Vulcan Mind Meld
I enjoy writing and seeing how everyone seems to write a blog these days and never having been one for original thought; I decided to try "blogging" as well. But now that the blog is established and a name assigned ( Thanks, Nasir) there is sadly nothing to write about.
I find myself suffering from stage fright at the thought that other people might read the rumbling of my mind and my idiocy will be confirmed. Quite the indecent exposure for someone who has made a life long philosophy out of : keep your mouth shut and people might think you wise, open it and everyone will know better but then of course better sense prevailed and the realization that a blog does not mean readers. I can happily ramble on and other than Nasir, myself and my one and only ardent fan - my mother, no one will read it and I have already exposed myself in front of all three of us many a time.
So why write? I have pondered that one. For writers like Ken Folleth, Tom Clancy, Joyce Carol Oates it's probably a combination of a love for writing and the realization that hey, other people actually like it enough to pay to read you that keeps them at the grindstone. For someone like me though, there is no reason to write except that is what I have always done ever since I learnt how to write. My first poem was in kindergarten about a boy in my class who I detested and it never stopped. Things I am not able to say, I write. There is no reason for it. The stuff I write is private in the sense that having any one else read it fills me with anxiety - that fear of exposure but at the same time, I know I like other people to read some of the things I write. I guess I am looking for validation- that pat on the back or even better for someone to grasp a thought and say that they thought it too. May be, all writing is born of loneliness and reading is a way to connect with someone else's mind - a Vulcan mind meld but human-style.
I find myself suffering from stage fright at the thought that other people might read the rumbling of my mind and my idiocy will be confirmed. Quite the indecent exposure for someone who has made a life long philosophy out of : keep your mouth shut and people might think you wise, open it and everyone will know better but then of course better sense prevailed and the realization that a blog does not mean readers. I can happily ramble on and other than Nasir, myself and my one and only ardent fan - my mother, no one will read it and I have already exposed myself in front of all three of us many a time.
So why write? I have pondered that one. For writers like Ken Folleth, Tom Clancy, Joyce Carol Oates it's probably a combination of a love for writing and the realization that hey, other people actually like it enough to pay to read you that keeps them at the grindstone. For someone like me though, there is no reason to write except that is what I have always done ever since I learnt how to write. My first poem was in kindergarten about a boy in my class who I detested and it never stopped. Things I am not able to say, I write. There is no reason for it. The stuff I write is private in the sense that having any one else read it fills me with anxiety - that fear of exposure but at the same time, I know I like other people to read some of the things I write. I guess I am looking for validation- that pat on the back or even better for someone to grasp a thought and say that they thought it too. May be, all writing is born of loneliness and reading is a way to connect with someone else's mind - a Vulcan mind meld but human-style.