The Cruel Act of Writing

There’s a question that every reader has had for the author, ‘Is this real, is this your story?’ It comes when the story is sold as a fiction and people find themselves in it. I used to believe that it’s an irrelevant question, or something to feed the thirst for gossip. I like to think now that the question is a cry for help – people want the hope that whatever they’re going through will pass, as it did in fiction; that things will make sense in the end. They need to know that it was real, to find some comfort. This year, oddly enough, many people have reached out to me, asking about ways to express ‘better’. Sometimes they asked for tips to communicate better. Two things I am terrible at. They like to read my blog and posts. Some have also mentioned that they are jealous that I can write during/about my poor mental and emotional health while they struggle to utter a word.

There are a few pages left,
I am not ready for it to end.

The act of writing is cruel. It makes you painfully aware of what you’re looking for, validation, visibility or maybe entitlement.  You can be stuck in a loop of overthinking, but when you write, the futility of those thoughts stares right back at you. You know the answers when you write the questions on paper. It saves a lot of time, so you have to figure out what to do with that time. For example, one of the first things that I wrote about, this year, was a window at a friend’s place. I have always longed for a window with sitting area, where I can just read books, stare at the sky, and watch the rain. My friend had it and he didn’t see the big deal about it. Half way through it, I realised, it wasn’t about the window at all. I was just mad at my inability to get into the system while people pursuing research aren’t really interested in it. To them, it’s just a degree. Could I stay mad after this? No, not really. Writing takes away the mind blocks and makes you aware of the real problem. This is precisely why I kept writing everything and anything this year, saved the word documents month-wise. Also, I kept a journal – this is a life saviour.

I wrote to understand instead of trying to be understood. I spent almost nine years trying to be understood through written words. So, I know where my readers are coming from. When I wrote for the first time, it was from a state of pain, pain of my silence being misunderstood. I could never find the right words in a verbal conversation, I resorted to writing. It gives more time to formulate a sentence, find the words that describe what I feel as closely as possible.

The thing with being in such painful state is that we like to believe words can help us. Sometimes, they do. In all these years, I have learnt one thing, you cannot make anyone understand anything that they don’t want to. You can use silence or words or songs or movies, nothing will help unless they care. So, it’s important to see who cares before pouring your heart or stories out in whatever form. To be honest, I have made many wrong choices – remained silent with people who cared, to undo that I chose to express with people who didn’t really care.

I’ll not discourage anyone from choosing written words. Pursue it, if you feel it’s going to help you. All I am saying is it might not help overnight. It took me ten long years to be able to write feelings in a way that it reaches out to some people. Words are ambiguous, unreliable. Write to express, not to be understood. Let your words be out there, some will find a home. Others will find it boring. You have to live with both.

After all this time I don’t know if we can do anything to be understood. I used to find sharing silence overrated. Now. . . Every night I want someone I can be honestly silent with, someone I can be sad with. I don’t know how to express this sadness. I have lost something and I don’t know where to find it. It doesn’t hurt anymore, I don’t feel the void in the middle of my chest, I am not empty. I meet people and I am aware that I am not really with them. It’s not an act, I don’t pretend. It’s just how it is.

I might always feel a lack, an absence, a missing something. It’s just sad – a sadness that I don’t even want to talk about. Writing helps a lot, but it has limitations. It is a cruel act because it always makes us aware that words just aren't enough and that's all we got. So, we keep trying. We get out there, make small talks, we write.