A writer’s army of words
Do you ever get a feeling that you’re working in a low-budget film and the script is not getting any better? If yes, you are going through a crisis. You don’t want to label it — yet — as you are afraid of therapy but deep inside, you’re convinced that this is it. Nothing makes sense anymore and everything else is crumbling slowly in front of your eyes. You seem lost all the time and you don’t even remember how motivation is spelt. Your parents are getting fragiler by the day, your siblings have grown indifferent to your words, your friends merely tolerate you, your job loves you but doesn’t let you know while your spouse doesn’t like you but tells you that she loves you.
Perhaps it’s not that bad either.
I am exaggerating here because I have the power bestowed upon me by words. What I do with them is my prerogative. You can be misled by me. You can be misinformed too. Our temporary relationship, blessed by the noble reach of literature, is built on a blind trust. And I am fully capable of distorting your vision. The problem is, how long before you realize the truth? And by truth, I mean your truth — not mine? Just because I choose to write about others doesn’t mean I have the authority on their stories. At my mightiest, I can turn into a pair of fingerprint-laced lens through which others can see and learn and unlearn. For a while at least. Your (mis)interpretations owe, in no small part to, to your (mis)understandings about our world. The world is changing only as long as we aren’t willing to change. All stories have a beginning but very few don’t end.
The moot being, is yours one of them?
A good writer will tell you what you want to hear. A great writer will tell you what you thought you wanted to hear. The virtue of truth in both the cases remains a matter of intense debate. We believe what we are most comfortable with. Most of us spent a lifetime without being touched by a unique idea. Our society respects this phenomenon because it’s mature enough to accept our collective failings as it anchors us to our individual insecurities. A mob can be dangerous in sight but when you parse through it, you are greeting nothing but a cowardly manifestation of fear. Each one of them is scared. Just like you and me.
By all means, everybody should protest though. Without the power to differ, we’d rather start growing wool on our body. Similarly, a writer must write what he wants to, not what others expect. It’s not our place to tell a bleeding pen or a greasy keyboard how to dance. However, once the words are written, the writer should take the responsibility of their repercussions as well. Therein lies the very essence of expressed thoughts. You shouldn’t recant under any given condition; you’ve walked too far to run back home now. Turning back on your original assessments and thus denying yourself the right to express is like taking deep breaths right after breaking wind to make it easier for others. Let the stench be. Nobody is going to die of air poisoning.
