One of the excuses that I have made each time I have debated myself on whether or not to sit and finally start writing something noteworthy, perhaps a book, is the strong belief that writing requires vibrant life experiences - quality writing demands for the writer to have seen and felt what the mundanity of everyday life doesn't offer. Ironically, during the past month, while my life has been as eventful as ever, I feel that I do not have anything to write. From being in a new city, to the excitement of meeting and living with new people, to having a new, splendid workplace, nothing explains the strange loss for words I feel.
The worst part of being at such a loss for words comes when I feel the urge to write, and am ready to surrender to it, but remain unable to go through with it even after effort. I thought maybe pausing, something that was the initial subject of my writing, something that actually encouraged me to start writing around eight months ago when my life practically came to a halt, would help me gather my thoughts and feelings and put them to words. Sadly, sitting in my room since morning today, I have been able to come up with nothing but painfully long sentences.
Perhaps, there are other ingredients to good writing than experiences, pauses and words, and the pursuit of these ingredients seems very attractive to me, tantalizing even, but neither easy nor quick; so for now, as much as I'd like to write essay after essay describing events in my life as epiphanies or extraordinary reflections on reality, I think I will have to make do with disorganised pieces of writing without meaning or realizations.
While the thought of this makes me uncomfortable, the past month has shown me that being outside of my comfort zone is not as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe disorganized writing would even fit well into the grander theme of this writing space, providing a further expansion on what I had in my mind in the first place when I started, that is, writing without a plan or a deliverable in mind.
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