I have always been told that I write well, and at the risk of sounding modest, I seldom believed it, although I loved it more than anything. That however didn't stop me from writing.
During school days it was essays and poems, during college nothing much changed, and then I joined the corporate bandwagon. In the rigmarole of events my writing skills found an outlet in emails, training modules, appraisals, speeches, MC scripts, write-ups for events, invitation messages, recommendations, testimonials, citations, and even escalations.
People come to me to proofread and correct their emails, resumes, invites and what not. My words found it's outlet in many avenues but the thoughts were not mine.
The well of creativity, if any, started drying up. I found myself unable to even to conceive the thought of writing, for myself.
However, every now and then I would let myself entertain the thought of liberating the confined thoughts in my head, help them escape and then catch them one by one, wrap them in pretty words and let them run amok.
I am not good with narratives and the world knows me as miss-goody-two-shoes to ever let me pen down the scandalous opinions I have around the realities of the world. I was told I have a dry cynical sense of humour so comedy is not something I can fiddle with either.
What then do I write? Maybe the fact that all these years my writings were directed and warranted by others, my own thoughts lie in some dark abyss of my mind that I am currently unable to reach. If ever I reach that place, the internet will definitely be burdened with making place for another blog, which like this one will sit hidden from the rest of the world.
This confirms my response to a friend's cheeky quatrain:
Wisdom I claim to have none
Mere dalliance with words I seek.
Clandestine in nature perhaps,
But I know my pursuit is daft.
During school days it was essays and poems, during college nothing much changed, and then I joined the corporate bandwagon. In the rigmarole of events my writing skills found an outlet in emails, training modules, appraisals, speeches, MC scripts, write-ups for events, invitation messages, recommendations, testimonials, citations, and even escalations.
People come to me to proofread and correct their emails, resumes, invites and what not. My words found it's outlet in many avenues but the thoughts were not mine.
The well of creativity, if any, started drying up. I found myself unable to even to conceive the thought of writing, for myself.
However, every now and then I would let myself entertain the thought of liberating the confined thoughts in my head, help them escape and then catch them one by one, wrap them in pretty words and let them run amok.
I am not good with narratives and the world knows me as miss-goody-two-shoes to ever let me pen down the scandalous opinions I have around the realities of the world. I was told I have a dry cynical sense of humour so comedy is not something I can fiddle with either.
What then do I write? Maybe the fact that all these years my writings were directed and warranted by others, my own thoughts lie in some dark abyss of my mind that I am currently unable to reach. If ever I reach that place, the internet will definitely be burdened with making place for another blog, which like this one will sit hidden from the rest of the world.
This confirms my response to a friend's cheeky quatrain:
Wisdom I claim to have none
Mere dalliance with words I seek.
Clandestine in nature perhaps,
But I know my pursuit is daft.
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