Why I Write

“The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.”
ANAÏS NIN

A blogger once told me that writing was her way of getting home, putting up her feet and letting her thoughts wander. Isn’t that amazing? I mean you don’t have to do anything, but let the words pour out from within. I wish it were that easy for me, for I’ve always found writing to be both difficult as well as otiose. Yet, deep inside I want to express myself, even if it’s only to convince myself that I am capable of it.

An attempt at putting feelings “ineffable”, thoughts “unspoken” and stories “unsaid” into words. At least that’s what I want my writing to be. Am I there yet? Not even close! Will this clumsy attempt at blogging transform me from an amateur into an eloquent writer? I don’t know. Perhaps it will, perhaps it won’t, but it would at least give me the satisfaction of having tried. I’d really hate it if that word called regret reared its ugly head at some later point in life.

Will I be read? Again, I have no clue. Does it matter? Hell no! They say that most writers draw their energy from being read, identified with, understood and maybe even admired to an extent. And then there are those who write for the sheer pleasure of it. I don’t think I fit into any of these categories. My foray into blogging is perhaps a conscious attempt at edification; a little endeavor to reignite a thought process which has long since stopped. Sloppy or mesmeric, it doesn’t matter, as long as I learn to understand and express myself. So here goes- “Tranquil Chipmunk!”

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