This is more of a welcome post than it is a blog post. A salutation. A hailing of the words that hover on the periphery of my vision. An embracing of the passion that I harbor for the love of words, both in poetry and prose. A homecoming.
A year later, as I resume writing on my blog, I realize just another post won't do. I owe myself an explanation for the irreproachable neglect my writing has suffered over the course of an year. I need to come clean about the fact that I sometimes go into sudden bouts of swift, passionate bibliophile fury, and sometimes also kick myself into sullen silences filled with unspoken words. I realize I need a closure to the intense fury I have for myself, when I have words to speak and write, and I don't express.
This is not a despairing post. Neither is it a wall that speaks of a wannabe writer long-lost in a wallowing of self-pity amidst a non-existential writer's block. This is just an acceptance of the simple slack in writing and a year of denial I fostered every time I had the inexplicable urge to put my thoughts to words.
I have had a tough couple of months, ever since the winter of 2015. It took a while for me to realize that I am meant to write and words are my thing. It was exactly the autumn of last year when I gave up my futile pursuance of a career in what I wanted (read Finance), and begrudgingly accepted the prospect of a full-time job as a content writer. I had a gross misconception about the fact that content writing doesn't really challenge you to do better. I was aware I wasn't an amazing writer; I was amateurish to say the most. But I sincerely was of the opinion that the job is something I am settling in, to fit into the 'employed' bracket.
However, a week into the job I realized just how challenging writing could be. An able team of editors, an insightful manager, and an extremely understanding mentor at work showed me the shortcomings of my writing. In no way undermining my writing style and skills, they guided me on how best I could enhance the writing style and polish the way I sequenced my thoughts in words. I was possessed by a mad desire to rise above it all and reaffirm my faith in my own writing.
A few months into this job, as I look back, I see a magnanimous change in the way my writing has transformed. Words and phrases, innuendos, puns, and grammatical insinuations have a new meaning and I enjoy the rush my work gives me. I have, to some extent, and still am trying to grasp the intricacy of the glorious language that English is. Still nurturing an ardent love for mastery of the language and to become a writer who wears her words with finesse and grace.
The irony remained that I write for a living and yet, I had stopped to live through my words. Career commitments, social obligations, and time constraints made me forget that I really had to write for myself once again. As challenging as my job is, as creatively satisfying it tends to be, I still feel an inherent emptiness which I know only my own words can fill.
So, I have decided to write once again. To incite thoughts in my readers' minds. To feel the power of words again. To infuse life and love in the words that course through my veins. To live the thoughts I wish to set free into the void that threatens to swallow my happiness. And to love the feverish affair with writing that I wish to rekindle.
