So the other day I received a notification from WordPress that it has been one year since I opened the account. I didn’t even know they did that! Bless them! When I first started a blog, I had thought I was going to write a whole lot more than what I have actually produced. Five pieces a year isn’t exactly a prolific output. I always knew that I was a good enough writer. Bah! What delusion! But to think that I haven’t been able to produce even mediocre ones is quite fantastical. It’s not simply the fact that I don’t sit and try to write. But I always seem to get stuck in the beginning itself when I do. What should I write about? What subject would I be able to discuss in detail and be able to engage my audience? Finally after much trepidation when I settle on the subject, I start to write. More often than not, self-doubt starts to creep in mid-way through, and I give up. “Have I written eloquently enough?” “Do I know enough about it to write an authorative account?” “Is it too simple/ is it too long-drawn?” and such.
I’m aware that writing, like everything else demands practice. An exercise of sorts, to hone and polish your skills. But as it turns out, I have not practiced enough. It has been a disaster to say the least. My effort at writing. What is the secret here? Or is there no secret? Are good writers, like athletes, born with a gift or can anyone with a little bit of passion and whole lot of practice be able to write? I tried to read other people – authors, bloggers – et all but there seems to be no answer. I currently am in possession of a list of books that one of our national newspaper says every budding writer should read and harvest pointers from them. I think I’m gonna read it. I’m not sure what to expect from them though.
I tried my hand at short-story writing, started a novel of sorts, but I haven’t been able to write them to my satisfaction. Forget peer review. The only thing I have been able to write that doesn’t spontaneously cause me to blurt ‘meh!’ has been poetry. Poetry has been the only form of writing that I have been able to keep up. As and when I’m inspired by a subject that is. I know I should focus on my strength here and write more poems, but I hate poetry. I mean hate is definitely too strong word for what I feel. Its just that I don’t hold poetry in the same regard as prose. Sure there are poems that I love and read again and again. Rhime of an Ancient Mariner, Solitary Reaper, Ode to the Nightingale, Road Less Travelled being some of them. And yes, I’m aware that if I read more poetry, I will find more of them to like and love, but I just don’t find myself attracted towards them. Maybe it has got something to do with the fact that I write poetry myself. I don’t know. I should see a shrink for that.
In the meantime, I can only practice harder and write more. It’s a hollow promise though. I know, because I’d also promised myself that I’m gonna read more. That didn’t happen either. Haha! Maybe I can blame it on Writer’s block. Can I do that? I think it’s fair enough excuse. Don’t you?