Come, sit and have some tea
This is my first post and if I may so admit, I’m terrified to the bone.
It has been a while since I’ve put myself out there, trying to speak to the virtual masses, capturing vignettes of life and letting them tumble out of my mind and into words that will make beautiful sense.
What scares me most is not of lack of content, but lack of discipline and faith in my own craft to nurture this space. Will this blog continue to see the light of the day, month after month, year after year? Will I continue to keep this delicate thought sanctuary of mine rich with words and evocative with memories? Or will I allow my resistance to get the better of me, let it desiccate my creative juices and desire till this blog shrivels into oblivion?
I used to keep two other blogs but they are now six feet under, neglected and forgotten. I fear, with great intensity, that the same fate will befall this one too.
Yet, I’m starting to write again because I’m losing patience with not writing, with empty babble, with perfection and with own self-sabotaging techniques like busying myself with meaningless activities as an alternative to writing. (I’m prone to cycling to the markets and stocking up on groceries, get myself a cup of cappuccino after that, then come home to whip up an elaborate meal for Mister A, my boyfriend and then cleaning up and preparing to go to work after that. The end result is usually, a fridge full of groceries, a burping man and a deflated and guilty writer who hasn’t written.)
I’m writing again because I love writing and always have. My earliest answer to the question of what I’d like to do when I grow up was to be an author.
I’m writing out of my love to narrate and story-tell, out of my love for travelling and my impulse to connect with people via words.
This personal blog that rattles on mainly about travelling has been insisting upon itself for a long time now. I’ve heard its heartbeat while I started to quench my wanderlust by blissfully meandering across continents. I’ve felt the stirrings of the heart, to reach out and share a spectacular existential experience but lack of focus and consistent stability were obstacles that were difficult to overcome. Yet when I’d finally settled somewhere for a good few months, it seemed precocious to write a travel blog when the landscapes weren’t changing. Five, nearly six years later of living out of a suitcase, its time has come.
I’m now writing it with the mindset of what I’ve learned over the past few years as a of traveller, a teacher and a perpetually aspiring writer.
These posts are intended for me to bounce off ideas, indulge in the fleeting moments, expound the art and philosophy of vagabonding, revel in dreamy aspirations, and for me to labour over the craft of writing.
I write it out of love for the mystery of life, for the people who always ask of my whereabouts, and for those who yearn to travel but couldn’t or don’t know where to start. I write it for the people who told me that I’d be crazy not to write. I write it so that the trails and journeys that I’ve taken can remain forever fresh and vivid.
It is my greatest hope that I write tunefully, that my stories will sing and swing.
And perhaps, somebody out there is listening.
Perhaps I’m not the only crazy one here who love to write but for whatever reason, couldn’t and for a long period of time. If you have, how did you overcome the resistance?