It’s been a long time since I wrote. As in – wrote, wrote, for me. I write as part of my job and for an audience, quite different from awakening that inner muse and channeling tangential thoughts into something that lives. Cliché of watching the copy come to life. Well, I am alive most of the time, I believe. Turbulent times notwithstanding.
How do I get my mojo out and kicking and capture the million ideas inside me waiting to be put down on a keyboard. Discipline, practice and dogged determination. Like with anything in life. You see a bunch of photographers in NatGEo chasing Gorillas and living with them in their natural habitat for years together, capturing nuggets of research, and in the process getting attached to their subjects and then coming back feeling completely content. And you add Passion to the list. The discipline and the practice and the rest automatically fall into place.
Why this burning need to write? To watch the words string a chain of meaningful and resonant sounds as they become sentences and meander their way through an essay. Or stand out like a cobra at strike, poised and elegant.
I remember the time I first wrote an essay in school, buzzing with rushing ideas that couldn’t wait long enough to get on paper. The fingers didn’t keep up. I ended up scribbling in a haphazard way without any pre-planning, a replica of the impatient soul that I was (am). These expeditions at ‘free (style-less) writing’ and not making it to any outstanding A’s in grades told me that I didn’t have the patience with the craft. And then my first break-up happened. Over an imagined crush I had over a school teacher. Getting scolded by this guy drove me into the pits of misery and shame. Out slipped the writer in me, with the dramatis personae soon following. I poured my heart out while i raved and ranted over how unfair the guy was. There arrived my new friend, the journalling writer in me, that could literally write off any painful, juvenile moments, and much later, loss of any kind. The tragedy queen era had arrived, and with a bang.
All this writing and eventful emotional journeys gave me that much-vaunted writing practice albeit with passion not for the copy or content but for the process of outpouring. Soon, this evolved into a love for literature, poetry and beautiful writing. I became a member of literature clubs (a la Dead Poets Society), waxed eloquent at book-writing clubs, and began to write more stuff that my fellow students—and teachers—wanted to read.