Writing has a sublime role to play in the life of the writer.

We need to communicate with others for our survival. We speak mostly out of necessity. We need to talk to each other in order to get things done. We certainly use words when we speak. In one sense, the act of writing can also be used as an essential operation for worldly existence. It is a mundane crumb of the writing act.

Creative writing would never turn into a routine activity. Writing, in its true form, is not merely meant for worldly communication. Writing has a sublime role to play in the life of the writer. It helps the writer in his contemplation. One can discover oneself only when he is conscious and mindful. Writing helps to refine ones powers of concentration that lead to contemplation. Writing paves the way for self discovery.

There is magic in words and in the feat of writing. Yes, it is a feat. Man can reach his inner source through this feat. He can find his original self only through an act of writing. True writing evolves simply through an awareness of the reality of this wonderful creation. Writing is a kind of penance that takes the writer into a state of uplifting bliss.

Can I restrain myself from writing?

There are times when I ask myself: “Why do I write?” What purpose do I want to serve by writing? I do not know any answer. Can I restrain myself from writing? Certainly I can not. There is something within me that compels me to write. There is an irresistible urge that propels me to express myself in words. It is something innate. It is certainly an innate compulsive urge to free myself from the burden of thoughts.

Thoughts enter my consciousness without any of my efforts. Thoughts haunt me. They enter me. They urge me to translate them into words. This is something spontaneous, something that happens without any of my involvement. I am a mere spectator. Thoughts enter my mind, find their expression, and appear as clusters of words when I write.

It is for this reason some thoughts appear so alien to me. It is I who give those thoughts a form in words. Did I think those thoughts? I am not certain. Perhaps I am a sort of a medium. Thoughts do not belong to me. Where do these thoughts come from? I do not know for certain. The fragments of sentences I compose with words are mine.

I am certain about one thing. I have got to write. Writing is an intrinsic part of my being. I can not keep away from writing.

There is pleasure in writing.

I have always wanted to write. There is pleasure in writing. There is enjoyment in expressing our views in words. We all do this when we speak. I have been writing something or the other right from my early childhood. I love words and their meanings.

I may not have any profound views. There is certainly an absence of novelty in my thoughts. It hardly matters to me for the moment. The very act of placing words together to express my views makes me happy.

I bestow a kind of permanence to my thoughts when I write them in words. I find a special joy when I read my own thoughts. They are my thoughts. They have come out of my own thinking. They are part of me. Still, at times, they look so alien to me. When I think of something that I have written quite a long time ago, I find it as though I never wrote those thoughts. They appear so remote and alien to me. What makes them appear so remote from me? I may have to investigate into this matter. Are they not my thoughts? Am I not the creator of those views?

I am like a small child learning to walk. It takes time for me to run, to write like an author. I am not an author yet. I may be one in future.