My relationship with writing is a tumultuous one. Sharing one minute, hiding the next.
Writing is a release and an escape, it’s a compulsion, it’s a habit, but most of all, it’s a seeker. Seeking the deepest emotion I sought to hide. The conniving clever ways in which it cajoles me and convinces me to dwell upon and dive into it. To let go of inhibitions and pen down my guarded secrets.
Writing is not a hobby, it’s a way of life, an expression of who we are, where we stand and what we wish the world to know. It’s an art, undertaken by many, accomplished by few. It is a fire that warms you and the same fire that consumes you. Writing is not just words, it’s a process, to provide meaning from those sentences and touch upon hearts while doing so, to be able to form a picture every time it is read, to be so unique that no two pictures are the same, though the same words are.
A writers true achievement is not in communicating, but in deriving, not in telling, but showing. When a reader can derive meaning from writing, when the words mesh so beautifully that they flow seamlessly, when the words are no more mere words but emotions and sensations to be felt, that is when an author has succeeded.
It is towards that goal, towards that sensation, towards that understanding that I strive and for that I write.