I am shocked.
Yesterday, I plucked up the courage to copy and paste the link to this blog onto my Facebook account. I’m not sure quite what made me do it so soon. I was so nervous to, and had a hell of a lot of reservations about sharing any of this.
I’m writing this today for a number of reasons. I’m finally open to sharing my love for writing with the world. I need this opportunity to do a small disclaimer. And most importantly, so I can promise to stay grounded and to continue writing as me… for me.
A Brief History of my Written Endeavours
I have been writing for almost as long as I can remember. As a child, I had a wild imagination and I would be churning out stories every week. I began keeping a personal diary properly on my 9th birthday. It had a blue, furry cover (I fancy it to be quite like that crazy ‘Care of Magical Creatures’ textbook from Harry Potter) and the most standard lock and key that anyone could pick into with a paperclip or a hairpin, or by waving a wand and saying ‘Alohamora’. (Sorry, I’ll chill on the Harry Potter references) I went through a phase where Anne Frank was my role model and I wanted to be her, so I would write like her, before I realised that it was all too pretentious, mostly because I was not living in a tiny annexe in Amsterdam with the fear of being hunted down by Nazis. I also wasn’t nearly as articulate as Anne.
I weaved in and out of writing through my teenage years, then nearing the tail end of them, I started taking my writing a lot more seriously… on a personal level. It has always given me the greatest relief to spill all my thoughts onto paper as if the paper is listening and caring. And it’s fun to read back a personal record of your takes on life. And to sometimes reflect on things and go ‘What the hell was I thinking?’ Perspective is a beautiful thing.
The running theme throughout all of this is that writing has always been something I have done for myself. I have never been particularly skilled or gifted at anything before. When people used to tell me I could write, I would shun it off as ‘not a real talent’ because those people were normally in my family so they were obliged to encourage me. I was desperate to be sporty or musical or to be able to dance. That was much more real because people could see that you can do it. Then they praise you and tell your parents what a lovely dancer your daughter is. Occasionally, I would whip out the odd romantic piece, pretentiously describing some pretty scenery or relatively kosher experiences for my family in India to read. It kept them happy. But as I grew up and became less bothered with keeping those people happy and making myself happy, I started getting a lot of ‘Gowri mol, why don’t you write anymore?’ I do actually, sometimes once a month, sometimes once a week, sometimes every day, sometimes three times a day. I just do it for myself. That’s all.
I started writing this blog, just over a month ago on exactly that basis. The basis that no one would be reading what I write because no one ever really has read anything real that I have written. If people have read my material, they have probably scanned over pretty words sugar coating a distinct lack of passion or depth. I had been wanting to start a blog for months because I get to write so much more eloquently than in a diary, yet still write about my personal experiences. However, for the first time in my life… the responses I have received have been genuine and incredible. Yesterday, I went from averaging 4 to 5 post views a day (with my top score being 38) to 1082. 1082 clicks on my writing. It is unfathomable. I don’t mean to be conceited enough to think that everyone who read this thinks I write well or I have anything of value to say as I’m sure that isn’t the case. What I mean is that I am shocked, overwhelmed and unbelievably pleased at the number of messages I’ve received seeing that people have liked what they have seen.
But it’s a bit of a Catch 22 isn’t it? I wrote all that, blanketed in the comfort that nobody would read it. And now I’m writing… but people will be reading it. And I want them to. I want my writing to reach out to people.
So that is why I am slipping in this entry today. Almost like a little disclaimer to myself… and to my newfound readers. My inspiration comes from my experiences. The people who are reading this now may even be a huge part of those experiences. Someone may say something or do something that might strike a cord with me, whether it’s in a positive or a negative way… and inspire me to write. So to cut the crap- you might find yourself being written about on here, if you have influenced me somehow. I recognise that this isn’t a personal diary. No matter how real you try to keep it, writing read by other people will always have a filter on it. But I still intend on keeping this as real as possible. And I will always remain grounded and maintain integrity in what I say.
In short, I’m going to carry on writing as though nobody is reading.
Because that is how I write best. And because ultimately, I write because I love it. I do it for me. As much as I have been overjoyed at every positive response (and am open to all kinds of feedback and constructive criticism) …people liking what they see on here is not my primary aim. It is just a bonus.
Thankyou to everyone who took time out of their day to glance at my page and for every single response. You are all my inspiration!
Love, hugs and Expecto Patronum (oh come on, it would be a crime not to say it),
P.S. Mischief managed.