A/N: This poem was born out of bitterness. I wrote a poem about fireworks, after being completely caught up in the usual feeling of childish glee and heart-is-soaring-in-the-wind feeling that fireworks always give me. I wrote it in a rush, and went to read it out to my mother; my only willing audience.
She made a face at it. She said it was an “O.K poem, not really my usual type”.
I was indignant and affronted; not just at the slight to my poem (which I never thought was brilliant, anyway), but the slight to my courage. I mean the courage it takes to share your poetry and risk criticism. (I was an arrogant little thing) And apparently I had a ‘type’?? Self-loathing comes with writing, I know. I hate what I write, more often than not, but being my writing, I can’t help but feel a sense of responsibility for it. Insulting my writing is like insulting a disappointing child of mine, I may hate it, but its MINE to hate. Thus I stomped off to write another poem.
I’m a pen and paper (or pencil-and-paper) kind of writer. Spiral notebooks are my best friends. But i must move with the times or die. My corpus of writing lies between the pages of diaries, the back of notebooks and little torn scraps of paper. Collating them into this blog should keep me occupied for the times when I have nothing to say. Right now, for instance. This will be my digital spiral notebook. Here goes old nothings!
So, I finally got down to opening a blog, years behind everyone else, it seems. However, better late than never, and the urge to share what you write is one of the most primal urges a writer has. Wow, that’s a lot of repeated words. I write, for myself, first of all, but after a while, being in an audience of 1 can be lonely. I believe a work of art receives additional value from being consumed. The person who reads it leaves behind a trace, like saliva. So, that’s a kind of addition.
But writing *with* an audience in mind is something I find difficult. Its like sleeping on a stage. I don’t know if that makes sense. A work of art must first be born out of the artist’s need to create it, to birth it. It begins inside the artist, like an embryo, so giving birth to it becomes absolutely necessary. Otherwise, it can rot away, inside. I’d like to think that’s why cavemen began to draw. Or talk to each other. After all, thoughts are art. And language is thoughts. And language is not language unless it is shared.
If you understood any of this, congrats. That makes one of us.