I think everyone, at some point of time or the other, wants to write. There is something within, that is waiting to burst forth, waiting to be told. Often though, what stands between thought and words is the hesitation that lurks, the questions that nag the self.
What should i write ? Why should I write at all ? What is it that i can tell, that many thousands before me have not told ? Why would someone read what I write, if they were not friends or family ? What am I bringing to someone who would take a few minutes out of their time to read my writing ?
All this, and more, plagues me every time I think of sitting down to write. The whole process of convincing myself to write, quieting the inner voices protesting and expressing their doubts inside me seems to be a more daunting task each time than the actual writing itself.
And yet, I can't seem to totally give up either on the idea that i should write. Like the mythical two-headed bird, there are two different voices inside me, both trying to talk down each other :)
There is also the fact that everything today has become an overwhelming competition - everyone constantly trying to outdo, out-cook, out-bake, out-sing and of course out-write everyone else. You compete, even if you don't know whom you’re competing against. Can anything be done for joy alone in this day and age ? Maybe the last guy who simply wrote for joy was the one who just chiselled away on a stone tablet, who didn't have to care about how many of his fellow-chisellers ‘liked’ it and said ‘wow’. Or maybe he did worry too, who knows. Some things, after all, don't change.
