You write what you like to. You write, taking inspiration from all around you. You write because it’s your hobby. You write to make yourself useful. You write to express who you are, what you are, and how you are. You dream and pen down your fantasies. Your writing does not become yours. You become what your writing is. But what if it all ends? What if you are not able to write again? What if your inspirations turn a blind eye on you? What if you are not able to be you?
Stephen King writes ‘Fiction is the truth inside the lie’. He also says that humor is almost always anger with make-up on. But is that make up necessary? Can we as a society no longer engage in conversation truly, with no poetic phrases, no stories, no rhetoric and no lies to hide beneath? Is it possible for us to trade our beautifully worded lies for truths and our stories for the people to tell them instead?
Cartoons..done, poetry..nah, facts..too TWE. How about racism? Oh no, I feel it is too controversial, let’s not do this. Oh God! I have been staring at my laptop for more than an hour right now and haven’t been able to write a single word. Wait, why can’t I write about not having any ideas?