put words on paper anymore.
“What could I possibly write? That could be of value?”
Nothing? Right, absolutely nothing.
It’s been two years since I’d written anything of the sort, I remember the moments before starting up my blog and thinking that it was one of the best possible decisions I’d made. It was almost impossible to think that I’d ever want to give it up, especially how well it was received amongst my peers. The transcendent feeling of having my written words uplift messages that conceded true meaning to myself and others, and having actual people (known and unknown) write back was more than exhilarating. The times I spent curled up in my room at my university dorm, jotting down pieces from books and novels that I found compelling enough to share my thoughts on, all suddenly felt worth it because —I was recognized. And most importantly, I was finally doing what I loved.
I’ve always loved to read, reading to me embellished another layer of my personality. It sounds very typical to say, but — it really did help shape most of my pre-teen to teenage years, and it still does. Every now and then, I’d find myself deeply engrossed in the tell-tales embedded in the lines of another person’s work and words — so much so that I’d come to live by them and love profoundly. It was all so mesmerizing and only natural, that I’d find myself hinged with the writing bug.
I think I was mostly inspired by the thought process behind the words, the motive that relieved a resourceful weight of messages. The ability of one to think deeply and reach from a personal view to form word constructs. It was a scary yet insightful feeling. And so at the back of my mind, I knew that every word I’d ever scribble down had to have a piece of me in it. Writing became a thing of intimacy to me — I couldn’t see it as anything less, from writing in my journals to the pieces and articles that were published, they came from familiarity and closeness.
Why Did I Stop?
After publishing a couple of articles/think pieces on my blog, it increasingly became more impossible to actually find what to write about. The natural self-critic in me began to rear its head, leaving me with the endless scrutiny and burden of wondering if my work was good enough to even see the light of day. I kept asking myself of what importance my words held;
What did I really have to say?
Did anyone care? Am I doing too much?
How much of an impact did my words carry? Was I ever going to be noticed (sounds a tinge bit selfish but that was how I felt.)
The more I overthought about it, the harder it became to publish anything at all. I thought each time I was writing an article I had to have a wave of inspiration, a new and exciting way to capture my audience, a story to tell, a subject relevant enough with a headline, captivating enough to pull the readers in.
And as much as that was important, it also wasn’t.
Because it inhibited me from giving so many excuses as to why I was not writing. You see, as much as it was great to write passion pieces and write-ups about things that inspire and push forth our perspectives, it was also important to find passion in the mundane. What I mean is, it’s okay to write about things that matter, however, it’s also okay to write about the little things too.
I didn’t have to wait for some life-altering thing to happen before I took to my pen and paper. I realized that I could write about the smaller unnoticeable things about myself that were worth sharing because they too were worth sharing. Most importantly, it wasn’t just about writing what was good, but it was about writing. Just simply writing. Excellence isn’t a birthright, but rather something that is crafted after years of diligent learning, hard work, and uncompromising practice.
You fail only if you stop writing.” — Ray Bradbury
It took me the longest time to realize that, but I was glad I did. And because of that little epiphany, I decided to stick to my craft and rejuvenate.
It’ll definitely take some getting used to, but it’ll be worth it.
And so I’ll write again.
Eventually.
