A year ago, I promised myself to write more. I wrote it down on my planner along with the list of other resolutions (almost all of which were fulfilled by the way). By writing more, I was actually thinking of those journal-type writing. I wanted to write about simple everyday things that capture my attention. It was a wish magnified by what I perceived as a need to end the protracted drought of literary pursuits.
By some twist of fate, I ended up doing a lot of technical writing. At the outset, I knew I was getting into something I am totally clueless about. But I considered it as an opportunity to do what I want. After all, I didn’t exactly specify what it was that I wanted to write. I just said I wanted to write more. And the job entailed a lot of writing, albeit only technical stuff.
It’s quite ironic that for someone who loves techie stuff, I’m probably the least technical person I know. But since I am what I am, I persevered and stuck to doing something that was quickly eroding my confidence.
And today, I realized that I’m far from being the kind of writer that this job is honing me to become. While the events that led to this ramblings really broke my heart, I remain steadfast in my wish to continue writing. I’ve just released myself from self-inflicted burdens that were killing my desire to write.
Is it escapism to leave something that’s not making me happy? Probably. People do tend to look at things based on personal beliefs and convictions. I’m equally guilty of hastily making judgments. But experience has taught me that most things don’t fit in boxes that are kept as symbols and sources of comfort and stability. I wouldn’t have done the things I’ve done had I stayed in those places and moments that were slowly killing my spirit. And I wouldn’t have learned the things I’ve learned.