Tag: reading

Writers Need to Write

Warning: Contains no (intentional) philosophy.

writers need to write

I’ve been writing for a bunch of different audiences for a while now. And I realise why a writer needs to write for herself.

We know: Writers write.

But to whom?

Most often than not, writers write for someone they don’t know. In case of a blogger, the audience is their readers.

But for a writer working for a corporate, the audience is much wider, ranging from tech experts, to teachers, and even doctors. And oftentimes, the writer is so focussed on conveying a point to so many people, that she forgets that there’s reader within starving for attention.

When we write, we talk. We convey out thoughts to another person in such a way that we hope they understand. But do we even understand ourselves? Do we ever feed our own soul?

When we’ve been writing for so long for others — to meet criteria that fit external causes, to write in a way that others would agree or appreciate — that we lose our sense of personality.

We become writers who write what needs to be written. In other words, we write whatever we need to, to get the point across. Or, being honest, to pay the bills.

What’s then, the difference between someone who chose a professional career because that pays more and a writer who chose to write because she wanted to write?

If a writer is to survive (soul-wise), she needs to write something other that what others tell her to write. A writer needs to write imperfect prose. Because no one who writes for themself cares how it reads, it’s all about communicating your deepest desire; not just getting the right tone, the right call to action, and the perfect sentence length to match the design.

And sometimes, a personal journal is the way to go. Think about the days when you could just go, “Dear Diary, Jane was mean to me today…”

There’s something reassuring about writing to yourself. Because when you write to yourself, you write for yourself.

When you just let go of all the restrictions of a writing job, you understand there’s a whole world of ways to say the same thing. It gives you a shift of perspective your narrow-minded job would never approve of.

And that’s the beauty of it. When you’re just writing to make yourself smile a little wider each day, you see that it doesn’t matter what others think of your writing. It doesn’t matter that the word choice is a little awkward or the pun is too abusive, or, that your sentence has no emphasis at all.

Because when you write for yourself, you’re free to write.

The Secret Admirer

He would stare at her all day, and she would glance past him each day. It was as if he were there. She stood in the balcony sometimes, reading her fancy poetry. Her golden locks would slide off her finger as she tried again and again to twirl them around it. She’d read intently, her eyes mirroring all the feelings she read about. He would just sit there, sluggish and drooling, as her eyes widened, smiled, cringed, and teared. He would just sit there longing for her to look at him. He would imagine her tender hand on his coarse cheek, he would picture himself in her arms, and he would fancy on as she finished her reading hour and went back inside. He could only imagine what it would be like, inside her house, in her presence. What it would be like to sit at her bedside as she slumbered. He loved every minute of her company.

He sighed. If only she knew he existed. Alas, he was just a toad.

Writing. Grammar VS Feelings

grammar vs feelings

I like to think I know my grammar. But I can’t write grammar.

For me, it’s always about writing feelings. I don’t think about grammar rules when I write. As for the conscious rules that prevent me from typing “there” for “they’re” or “by” for “bye” are just — subconscious.

But beyond that, I don’t think of balancing my words with semicolons instead of a period, or adding extra emphasis within a parenthesis. Because, when you fixate on trivialities like spelling errors — blunders, in fact — you often forget what want to say. I often forget what I want to say.

Because writing, for me, is being in the moment. It’s a calling: Just write.

But a good piece of writing is slower than spontaneous. It’s a beautiful paradox of words: writing is re-writing, whereas first drafts are just drafts.

I don’t let my mind get in the way of my writing. Everything I know about grammar and spelling just sits in my head, waiting for me spill my thoughts on to the screen.

Because only once the thought is out there, can you go about making it make sense. And that’s editing.

If I’m to edit as I write, I’ll never get through the writing phase to say whatever I meant to.

I don’t write the best gramma(r)tical sentence; I re-write it.

Looking Within

I’ve been reading the Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for a while (from November, to be specific), and though I have mixed feelings, I love certain concepts the author mentions.

Like how irrelevant grades and degrees are, for instance.

“This surprising result supported a hunch he had had for a long time: that the brighter, more serious students were the least desirous of grades, possibly because they were more interested in the subject matter of the course, whereas the dull or lazy students were the most desirous of grades, possibly because grades told them if they were getting by.”

And it’s true. We’re always looking for something to point us to the right direction. We want someone to acknowledge us and tell us we’re doing the right thing. We want an authoritative figure to assure us we’re getting by.

But do we need that? Perhaps we should look further than other people to judge our abilities. Perhaps we should look at ourselves, and define ourselves, by ourselves.

“He had wanted his students to become creative by deciding for themselves what was good writing instead of asking him all the time. The real purpose of withholding the grades was to force them to look within themselves, the only place they would ever get a really right answer.”

It’s OK to be average at something. But unless we look within and accept how much we can grow, we may never understand how we’re getting by.

I enjoy reading this book. Even if it does make a good pillow.