It's been a long time since I had a blank page staring at me, waiting for an imprint. I do not know what caused this delay- I always had an idea or two to write about and also the time for it but the motivation was lacking. I was pre-occupied, among other things, by an idea that at first fuelled the creative spirit in me to bring about a huge change in my approach towards writing, only to leave me disillusioned in the end.
I have often been prodded by friends and family about what I wished to make with my flair for writing. Was I practising for a book, perhaps? Or did I desire to be featured in magazines and newsletters? Or, maybe, to just make that extra pocket money, sitting comfortably in front of a screen? My answer has always been woven around different connotations of 'I like writing'. Then I took a look around and wondered about the many possibilities pointed out to me. It won't be too bad getting my work published somewhere, wouldn't it? Neither would the extra pennies hurt, I reasoned. Have a skill, I'd be better off using it to my advantage.
This new found purpose lead to me an online content writing internship and a shot at getting a piece of work published. Which eventually lead to me distancing myself from my blog and all forms of writing I did exclusively for myself. I started to loathe writing: instead of being an outlet for to my emotions and views, it became another source of stress on my work-laden shoulders. As the frustration grew, I realized that I had reached the fearful place we've all been warned about when pursuing a passion: turn it into a form of work and you may find you cannot tolerate it any more. I'm not saying that this is a necessary outcome for any one walking down these roads, but, for me, the stress was quite binding. Also, I've started to feel that though there may be a lot of story-telling and prose-wielding inside me, the books will just have to wait till I am ready to have them, till I am ready to express through them.