Imperfectly perfect-my journey to writing.

Illustration credit=Ahra kwon.

I gazed at the laptop screen for few mintues,then I thought well how bad a confession can be,writing has always been a way for me to reveal in words that I wouldn’t rather reveal in speeches.That’s what writers do,we are such smart folks(literally laughing on myself.)Now you must be wondering how perfect made me unhappy.Perfect is an amalgamation of words like any other words,it’s origin being Latin and old French.But this word has the enormous power to scatter lives,and invent a touchstone that is impossible to achieve,but often we found ourselves attached to that word.In response,we do everything to live up to that word’s unobtainable objectives.This makes us a person that we aren’t proud of.

My story of how I began to write and express my thoughts is unlike the tales you heard of how writers perceives that they love writing or how their childhood influences them to become a writer.I was never into writing,or the one who read a lot of books in their younger years.My infant years was filled with Sunday evening dance classes,Tuesday morning painting lessons and swinging the hips to the tune of the Bollywood songs and hair flippings in front of the mirror in a Marilyn Monroe style with missing teeths and a rabbit-ish smile.I dreaded books and preferred to maintain a safe distance from them,and if by any god’s grace I decided to read a book,after a few hours later,my mum would find me sleeping while clutching the book.Books was an anabelle for me cause during childhood I was hardly someone who would seat at one place and read a book for five hours(My future me would have been immensely proud of tiny neha if she ever did that,but she didn’t.My tiny me would be fainting if she saw the future neha.)

Now the interesting part,how I developed such an eternal bond with books.It commenced with my diary keeping habit which led me to confess my hopes,desires,dreams,hurts and every trifling thing I would not rather say it someone.It is much more solicitous to apprise to a person who would never judge you for saying these things that you would not know will ever see the light of the day.I had dreams of flying in the sky(A broom was the inspiration,what’s yours?),marry a boy-band member and have gorgeous hair by the time I reach 20 and be famous.Being a writer was not one of them,but now when I look back I was always a writer more than anything else.My first book that I picked in the teenage years was ‘I too had a love story’ by Ravinder Singh,I reckon my brother bringing it from ‘Book fair’ and I wailed and my eyes and nose was running small rivers by the time I finished reading it.Though I never picked up the book again and it somehow encouraged me to read.Cause mum is never going to scold me for reading too much.

My brother deserves the biggest credit,for he was the one that told me to go for it,this blog and was my first reader.It was his support for everything I did, was the backbone to my strength.Then one day I felt drifted from the thing I dearly loved and was waiting for that one perfect writing that would bedazzle me and my reader’s instantly.This is how ‘perfect’ fooled me,in my writing or in life I am always too picky.It’s good to be picky but when it comes to writing,you have to realize that you have to write,write and write,not giving thoughts to whether the writing is Pulitzer prize level or ‘I will not even read it again’ level.One particular word that I remember when I was returning home one day from the library,me and my friend was chatting in the auto and we were discussing about blogs and a fellow old passenger somehow came to know I write from our conversation and he gave me a piece of advice that stayed with me that ‘Don’t think before writing that what if it turns out to be bad,You have to write in order to make yourself happy.If the writing makes you feel something,then you have succeeded.’

I’ll be honest and say my faith in what I’m doing, and in my path through life, wavers far too often for my liking – but the universe is always sending me reassurance in the most unlikely of places,sometimes through a stranger-an avid book lover.

As my article came close to the cessation,I am no longer unhappy,it’s as if writing which I went away from,grown dis-attached to, pulled me closer through the words I wrote today.

I no longer have desire for being perfect.I would rather be hauntingly honest.

Like a writer.

Honest,raw and humane.

Imperfectly perfect.