“Why do I write?”
Why does a writer write or a singer sing or a dancer dances?
Though these questions might be odd to some sorts but these are fundamental questions; the answer to which many of us don’t know. As far as I could remember, a person, who would later go on to destroy my sleeping schedule single-handedly, first asked this question to me and I jotted down a lame poem in reply to her question. Since then, I have been asked this question many a time; the answer has varied from person to person and in answering all of their questions, I found fragments of my answer itself. However, the answer is still far from complete and yet I decide to divulge it before the world or the six people that would read so as I am at peace with it for the time being.
I had always been a nerd cultivating the hobby of reading books starting from the little coloured storybooks through Rowling and Sparks and now touching Rushdie and Tolstoy. Back then in middle school, fancying myself a writer because I won the consolation prizes at the annual essay writing competitions at school and partly inspired by the rage that was Harry Potter in those days, I attempted writing stories and failed miserably at it but always harboured the hopes of becoming a writer. In high school, I had developed a crush and was consequently dumped thanks to my raging hormones, thereby turning myself into a pathetic poet and the journey started more or less. On the last day of school, I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up and I answered quite proudly – a writer; most of the class laughed and the teacher snidely remarked that writing is a hobby and not a profession. My ego was hurt and I considered writing seriously only to prove his words wrong. I regret the fact that all of this, this enthralling adventure of writing had to start out of spite but am not even remotely ashamed because it has blessed me with an incomparable paradise.
My paradise; a world which I create and destroy. I like the feeling of being able to control what happens to whom but more than that I love it when my pen dictates what I write rather than me controlling it; in those times, I just sway into the flow of the universe that expresses itself with me as a medium. Writers, I believe, are but a means to an end of saying all the things that the universe could not speak for itself. I am no more than a petty and pathetic writer in a sea of writers, which includes the six-year-old kid trying to write an old ‘Once upon a time’ fable to the critically acclaimed best-selling stout old man in his 60s working on his next manuscript. However, I do not shy of stating that everything we scribble, maybe for us, our loved ones or for the whole wide world, is but a refraction of the world we saw. We all saw different worlds that manifested in different ways inside our hearts and came out as curated refractions in which we choose to either hide or stand as we write. I prefer to hide in it and I guess I’ll find fellow writers who prefer to hide artfully in the worlds they create not because it is the right thing to do but because it is the easier thing to do. I read somewhere where an eminent poet, pardon me for forgetting their name, was asked why they chose to hide their emotions behind poetic devices to which they replied, “If someone does not know to look beyond the veil that I wear, they should not be looking at me at all.”
In saying that I want to hide behind my writings, I do not imply the same for my writings. Obviously, I want my writings to be read all around the globe for centuries, both praised and criticised; both loved and hated. It is every writer’s dream and it would be dishonesty if I disagreed to that. The root of such a selfish desire of a writer maybe man’s lust for immortality and writers see a hint of this very immortality in the craft they practice. Having said that, even without all of that, the real joy of writing is seeing a page full of your thoughts and accordingly, confronting a blank page for a writer is one of the scariest of nightmares. A nightmare that I set to tackle every time I take my pen to bleed on a piece of parchment because the euphoria and ecstasy that is associated with having written something is simply untradeable even for the opportunity of being God: and this is precisely why I write.
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© A. D. Konwar | nailapost.wordpress.com | 2016
- If you want to have a look at the poem mentioned in the first paragraph, it’s here.
- The featured image is copyrighted and is sourced from here.