Life becomes a lot difficult when you’re a cynic or a sceptic. You take it upon yourself to call out the absurdity in most actions and look down on most things that, at some level, you struggle to find meaning in anything that you do. All of life seems to boil down into a vast expanse of pointlessness.
Looking back, I’m not entirely sure why I began blogging. I had created an account on Blogger some years prior and never really wrote anything on it. It was when R shared her own blog posts that I got my first exposure of WordPress. I created an account for myself the same day, and something clicked. My exams were due in a month, and writing suddenly became an alluring and justified distraction. Who would want to throttle creativity when it flows! I remember putting out posts to the tune of 3 a day, including photographs and book snippets. This dramatically ended once my exam was done and the well of creative juices hit a dry spell.
Although I tried to be fairly consistent, my writing has largely been linked to emotional lows, relationship woes and a general recurring discomfiture that is a hallmark of my life. I put out my best work when I’m at my worst; a bittersweet tragedy that has me in a conundrum as to what I should wish for – smooth sailing and sunshine that keeps me away from writing, or a wretched existence coupled with literary bliss? If only the choice were simpler.
Even though it is an anonymous blog, and I didn’t even have an idea why I was blogging in the first place, I am constantly
obsessed concerned about the quality of posts I am putting out. This is supposed to be a safe space, a place where I can pen my thoughts without any regard for who might be reading, or what they might think of me. But even while I write from the shadows, I feel a compelling need to be validated, to be acknowledged, to be told that these are not just useless words strung together on a platform where millions of others do the same, that the way I string them together makes a difference somehow.
This too gets toxic quite quickly; when what I consider a quirky post fails to garner likes, or when the stats remain flat even after a week of consistent publishing. I start wondering about the credibility of my writing, and if it has any value at all outside of my own unconditional love for it. As a mother does a child, I look at my creations and enjoy the way they play out in my mind, and question if they weren’t as precious to the objective eye.
As a non-professional blogger, I feel a little unsure about what exactly I’m doing in this space. I am not an author. Do a few random pieces of prose or poetry, or musings penned once in a while allow me to give myself the coveted title of ‘writer’? In the boundless swathe of creative landscapes, is my literary mole-hill deserving of a glance?
I notice the egocentric shades that outline all my posts, smell the narcissism, and feel a little nauseous. Maybe some day I will be comfortable knowing that this is what I am, that everything I write is a part of me, and that their worth need not be measured in algorithms. Further, that perhaps this is all I can hope to be, and it’s alright.
Perhaps in time I will begin to see that I write for myself, and if it’s a way for me to love and covet and adore and embrace and entertain and indulge myself a tiny bit more, then that’s more precious than any other reason to create.