scribbles

I can’t say that I’ve always known I wanted to write. At first I wanted to be an artist because I thought coloring in my coloring books as child was fun, and then I wanted to be a vet because I had just got my first puppy. But when I wanted to be a writer it was first the appeal of the soulful, deep, thinker that sat in coffee shops all day typing incessantly on a sleek laptop, while pausing perhaps to chew thoughtfully on a pencil or to sip the Espresso on the side. However somehow my passion for writing stayed, even after I realized that I probably wouldn’t be able to sit and sip coffee all day and even after I realized not every person who called themselves a writer could wake up one morning and write the next Booker prize.

The writing I think, started off with the most selfish of reasons; because it felt good. It felt good to formalize or just see my thoughts in front of me, and not a mess of tangled musings floating somewhere in my head. Through writing, journalistic or creative, writers are able to experience everything twice, from actually experiencing an emotion or event to the arrangement of it on a page. For the readers as well as writers the words on the page immortalizes that moment, that feeling that can encompass more than a memory because the writing is alive, it represents that moment in its entirety whereas a memory may have a few gaps, alterations and subject to the erosion of time. Writing is more than any 1000 words a picture can paint because writing lends the thoughts and emotion to those who read it, a picture can only scratch the surface.