Fida Hussain Sodagar
Writing is an act of expression. It is an art of transforming the clutter inside into words. It is a pen, paper and the silence that creates the entire ambiance. Writing freezes thoughts, emotions, and pain on a piece of paper. It is the bleeding of silence. What we don’t say, we write. What we write become timeless. It becomes the history and literature. Writing is peace, solace, bless, bliss, misery, pain, happiness and the sadness. It torments you into words and it brings your broken pieces together. Writing is never good or bad. Writing is writing. What we write, it is worth to read. The words are true to the heart and the soul. Great writers like Charles Dickens, George Orwell and many other literary stars have frozen time. They are immortal. They gained name and fame. They wrote fearlessly. That is the power to write.
As rightly anticipated by Willian H. Gass “The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words,”. The words are more precious than gold. They are the diamonds. They represent us. They identify us. They are the autumn and the summer. They are the spring and the winter. Words capture moments. They romanticize the torn hearts. Writing beautifies tragedy. It is a mystery on paper. Gorge Orwell in one of his quotes project that “If people cannot write well, they cannot think well, and if they cannot think well, others will do their thinking for them.” When others think for you, you are dead. You are lifeless. You exist in non existence. You don’t tell the story inside you. You bury it and that is what makes you the graveyard of stories. You write your story and you become immortal. You become history and you mark the world.
George Orwell in one of his pieces titled “Why I Write” picks up the threads of being a writer and to scratch the very concept of motivation for writing. He says that “all writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality.
To sum the entire scene:
Within my pen what words are pent, What mystery, what merriment!
It hath a door, my pen, somewhere, And what a throng is waiting there!
Bright thoughts are standing all about, And quivering to be let out.
O could I find the golden key, Open the door and set them free!
Writing scripts creativity. Creativity is reality. Words flow like a river. They don’t end. They wash away the souls of the tormented. Writing is a tragedy and it is mystery. It is the beginning and the end. Writing is bliss in pain. Writing is eternity. That is the end of our death. We exist through our words. Writing is forever presence and existence.
—The author holds a P.G in Mass Communication and Journalism and writes on diverse issues. He can be reached at: firstname.lastname@example.org