I have decided I am not a writer.
I am not a writer. There is so much pressure to just show up on the page every day and god damn write. I cannot. I am a rebel, and if I have to, I just won’t. Even if the “have to” has been decided by me! I have to trick myself to write more. I was in the pursuit of “flow”. That once when I am done with my world-building, the chapters will write itself. Or at some point, I will be able to write more than 500 words a day. Or some day, I will be so engrossed in my creation that I will forget the world.
Well, that’s not happening to me. I have realised I don’t have the stamina or the self-belief to drown myself in me.
I am not a journalist. I read such good opinion pieces or well-researched articles all the time. People tell me I could do it, or rather, I should do it. But I god damn won’t do unpaid research and write that beautiful essay if it is not an assignment. That kind of work has to be a “have-to”.
I am not a blogger. As in, I don’t blog with the SEO terms in mind, and try to climb my way up to be a respected blogger with followers who read them regularly. I am not topical. I don’t have mass appeal. I am not that committed to this blog in the sense where I want to create my own brand personality. I really don’t see why someone stops by this blog either. If you are reading this, it is because I asked you to, you are curious about me, or already adore me. The only place I publicize it now is on Twitter. So there is nothing I want to make out of this website. It is just a happy feeling to have a website you call your own on the internet.
It must be clear now that I am very unambitious.
I am not a memoirist. I mean that is an art in itself. I don’t really tell you about the people in my life. I don’t narrate it in a way that has an essence driving the story forward. I am not locating myself in this time period of the 21st century and the shit we have been going through in 2020 either. This blog is so apolitical most of the times; it is unlike me!
I am a diarist. This stream of consciousness bullshit is my schizz. This is the creativity I can muster. I journal incessantly as a way of therapy. I definitely recommend it to everyone too. I also write so that I purge the things deep within me so that I can escape the police in my head. I allow myself stream of consciousness writing because this gives me a sense of flow. Not really, flow. But I don’t stop because I have nothing to think about. Because if I have nothing to think about, I will write exactly that. This may not be art. May not be relevant to even me after some time. It does make me cringe after I am past this phase, but I still cherish it. There is no technique to this (except for the basics of structuring).
I am leaving bread crumbs to make sense of who I was and what I have become, and what I want to be. I worry if I ever lose my mind (which is my biggest fear), I could trace myself back. The eternal quality of words…, I value it but I couldn’t for the life of me try to imitate or aspire for it. I don’t expect my writing would be eternal or even useful! I really selfishly do this for me. I am hoping that it mutates into something that is valuable. But even if it doesn’t, it is fine with me.
Writing diary entries have always been life-affirming. I hold on to that.
Signing off like a typical diarist,
PS: Stephen King writes 6 pages daily. That bastard.