“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality.”
George Orwell, “Why I write” taken from K-1 Internet Publishing
To kick start this blog, I thought hard and was inspired by Orwell to write about writing itself. I would self-admit that I have never received a proper education in literature nor creative writing but have spent more time instead waxing lyrical about life and scribbling down my thoughts in my little notebook I carry in my bag.
It was only in my late teens when I am cognizant of the enjoyment I derived from writing. Words become an outlet for me to speak out on certain things I find it too hard to blurt out in real life such as ‘I’m very sorry’ and ‘I love you.’ Writing becomes comforting when I am forced to think, write, rethink and rewrite while formulating my thoughts, making sure the right vocabulary and spelling are used in the perfect tone to convey the intended message as I want it. It sets up this barrier between you and me, a distance that gives me a moment of reprieve and solace, utterly unlike conversations where I always end up with those slip-of-the-tongue moments that I regret right after it came out of my mouth.
And behind those wall of words, we bury our differences and nuances – of accents, body languages and our physical selves – to perhaps dig deeper into our minds and souls for a motive to write in a horribly exhausting process.