Writing is a Thankless Task
But This is Why I do it
Most of the time, writing is a thankless task. I pour out my heart and soul; I bleed onto the pages. And when I finally find the confidence to share my work, my closest friends and family members don’t even take the time to read my entire article. I put my brain-child in their hands, and if I’m lucky, they’ll say they found it “interesting.” But more often than not, they’ll take a meager glance at the depth of my humanity before they toss my words behind them like spilled salt. Then, of course, I doubt my abilities and think I’m terrible at what I do. I wonder if I would’ve been better off studying something “useful” or “practical.” I always thought would’ve made a great nurse.
But I guess what keeps me going is the reminder that I can’t help but write. Even if I’m a talentless writer, even if no one is interested, I do it first and foremost for myself. I’ve been writing poetry since when I was nine years old. Granted, the vast majority of my poems were pretty awful, but poetry taught me how to calm down and control my emotions. My trembling shoulders stilled, and I forgot the ache in my bones, as I breathed in and out, counting syllables and concentrating on rhyming couplets. Poetry gave me a voice. As I got older, I started writing prose before I knew the word, as bits and pieces and fragments tumbled out of my head. Prose allowed me to describe mundane experiences in a creative way, and suddenly, I could express my sentiments on life and death in 500 words or less using figurative language. Short stories gave me the space to create relatable characters and shape something worth telling. And my most recent endeavor, a novella, has been a way to share my personal story.
Writing has helped me process, analyze and understand events, tragedies, and bizarre situations in my life.
It has always been very therapeutic for me — a way of self-expression. In many ways, writing has saved me.
If my writing has touched one person, if my words have been a source of comfort and solace, if my writing has challenged, inspired, enlightened, provoked a thought or broadened just one person’s perspective, I will be glad for it.
But at the end of day, words pour out of me like a leaky faucet, and if I am spewing a rusty, stagnant, stale stream of consciousness that no one wants to drink, so be it. I couldn’t turn it off if I tried (and trust me, I’ve tried). Maybe I’m not a skilled writer and most likely, I won’t ever be recognized for anything that I write. And as much as I’d like to tend to people’s wounds, I’ll never be the world’s greatest nurse. But I’d like to think my words have some healing power, even if I am just putting a Band-Aid on myself.
