Image via LitHub
For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to identify as a writer. I have, however, struggled with answering the question — Who is a writer? When I had first encountered the joy of making something out of words, I was satisfied with writing in my notebook. Once that was not enough, I started writing to share with the world. I wrote on Instagram. Later, I moved on to writing on WordPress. Gradually, I also published. My writing evolution came about as I aged. From an emo, lovelorn teen pining on Instagram, I became the “too annoying because she takes herself too seriously” author on Wordpress. And finally, I donned the “must be credible because she has published in digital spaces” aura. None of this, however, has made me feel comfortable about calling myself a writer. That is because I hardly write what I really want to.
Initially, I was too intimidated. What if what I wrote was horrible? Chances are, it was. Chances are, it still is. I think often about how Ira Glass spoke about the creative process — “All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work.”
After years of being crippled by my own standards of taste, I have learned to be gentle – both towards the world and my own self. Over the years, I have become comfortable with mediocre writing. I understand writing takes labour. It takes hours of sitting and reading, and letting what you read reach you. It takes hours of merely thinking of writing as you carry on with your life. My cat injured her paw, I must rush her to the vet — hmm, what to write about next? Last week, a flood washed away thousands of lives — why am I writing what I am writing? I have to be at this party — when should I write? And just when you get through all the crooked dents of life, comes the most important task of all — long and agonising hours of sitting and writing. It takes bitter patience to scratch our way around — from scribbling incoherently to writing with rigour. Susan Sontag once said, “A writer, like an athlete, must “train” every day. What did I do today to keep in “form”. I now know how to answer the question we began with — Who is a writer? A writer is someone who keeps in form against the orders of life.
I have been out of form, but I have also been scared of form. This means that while I struggle a lot with how to classify what I write. More often than not, what I write is not worthy of being translated into the kind of writing I see around me. Things I think of cannot be written as reported pieces, or articles. This is not casual self-depreciation. For instance, I just think some of my thoughts would work better as pieces of satire. Sadly, that is not a form much appreciated in the Indian short form publishing landscape. I could write them as personal essays, but you also grow too bored of your own self sooner or later. Certain moments, I also think that I am far too young to write with authority. There’s a dearth of experience to enrich my writing. On other days, I think there are perhaps too many people out there to get you every time you write something. I don’t want my words to be set in stone. I need space to breathe and change. I don’t want to be cancelled for being confused. This Substack is my attempt to embrace form – in practice. I want to be consistent. There’s no way around the drudgery of discipline. Most importantly, I want to write what I want. I want to mould form itself, and balance its malleability.
When I was a young child, I would visit local town fairs. At some of these fairs, I would see a gigantic castle of rubber, inflated with air — commonly called a jumping jack. This jumping jack was flimsy, but it held its ground with a grip. My tiny, sweaty body would jump on this large balloon, and I would go flailing around in joy. I would be out of breath, but I would manage to shape my body like an aeroplane, with my arms in form — swimming in mid-air. To my readers — you’re my jumping jack. I am floating in the air, and if you stick around long enough, I will get into form.
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Dear Muskaan, you are a wonderful story weaver!! I love the way, you convey your thoughts in your writing! Great going, dear girl!! And, I will be your 'Jumping Jack'! And I plan to stick around, not only to see you shape up your writing and get into form, but also to enjoy your writing!
Best of luck!!!