I’ve earmarked a thousand stories to be written. But what about now? What about this moment? What will I write? I want to tell you why this trend will be important. I want to tell you a story about India that you’ve never heard before. I want to tell you what I think cities will be like in the future. I want to tell you what issues I think are important for us to act upon and why. I want to tell you a whole lot, because I think there are vacuums and unnecessary silence on topics that we need to amplify.
I know they tell us to “just do it”. But why? Why not, many say. But why? Sometimes the story haunts me like I imagine a ghost would, the white paper pregnant with possibility. My mind creates a world that I am always hoping to steal time for. How can I consider myself a writer if I can barely write more than a few words of free writing and personal thoughts? How can I consider myself a writer if I can’t take an idea and share each as a blog post? How can I consider myself a writer if I can’t complete essays, stories..?
How can I consider myself a writer if I never have the time? It’s imperative that we do this. There is a spirit that is telling me that I must develop my ability to write and I must build my writings. It is a part of my own mind telling me this. There is some aspect of self-preservation there. A part of me that feels that I will gain more security by writing. I will gain a place in the world. I will gain a place in academia, a place on the social media sphere, a place in my industry, a place in my career. An irreplaceable place. But is that a fallacy? Aren’t we all just replaceable molecules bound by our egos?
So, I want to do it because sitting-standing-sleeping-walking-driving-working I don’t see another way out. Desire haunts my every waking moment. She is there in the morning, she is there in the afternoon, she is there in my lulls, she is there when I have a moment to myself. She gives me tremendous hope. She is that breath of fresh air. She is the bright side of the what if? in my mind. Her underbelly is fear – what if… bad things happen? what if they don’t like my writing? What if you’re wasting your time? What if this is not that important of an issue? What if you do a terrible job? What if it doesn’t matter that you wrote this? What if no one cares? What if this ruins your reputation – at least right now you are at a status quo… The possibilities of fearful responses to what if? are plenty. But why should I adhere to those? This, I know.
I write because I want to welcome the possibility of success. I write because I want to become a craftsman in the trade. Words free me. I write because it makes me ecstatic. I write because it takes me to the moment. I write because it’s my outlet. I want to steal more moments like this. Moments of complete solitude when the whole world is busy doing other things, and I have no obligations. I crave more moments like this. I crave a few hours of this where I am not thinking of the former or the latter, just this moment.
I write because it makes me happy.
So you see, I have plenty of reasons to write – each of those thoughts for articles and posts are reasons. Now it just comes down to picking one, and giving it birth.