I need to write this down. And that is exactly what I’m going to do now.
There’s something about writing while in a trance. Words flow freely. It is creepy. Words come out in an order that seems like magic. The writer doesn’t care when he’s in that mood. Nothing affects him. It is a pretty amazing phenomenon.
And once the writing is done, the writer looks at the piece. It can be about anything. It can be about so many things to be about nothing in particular. The topic doesn’t matter. The writer bled words. It was heartfelt. It was involuntary. It was beautiful. It was magic. And that counts for something.
I’ve written many times while in a trance. People ended up either liking it or hating it. There’s no middle ground. Taking an example from my own, small writing career, I’m going to talk about one piece I’d written while in a trance. That post was a guest post. I’m a follower of that blog but I hadn’t really gone through it thoroughly until before I wrote for it. When I did, I realized, that her blogs were way better than mine. So I was determined to write something while being clear-headed and completely sure of what I write. Time was passing; I was failing to come up with anything. And one day, while on a terrible bus ride back home from college, I felt something. It was depressing, to say the least. That was the trigger. I was devoid of any writing means save for my Kindle. I wrote the entire thing on the Kindle and later sent it to her. I hadn’t read what I’d written. It was a piece triggered by a chemical reaction in my brain, and it seemed good enough to be sent.
I sent it, and forgot all about it for days. That is until I had a notification that it was on the blog. To my extreme surprise, it had garnered likes and even positive comments. It was not something that was supposed to have people like it. To this day, it still baffles me. Why is it so good? I don’t know. I don’t think I want to.
Thinking about all this gives me this small, stupid realization. When you’re praising me for my writing skills, or praising something that I wrote, all those compliments aren’t for me. You see, if you really resonated with something that I wrote, then it is because you chose to understand it the way you did and let it affects your opinions on my writing. But that is a fact most people choose to not acknowledge.
Writers have a problem, though. Lack of inspiration. That’s a huge problem I face. But oddly, I don’t have to worry. I’m sure I can find inspiration during exams. Yes, the long standing pattern is continuing. I’m in the middle of the examination schedule, probably right at the heart of the entire thing. And I’m here, completely disregarding studies just to write whatever I feel like writing. I’m liking this.
Some writers have the fear that their material might be redundant, and that it will decrease readership. Personally, I don’t find it disturbing. I usually have a target audience. Usually. For some posts, I don’t expect anyone to read. Those are posts I write because I want to. They don’t make sense, or they’re not interesting enough for people to read, even my target audience. That’s fine with me, because when I’m posting something on the blog, I give them the freedom of choice. They may read it, they may not.
Again, another realization. I haven’t written like this anytime in the last two months. Actually, I haven’t written this smoothly anytime in the last four months. I’ve missed writing. I’ve missed feeling inspired and compelled enough to write to feel lighter, feel better. I don’t know if I should put this up on the blog, it doesn’t belong there. Probably.
People ask me how I write when I write something that they liked. Well, I don’t know. It is not something that can be explained so easily. People connect to what I write sometimes. It is scary. The very idea of writing something for no reason at all and then have people tell that they understand what I’m trying to say is something that’s always unexpected and hard to face.
Then comes the question that is seldom asked. Yes, that question is the Why. Why do I write? That’s a rare question, because the default assumptions are that a person is a writer because he is interested in writing, or that he wants to put his views out to the world and talk to them about himself. Well, they’re right on the first assumption. Interest is a driving factor. But writing for not being lonely? I don’t think so. That’s not me, at any rate.
You see, for me, writing is more about understanding things rather than being understood. We’re all born with an inherent curiosity about how things work. Not everyone share the same interests, but ultimately, there is something that we want to figure out. Reading about things wasn’t cutting it for me. I had to get people to talk. But I’m not ba talker. So, I start writing. I help myself, and I help people go through emotions. They may be happy, sad, stunned, shocked, outraged, offended, bored. I don’t care. It is fun to see them go through so much just because I wrote something that I left to them for interpretation. It is their interpretation that tells me things about them.
For how long will I keep writing, though? I’ve written over 60 pieces, most of them are here, a few are archived, some more in drafts, and the remaining are lost. I guess I won’t stop writing. I don’t think it is possible for a writer to stop writing, though. Words are always there, and even though he may not be writing, they are there in his mind. Arranged in an order that makes sense, conveys the point that he wants to. And if they remain undocumented, they will pile on and on and on until the breaking point. When that happens, that is the end. And you, the reader, will be missing out on so much. You will be missing out on his thoughts that you would’ve analysed, his stories that that you would’ve remembered, his poetry you would’ve connected to, and the last of his legacy that you would’ve preserved. And all that will exist is the shadow of a writer whose essence lives in all the things he ever wrote. That essence, that shadow, will always be incomplete. And that is an absolute tragedy.