I took a long hiatus from writing for a while there. I told myself it was because of writer’s block. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was for the fact that I didn’t believe in my writing anymore.
I started writing a long time ago, way before I hit my teen years. In primary school. You see,I have always loved reading. Reading fiction. I love stories. I love words. Funny thing is though,I don’t really understand poetry. The whole poems thing always go over my head. Anyway, that’s a story for another day. Story books excited me. Then I picked up serious grown up books. Silhouette and Mills and boons covers. Nancy Drew and The famous five. Then I realized that I can also write my own stories. So one day, I picked up an exercise book and a pen. I must have been in class 4 or 5.. I really don’t remember what period it was. Also, I can’t even really remember what story I started writing down, but I know I didn’t finish whatever it was. But I had a story in my head and I wanted to write it. It didn’t work out well,and I stopped. I continued reading though. A lot. In high school, I picked up writing again. This time with vigour. I never did do any extra curricular activities when I was in high school, so sleeping, reading and writing were my pastimes. And I loved writing away more seeing as there weren’t a whole lot of exciting novels available. I wrote on my extra exercise books and am the only one in my class whose biro pen cleared off all the ink. Like, I’d have a pen and the ink would end. Because of all the writing I would be doing. At first, I wrote for me. Because I had a story in my head and I wanted to get it out. Also, I was bored. Then my classmates realized that I was writing novels and they’d borrow those exercise books and read what I was putting down. Soon, it was like a cult, I swear. I wasn’t just writing for me, I was writing for them. They loved my work. I loved that they loved it. And so that made me write more.
After secondary school, I used to keep them in a box at the verandah of our old house.Unfortunately, all those exercise books I had written so many stories on got ruined in the rain. Paper and mould is a bad idea. All those stories got washed away.
Then came blogs. Hallelujah! Technology evolved. So I started this blog. And it has been a good outlet. It has been fun. I remember I used to write all the time when I started. Atleast I tried to. I wrote mostly for me.
But with blogs came insecurities for me. There was always a better blogger. Funnier. Wittier. More interesting content than my random thoughts. Someone else wrote way better than me. So then I started writing less. I did not think I was interesting at all. I didn’t think what I wrote made sense.
The thing is, I totally forgot that I started writing because it was fun. Because it made me happy. Because it was a good outlet. My own public journal. I forgot that I loved writing. And I was a good writer. I am a good writer. Not the best. Not funny even. Probably not witty. But, except, am in nobody’s league. Just my own little writers club. I was comparing myself with others. It was stealing my joy.
And do you know how I came by to this realization? I could say it was because of me. That I realized I was awesome sauce! But it was because of my two friends, who I didn’t even know read my blog. They said they enjoyed it. That melted my heart. Yes, I enjoy writing for myself. But isn’t it just wonderful when someone says they like your work? It actually feels really good. That made me feel like a good writer and that I shouldn’t just not write.
So I picked it up again.
And here I am. And here I will stay for as long as words are in me. For as long as the pen has ink and the exercise book is blank. For as long as WordPress will be working,to be honest. For as long as possible.
So here’s to me. Here’s to my two friends who read my words. And to the others (friends and non friends), too, who come by this little blog and choose to see what it’s about. Cheers 🥂
‘The worst enemy to creativity is self doubt’ Sylvia Plath.