One day I will find all good words. They will make my stories simple and just bright.
“Why do you write? Tell me. Is it because you want to write, or because you want to be read?” his curious words make my heart naked. Sometimes the only way to escape something annoying is to confront it with honesty or a naked heart. However here, in this cafe, I have voices in my head with multiple answers.
“Because my mom liked everything that I wrote. Soon I started calling it a hobby.”
“Because I love reading my silence on a bright page.”
“Because I have stories to tell.”
“Because my story is history. And I know other stories that are mysteries.”
“Because someday people will read and wonder if they knew me well.”
“Because this is my most favorite hobby.”
“Because writers are true pioneers. They can change a generation.”
I know I have to pick the right one quickly.
“Because…I want to write.”
“But what is the point? It’s like screaming inside an empty auditorium, if you don’t want to be read. It’s like keeping that secret diary and pretending like a whispering pen,” he tries hard to make sense.
I knew someone who was influenced by my love for blogging. She said, she wanted a place to express herself, even though she never really wrote anything. The first thing she did after that conversation was an announcement on her social networking site, about her desire to start a blog. I realized after months that she actually wanted to be heard, she did not want to be a writer. We all have our own reasons.
When I started blogging, I summarized my blogging goal on a little yellow post-it, ” Don’t hold back those stories. Writing is not about getting readership. Writing is about telling everything that you know, writing is honesty. A writer is that friend who you won’t find in your friend circle. She’s that friend who you would like to meet again and again on those favorite paragraphs and book-marked chapters.” So I wrote what I wanted to say, not really what people wanted to read.
Sometimes I write about things that only I observe, feel and want to share with a piece of paper. They are about nostalgia of a great childhood, grown-up dilemmas, a photogenic neighborhood, a fallen leaf on rain-washed road, places close to me, or that selfie-obsessed friend who judges every single person except herself at every gathering. To me, writing is a private love affair. But I blog using a real name. That’s contradictory. Don’t we all own some kind of contradictions in us, wrapped under millions of smiles and sighs?
There are days when I do not share what I write, I keep those words away from limelight. I lock them inside a black hardcover to keep them tightly hugged, like how people secure pure love from all judgmental minds. It is peaceful you know, when you read your own creations, your own thoughts tucked into dead alphabets that mean something different and alive only to you.
“You know, if your writing can touch at least one heart, then you’re a successful writer. If you want to be popular, you definitely have to write for others,” he stops this unending discussion for a while.
Another gloomy day is ending now. No more coffee is going to save me from this fiasco. I know myself well. I am not going to be that popular writer that my friend describes. Most of the popular writers post semi-fictional anecdotes on social networking sites to stay connected with their readers everyday. They tweet more frequently than any other birds I know. They follow what sells well in the world and what trends on twitter. I shy away from self-promotion or even a selfie, I don’t hash-tag to emphasize my opinions. I prefer to walk ahead through the fog, pretending to hone some skills without having any finite destination in my mind.
To me, writing is liberating. I write because those stories that we secure for ourselves inside us deserve freedom. Why do you write?