Way back when I was figuring out what to do with my life, I turned to writing. It was my respite, it made me make sense of the mess in my head. Slowly I learnt to appreciate and become better at it. The process is never ending.
Then the thought ‘hey could I do this for a living, without being broke?’ popped in my head. Ofcourse, I had to run with it and figure it out. Figure it we were meant to be. It’s been three happy years. We’ve tolerated each other – my writing and I. We’ve been disappointed and elated and everything in between. But I miss our earlier phase – the fun phase, when I wrote for fun, without any expectations or training.
Now I still do that sometimes, but we don’t meet the old versions of ourselves anymore. It’s too few and far between to make an impact.
I miss writing for the heck of it, I miss having that voice that wasn’t meant to be manipulated to sell. I miss having that snarky bite to my sentences and gloating to myself about my ‘sense of humor’. (I am known to laugh at my own jokes, why put anyone else through it, really.)
It is still my go-to to clear out my head, but something’s changed. I wish I knew how to get back to it, bridge the gap. Or has the commercial nature actually ruined the craft, I wonder. If there is no more a purpose, does writing come to you, naturally?
I miss the fun of it, no brief, just letting the thoughts and words go wherever they may. Letting them get the better of me. The thrill of an adventure, the unknown at the comfort of my keyboard. I miss that.
I wonder if we’d meet again.
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