Confessions of a Disquisitive Writer

On Not Writing

For a long time now, I’ve been missing from the blogosphere. 40 days to be precise since I wrote my last blog post, I spent a lot of time assimilating what it meant to be ‘not writing’. Of course, there are times when a writer has something to say, and at other times, he has nothing to say. But there are times, when the writer has a lot to say but cannot due to the fear of being judged.

Being alive means going through a multitude of situations and emotions which inevitably arise from – as well as lead to – choices that we make. And these choices define who we are and where we are headed. Being a writer – and a candid one at that – simply adds another dimension to this in which he relives his choices and deals with them again through a character, a situation or even an opinion expressed in his writing. All this while, he is aware and afraid that he is putting himself under the microscope because more than anyone else recognizing him, it is his own heart that knows.

The most important ingredient in good writing is writing from the heart and that is where one runs the risk of exposing oneself to the world. I would imagine many writers writing in a manner that completely conceals their own selves behind a cloak that they create. But it takes a lot of courage for a writer to project his real self into his works – allowing one’s own mistakes, regrets, insecurities, disappointments and disheartenments to find form in the writing.

Will someone recognize the writer in the content and see him for what he really is?

And so, by exposing one aspect of my dilemma while simultaneously, and possibly, concealing another, I present this post to the criticism of the reader. I only hope that the reader will understand my absence and be lenient in judging my style of writing though I might leave many in a more confused state than when they began reading. Some of the drawbacks of being an amateur, I guess?