The hobby I stuck longest to in life is writing. The very first piece I penned was in 2002. A story narrated in the form of poem, of a goat and fox in a Zootopia type environment where animals lived in harmony. That was so much liked by my teacher that I was asked to read it in front of whole school in the morning assembly.
Writing is a craft that requires years of patience and honing. Even after one and a half decade of efforts into it, I feel lacking many aspects and there are times when my words are inadequate to best describe the intensity of situation I find myself in. One of the biggest mysteries I’m yet to unravel is, how do I not write myself into one of my characters. My mind keeps pondering on never ending questions. The more I dig deep, the more questions I am left with. How do I know my writing is good enough? What I am so profound of one night, I throw away the next morning. Even my mind is so shaky.
I write a lot and delete a lot. Many nights I have spent, lost in thoughts of an intriguing plot. Surroundings inspire me. I keep my eyes and ears open to pick slightest of hint. I often try to walk in shoes of others to understand their situation, to feel what they feel in the hope that the character I am working on would be more developed and mature this way.
I need to master the art of breathing words to silence. I need to be excellent at walking into the imaginary scene and painting its perfect picture through my writing. In my pursuit of answers, I have been following work of great writers. What is it about their writings that made them great? What is the secret ingredient to keep a reader hooked till the end? How much detail should I capture with my words to bring a character into life?
In this journey of breathing words to my imaginations, thoughts and emotions, I’ve slowly blended into a character I never intended to. My self has transformed into a more compassionate, empathetic and patient soul. I understand things better than ever. And I’ve not walked very far from where I started. There is a long way to go. I wonder what this path holds for me. When an average human bleeds, all you see is red. When a writer bleeds, an astouding piece of work sees the light of the day. I’m ready to bleed as long as I can, as much as I can. I don’t know if I would succeed. I am unsure if it would work. What I know for sure is that not every stone thrown fetches a fruit. But don’t you throw a second stone if the first fails?