At last…

To blog? or not to blog?  That is the endless issue that I have been struggling with for so many years.  Should I? About what?  Am I comfortable with the thought that my writing about personal matters could be read by others?  So there I was, in my own comfort zone, resigned to just feeling envious of people who blog away about even the most mundane of things.

But now, I have finally mustered enough confidence and I figured it’s ‘to blog’ time, before I start to lose this new-found feeling once more. One good reason to blog is well, the clock is ticking, my memory is generally poor and as I grow older, I would like to have something that will help me recall forty eleven thousand things. I have to admit too, that I do miss writing.

I’ve never been confident about my writing.  It’s really very mediocre.  I often mess up my prepositions; my style, if I have one, is way too… untidy, without organization or sequence. But I did fool some people and made a career out of it a few years ago.  The promise of $$$$$ forced me to write about impersonal things that barely matter to me now.  But I moved on, never mind why… and swore that “as God is my witness, I shall never write again!”  I swear I said this Scarlett O-H-like proclamation in front of someone after being asked in a voice oozing with sarcasm if there was anything else I can do. This set me off in a rage.

So, stripped off with that promise of compensation and without much practice, my writing skills grew weaker (Gone with the wind, if I may say so. Talk about a bad pun) and my mind turned into a big pool of doodles.

So here I am, eating my words. I should have added a disclaimer to that theatric: that I meant that I would “never write… for another person ever again.”  I have been writing for as long as I remember.  I wrote short stories when I was six or seven (It wasn’t mind blowing, but still, it was something I enjoyed doing); in school I wrote a lot alongside my bookish circle of friends.  We used to keep journals and take turns writing on them about all kinds of stuff every week. I even remember that my English teacher used to crack up at my humorous writings. It was even predicted in our yearbook that I’d be a writer someday.

So why deny myself the pleasure of writing just because I had a sometimes-exciting-yet-heartbreaking-oh-what-a-waste-but-I-learned-a-lot experience as a ghost writer?

I never hoped to get published.  But I have funny thoughts and I do like to write and I guess this is what matters the most.


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