The act of writing was rarely about what you wanted to say to others. Naturally, some idiot sitting on a comfortable chair writing some corporate one-liner may feel the urge to get off their seat, armed with a platitude on articulation and clear thought on a placard with space for two-hundred and eighty characters. I reckon they should sit down and do what they do best—but it’s not writing.
Writing was a dialogue. It began in your own head, as you struggled to make sense of experience, of which there was no dearth if you kept your senses open, especially your eyes. It began with the voice echoing in your head as you sat in a bar with the people you grew up with, a drink too many sometimes to make it stop for once. If you’ve heard the voice, though, you know that never worked.
It then became a conversation between you and a blank page; whether the page was on paper or glass was irrelevant. Anyone who thought it mattered might fare better in sales than writing. Not that I would know how one fares better in either; I tend to fail at both. Rarely, in a feat of genius, the conversation happened in a minute. Sometimes, it took days. Often, it took years.
The conversation never ended. Writing was imitation. You went to the greats if you failed. You often failed. You sat in the sun, a dark room, a bus or a train, and wherever you could read what was written before. More often than not, without you asking, the greats lent a hand. All your words sounded like theirs until they started becoming yours one day. The page guided you from that point on.
Then, you wrote until the voice stopped. It never stopped.