There aren't many mornings now-a-days, when I wake up feeling inspired to write something. In fact, it’s been so long, that I've developed a rather unnatural apprehension about my writing skills. Till about a year back, I had no doubts that, if I’d pushed myself a little more, I’d have written for a living. Now, I’m not too sure. Of course, I've put all those plans on the back-burner. But whatever happened to blogging?
Everyone talks about needing discipline for writing. Heck, I even read a book recently, which had a character facing a huge block. He spoke about discipline too. But it’s me that we are talking about here. Discipline is something that I've never managed to inculcate. I’m the spawn of a delirious marriage between recklessness and haste. No, I am not boasting. I’m working on it.
This feels good. There is a flow here. I feel good about typing. But, there is no thought. It’s just me, rambling on and on. No true writer writes for himself. That’s the biggest lie anyone can spout. You write to be read. You leave little nuggets of your soul in quiet, little paragraphs, waiting for people to spot them, and announce your genius. No, it isn't wrong. It’s just a little insight into people claiming to write for themselves.
What I’m trying to say, in too many convoluted sentences, is that I lost that confidence somewhere along the way. Nothing special happened this morning. It’s just an inner voice that was waiting to be typed out. Hope this is a new beginning.
Next time, I’ll make sure I actually have something to say.