Why do I write?

One fine day while reading a year old event out of my own personal diary my eyes swelled up with tears and I felt too much sorrow for the person whose life story was described there on that page. An active part of my brain knew that its me who had written this yet the momentary feeling of over pouring emotion left me in awe of my own story. Well , enough of bragging which of-course is all true.

Since then I knew I had to write and tell stories about life, love, failure, achievement and every thing else which we humans relate to but they say it right that if you have a creative pursuit then don’t attach a target or a benefit to it. As the creative pursuit is the biggest selfless act of a human. Which of course I was not up to. On the contrary of selfless-finding -ourselves kind of an act I was dreaming about winning the Booker’s award someday and winning millions of follower’s hearts and encountering breakthrough success. I sound too shallow right?

Ofcourse its not completely black and white. When I wrote, it was like a part of me jumping out of the usual self, consumed in the words and process of knowing the answer. At that time I did not think about attaching any win to my write up but the moment blog was out, I would go restless and wait for the number of viewers to increase and maybe in that restless act I was the only one increasing the number of visits of my blog. LOL.

But maybe I always felt that writing was my calling in life. Maybe yes or maybe not. Even when for a larger part of my life I imagined writing to be a glamorous job and felt triumph like feeling when I would imagine myself telling people that” I am a writer”, but mostly I knew that I could express myself better in words.

I have to admit that I loved the praises.It did not matter to me how big or small the praises were but when someone would come and appreciate a story I have worked on or a narration they could relate to then that moment will be just like winning a Booker’s price. With time I have settled into knowing that writing can not be a profession but a love. The love which keeps me afloat. It is a form of outlet which I need to express myself  to the entire world. Like this is the only method of communication I can use to make them understand of my thoughts and this is the only way of knowing my own self, slowly but steadily each day, like a real progress.

Now after years into writing, I do not think I am completely selfless to all that exotic winning theory but that is no more a driving force to my creative pursuit. I write because I have thoughts which consumes my daily life and no I am not that selfless and God kind of a creature. I crave an audience. Yes eyes and ears who are reading my words and getting connected to my life in a soulful way.  Why do one needs an audience? I am still working on that answer. Cmon I am being honest. Isn’t honesty a virtue anymore?

But I think, what if Michelangelo had painted a chapel which no body was interested in visiting? The world would not have noticed a great art. Of-course that was not his motivation factor but the circumstances made him a popular and invincible artist. But I seldom think that there might be many more artists who would be doing tremendous work of art but keeping it to themselves and that would certainly not mean that they are some less of an artist but certainly we have lost here as we failed to see a real beauty. Like I wrote all those things in my personal diary and stuffed it at the bottom of my cupboard and it did no good sitting there.

But yeah, I write because I just can’t keep shut. Too bad.. is it?