I tried to write something a few nights back and I wasn’t surprised at all when it turned out to be a foul piece of crap. Yes, absolutely a foul, stinking piece of crap! I had to frame out an explanation to relieve the aching pang inside my chest. I mean, how on earth I tried and I wasn’t able to scribble something worth reading or at least worth bearing.
I had to think, ponder, deliberate, contemplate and then think again. What’s happening to me? Is my brain freezing? Well, not exactly. It’s my impulses going dead.
Writing is not about taking out a paper, framing up an idea and starting to fill up the parchment with ink. No; absolutely not. Writing is merely not a process including a paper and a pen. Writing is sacred. It’s above all the worldly doings that we perform every day. It’s about pouring your heart out to a sacred sheet of white milky extension. It’s about not stopping to think or phrase or rephrase. It’s just about letting the quill flow over the paper on its own accord.
You know all the extra ordinary things that writers write all the time in their books and articles. Do they always touch your heart? Not always right? It touches your heart if it comes out of another heart. It’ll only touch you if writing is sacred to the writer. There are some scenes from some fiction novels imprinted on my heart and I live and relive them again and again. They are like footprints to me. Footprints on this little heart of mine as if they are having a night stroll in the snowy garden and decided to stay for the night. Who stays in a snowy garden? Only the ones who find a certain warmth in the snow.
Here I got my answer. I got it right here gawking me in the face, telling me loud and clear: I am only able to write when I am not trying to write. I write when my heart is so swelled up that it pushes me to dispense the pent up emotions and frustrations out. Yes, writing is not a hobby or a profession to me. It’s beyond all those bounds. It is holy somehow. Very holy indeed.