Speaking of Writing

Writing is a scary sport. Putting your thoughts out there… making yourself vulnerable to people’s opinions/judgments… letting your soul be seen — it’s an Oscar-worthy, yet undervalued accomplishment, I say.

Every time someone calls my writing intrepid, I imagine I’ve penned something gravely stupid or stupidly grave.

I’d rather hang by a strand of my hair from the Eiffel Tower than share my first draft with anyone.
It’s like letting them watch my undressed brain.

Despite writing off’n’on for over two decades, I still feel a visceral twitch of resignation followed by a zen-like karmic surrender every time I hit the SEND button on a post (like this one).

Ajup, my alter ego (Puja spelt backwards), sermonizes: the moment you’ve hit SEND, you’ve relinquished control over a piece of writing.

Your baby is now the readers’ buffet.
Vulnerable to their biases. Exposed to their evaluations. Slave to their interpretations.

Your readers can add the spice of their experiences/prejudices on to it.

They can shred it, maul it, twist it to fit their own history and narrative.

And their understanding can go on any tangent between the North Pole and the South Pole.

They say you can never write if you keep imagining your audience watching over your shoulder, breathing down your neck, waiting for you to screw up, ready to mock you or vilify you.

So imagine I will not, and write I will… on’n’off till the curtains come down and the lights go off.


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