I don’t know what moves me to write; why I have such constant itching which end up only when I write some blah … blah in my scrap book. Quite often, inexplicable impulsiveness and high-horse thinking hijack my senses and make me write volumes and volumes in A4 sheets. However, still, with those tons of write-ups heaped on my table, I doubt whether I can genuinely call myself a writer of substance.
Looking back into my formative years when I had only a flair for writing, I thought I was a born-writer who would weave words in no time, write anything and everything under the sun. I had, then, mistaken my madcap a talent for writing and thought that I was born with a pencil in my hand. But then, what I had churned out those days was only pedestrian; they looked like froth.
Added to these conception or misconception was the impact or the inspiration I got from reading books. I started reading books voraciously; even pieces of crumpled papers I accidentally saw in dustbins attracted me and I read those very religiously as if they were blown out from the ‘Folios of Shakespeare. Again, some bird-witted and amateur writers who got their rubbish verbose sold like hot cakes or women’s ‘fairness cream’ greatly influenced and urged me to take up my pencil.
UUU… my thought of being a great writer [I always thought me as a la Jhumpa Lahiri having all the words of the seven worlds in my kitty] got crashed when I started writing my first piece. Rolling a pencil in my hand and making helluva efforts for getting words from up above my head, I would only stare at the blankness of the paper for long. I would wait for Saraswati [one of the Hindu goddesses who is believed to impart knowledge and wisdom to people] to pour words on my addled head and make my pencil move. Unfortunately, Saraswati didn’t come to my rescue. Whatever I wrote those days, I wrote them after long struggles, cracking my head blue. But then, all my pieces were only despised substances. I found I had only peed on the paper.
The reality that I was not endowed with born writing skills pained and bruised the writer inside me. All along I had thought of myself a ‘blessed writer’ without heeding to what Stephen Leacock said in one of his books: ‘writing is essentially thinking, at least involves thinking as its first requisite.’
So, now I think a lot, write a little. When my thinking goes high and deep, I witness all the dimensions of writing present before me with myriad colors. A neophyte, I am now about to enter into a higher grade of initiation. Having walked past the dimness and the pressure of impulsiveness, I am now in the entrance to the portal of writing which, I, hope, will soon flaunt its secret chambers for me.
Even now I don’t dare call myself an accomplished writer since I know some of the chinks in my armor. However, as a writer still trying to make grades, I offer the following tips to those who wish to venture into the realm of writing; think deeply about the thing you want to write about; organize your thoughts; put your thoughts into language that reveals them clearly; plagiarism will only jar up the original writer in you; prefer the familiar word to the far-fetched; and prefer the single word to the circumlocution.
Best of Luck!