A Different Feeling

It’s been a while since I wrote something other than fiction. Actually, it feels like it’s been a long time since I wrote anything. This might or might not have anything to do with… I don’t really know what it has anything to do with, really. I just know that these days, I don’t usually feel like writing about anything specific. And I’ll talk about that in a bit.

First, I think it’s time I stopped keeping the secret and spilled.

Over half a year ago, I started learning to knit, simply because I could. And, honestly speaking, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Once I finished an actual project (which was a hat for my cousin), crocheting was suddenly at the front of my mind.

I can’t say I’ve made crocheted anything grand yet, but just the thought of the beauties gets me going. I’m planning on making a granny square blanket.

Time and again, I’ve wanted to write about my newfound love for yarn, but I just couldn’t get my thoughts together.

And that brings me to what I’ve been holdig back for at least  four months now.

This all started when my mother said she doesn’t think fiction is worth much. Her words terrified me. Fiction is something I love, after all.

Fast forward to now, whenever I hear about something tragedic, and the people who are telling me are completely heartbroken, or appear to be so, it takes me a long, and I mean an unusually long time to feel what they feel. Barely anything bothers me at all, and I realised a long time ago that for me to write about anything I have to care about it on a personal level.

Maybe that’s why, I write less and less sharable content, and less and less content in general, these days. No, this isn’t another bout of my seemingly ever present writers’ block. It’s just a realization of what I need to actually get me pumped. But it’s still interfering with what and how I write.

After a fiasco at a prize giving ceremony for a writing competition I helped organize (because I’m the co founder of the club that hosted it– well, whaddya know? another secret), I wrote about the fiasco. While I like how it turned out, I’m not anywhere near ready to put it out into the world.

And since then, I find myself wanting to write about things that happen to other people. But I can’t, because when I try to justify their actions, I feel as if I’m lying.

Any ideas on how I should tackle this situation? Have you ever been in a situation simialr to this? Do share in the comments.

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Author: anankhan98

When I close my eyes, I see myself as a writer. I see a pale blank page in front of me and feel a solid pen in my hand. I feel inspiration flowing through me, hear the words being whispered in my ears, ready to be written. And I see myself writing them. So, I write. And that is why I am here right now. To let the world know that I want to become better at this. That there is this unbelievably naive living in this corner of the world, who wants to have people help her become the best she can become. My focus is actually on fiction. I dream up stories in my sleep, literally. And I can't help but want to write them. Knowing English only as a second language is a drawback, though. I still try.

7 thoughts on “A Different Feeling”

  1. ” I realised a long time ago that for me to write about anything I have to care about it on a personal level.”

    I agree. This is how I think, too, Anan. I write only fictions that I feel an ache inside. (mostly, my stories are dark).

    I am not sure if I can offer any wise words for you, because I believe you are wiser my friend. 🙂 I think you just do what makes your writer-self happy. 🙂 (A cliche, but that’s all I can offer). 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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