I feel bad about about writing. Even worse when I think that growing up I used to think of this as my true love. I had hoped to learn english literature and make a career out of writing. But real life won over dreams and this became a pet hobby. There have been periods I have written regularly on this blog and elsewhere. Sometimes the periods of productivity when I couldn’t seem to contain my thoughts and they needed to be written down and shared, usually when I was emotional. Happiness doesn’t really drive me to writing.
English was never my native tongue and I think it showed in my teen prose with use of words I could hardly pronounce. It still remains a second language and I still stumble and can’t speak as eloquently as I wish I could. I write better than I speak because I get the time to form my sentences.
Often when I see and read Indian writing available I do think of what could have been. I read blogs, successful ones with lots of page views and I know I can do better, that I have more interesting things to say but then I slack out.
All my professional life including student life I have played to the gallery so to speak. Tried to be the book definition of successful. Like fish getting judged on its ability to climb a tree. Sometimes I wonder if I am being ungrateful , of asking too much, to seek joy from what I do, to leave a legacy.
Sometimes I don’t write because I feel this was my chance at coming closest to being great and I was too scared to seize it. All or nothing seems so much better paper.
I am not the greatest writer but with rose tinted nostalgic glasses I think I could have been a good one if I had tried.
Damn, why does writing about writing become a self pitying guilt trip for me?