On reading and writing....

“To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all the miseries of life.”

— W. Somerset Maugham

“Writing is a way of talking without being interrupted.”

— Jules Renard

A whole year has passed, and we’re already at the second anniversary of this blog.

When I wrote last year to commemorate this day, I paid homage to Lata Mangeshkar in the piece about the Na’at from Mughal-e-Azam, ‘Bekas Pe Karam Kijiye’. As I said, a year has passed, during which I have written much and published some: a total of 16 entries for this blog; also, a year in which I have anxiously watched my thoughts being read by others, of having them discussed critically, and a year of growing through criticism.

I have now found that what my teachers said in school (my English teacher among them) was in some measure true: I do have a flair for expression and do write well. Even if I hear noises of disgust at this blatant display of self-congratulation and immodesty, I must claim your indulgence for a while. When I first commenced this blog, its original purpose was only to serve as a space to air my thoughts. I did not share the entries with any but my closest friends. For weeks I agonised over whether to let others into the secret, and when I finally announced it on FB I was pleasantly surprised at the positive response. Perhaps readers thought this was a one-off attempt, unlikely to be repeated, and so they did not realise the danger of encouraging me. Or perhaps they really liked what I wrote. Whatever the cause, they did respond positively, and they surely created that dangerous creature: a writer (however modest). My initial resolution of not seeking public approval for what was, after all, a purely personal endeavour was completely forgotten, and I soon found myself worrying about the fate of every fresh entry I posted on the blog site. Why did some posts do well while others not so much? What would the public like? Should I write for public approval, or remain true to my original purpose and write only what pleased me and not care for what others thought?

The answer, alas, is not so easy to give. My ‘Bitter Half’ goes straight to the heart of the matter when he questions my motives in writing the blog: do I want to keep these entries private, or do I want to attract readership? If the former, I should not have put up my thoughts into the public domain; if the latter, then I must ensure I provide those who are kind enough to read my posts with reading material of their interest. I do agree with his reasoning, but the innate habit of self-doubt and over-thinking makes me wonder if this is not in some way hypocritical. Having declaimed all these years against the ‘pathetic’ desire for posturing, am I not now going down the same path? Perhaps the answer is not difficult at all; perhaps it only seems difficult because it is one to which I do not want to own up.

There had been a time when I found the modern need for appreciation and approval displayed by a large percentage of the population to be puerile. I now find I can understand, even sympathise with, the source of that need. Of late, I find that I have begun to succumb to the lure of catering to the demand for material that people actually want to read about. In an attempt to secure my 15 minutes of fame I find myself looking for topics to increase readership and approval. Pathetic? Perhaps. Natural? Yes, I guess. (I can almost see the smirks that taunt me for having conformed to the almost universal need for approval.) This blog site is, in short, no longer my space. So, do I want this blog site to be my personal space only or do I want my opinions to draw the applause of an admiring multitude? I’d really rather not answer that, please. If you choose to see this as posturing, so be it.

Coming to the related question of why I chose this method – that is, writing – of posturing: I can only honestly claim that that is what I do well. Also, being a teacher helps me to hold forth endlessly on my views, whether or not anyone wants to hear them. A teacher is, after all, a performer with a readymade audience.

Another reason is that having once got into the habit of expressing my thoughts in this way I find the act of writing itself to be immensely cathartic. Again, this is not a new idea; the newness only consists in discovering its truth for myself. Writing helps clarify my thoughts, helps me to analyse patterns in life and literature, even to chart my own development over time. Earlier I used to experience withdrawal symptoms if I went without reading for a few days; I experience the same symptoms now if I don’t write.

Of course, not everything I scribble down is published on the blog; even what does eventually get published is not the same as what was originally set down on paper. I find that between the conception and the actual blog post my thoughts crystallise, I find better ways to express myself. I have read of writers’ claims that some of the plot developments in their own work had surprised even them. I had failed to understand how that could be. What I had failed to appreciate then is that even if the story being told originates in the mind of the writer, it soon takes on a life of its own and decides to tell itself. This is not dissimilar to a growing child who wants to move out of the sphere of its parents’ (in the current context, the writer’s) influence and to control and live its own life. This can sometimes be rather frightening for the parents (or writer). What is even more frightening is that the parents (or writer) may not even like the final product very much because it is so far removed from the original conception. (The English teacher in me wants very much to point out the parallels to Frankenstein here, but I shall desist.)

So why I am talking so much about my writing? And what of my first love: reading? Well, I feel that writing is the natural progression from reading. It’s because the more one reads the better one gets at expressing oneself, either through speech or writing. The glimpse one gets of other minds helps one to develop one’s own; being in touch with so much greatness cannot fail to leave behind some imprint on the receiver’s mind, no matter how pedestrian it may originally be. Sooner or later the thoughts inspired by others’ work seek expression through oneself.

Thus is a writer (who may also be seen as a Frankenstein’s monster) born.