Ah, the dream of writing a book—a tantalising vision that dances at the edge of every aspiring author’s mind. For many, it remains just that: a dream. As someone who juggles the myriad of the usual responsibilities of a job, the relentless demands of parenthood, and the never-ending quest for academic excellence, the mere thought of penning a tome can seem as fantastical as riding a unicorn through a rainbow. The Journey is The Goal.
I, too, have been seduced by the siren call of the literary world. The allure of seeing my name emblazoned across the cover of a best-seller, the prospect of book signings, and the smug satisfaction of being referred to as ‘the author’. Yet, every time I sit down to write, reality slaps me squarely in the face. Ideas that seemed brilliant in the shower evaporate under the harsh light of the computer screen. Plot twists that felt original morph into clichés. Characters refuse to develop beyond their cardboard cut-out stages.
Being a perfectionist doesn’t help. Every sentence is scrutinised, every word weighed and measured, and inevitably found wanting. The blank page becomes an adversary, mocking my every attempt to fill it. Meanwhile, the obligations of daily life do not pause to accommodate my literary aspirations. There’s a job that demands my attention, children whose needs are endless, and let’s not forget the academic pursuits that threaten to drown me in a sea of assignments and deadlines.
It’s a delicate balancing act, this life. And in the midst of it all, finding the mental and emotional space to write seems impossible. The perfectionist in me is paralysed by the fear of failure. After all, what’s the point of writing if it never gets published? And even if it does, will it be any good? The publishing world is a harsh mistress, and the odds are stacked against success.
Yet, there is a stubborn ember that refuses to be extinguished. A small voice that whispers, ‘Just write.’ Not for the accolades, not for the hope of publication, but for the sheer love of it. For the catharsis it brings, the joy of creation, the thrill of seeing one’s thoughts take shape on the page. Perhaps that’s the secret: to write not with the end in mind, but with the journey as the goal.
So, I soldier on, embracing the chaos, the imperfection, the uncertainty. I write in stolen moments, amidst the clamour of daily life. And maybe, just maybe, one day, I’ll have a book to show for it. But until then, I’ll keep dreaming, keep writing, and keep believing that the story is worth telling, even if it’s just for me.
From Block to Breakthrough
Perhaps, in the grand tapestry of a writer’s journey, writer’s block is less a barrier and more a mirror. A mirror that reflects our deepest anxieties, our fear of judgment, our preoccupation with external validation. It turns the simple act of writing—a process that should be as natural as breathing—into a battleground of self-doubt and second-guessing. We become so entangled in the web of potential criticism and hypothetical failures that we forget the very reasons we began to write in the first place.
For me, writing is a form of expression. It is the canvas on which I paint my thoughts, the stage on which I perform my innermost musings. If someone were to read my work and derive pleasure or insight from it, I would be lying if I said I didn’t wish for that. But it isn’t my goal. My goal is the act itself—the achievement of creating something from nothing. I write because I enjoy it, and because I know I can do it.
This desire to write harks back to my 15-year-old self, a time when report cards consistently came back with that dreaded phrase: “Full of potential, needs to apply themselves further.” I always hated that phrase. It was a sentence that offered no clarity, no advice, just an ambiguous call to do better without a roadmap on how to get there.
Writing, then, becomes my response to that ambiguity. It is a pursuit of enjoyment, a hobby, a release. And perhaps this blog, these short and sweet stories and articles, is the precursor to that book I’ve always dreamed of writing. It’s a place for the random thoughts that pop into my brain, a space where I can practice and refine my craft without the pressure of perfection.
So, I write not to meet anyone’s expectations but my own. I write to give voice to the thoughts and ideas that swirl within me. I write to honour the potential I was told I had, to apply myself in a way that feels authentic and fulfilling. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
Leave a Reply