Not a Writer, But I Write…

The word ‘writer’ always felt too big for me. In my imagination, writers are serious people with typewriters, rejection slips, and a touch of existential despair. They write about everything under the sun—world politics, global affairs, climate change, war, art, even the rise and fall of civilizations—and quote literary giants with an ease I can only dream of!

But still, I just love them… and, with a pinch of jealousy, quietly admire them from the sidelines.

While they explore vast worlds, I carry a running commentary in my head, mostly about silly things, like what kind of dreams my cat has when she sleeps, or what the leaves still clinging to trees think when the ones next to them start to fall.

In my twenties and thirties, I didn’t write stories or blog posts—not because I lacked stories, but because I had too many, and never enough time to sit with any of them. I didn’t even read the way I do now. But my head was always full of imaginary tales.

Back then, I used to imagine alternate endings to Malayalam movies. I created characters in my head and gave them dialogues at the most unexpected times—sometimes the night before an exam, or while standing in the crowd at a temple festival.

Even now, I often think many movie endings could’ve been better if I were the scriptwriter!

If daydreaming had a degree, I might’ve passed with flying colours. My final project would be on what ants chat about while marching in a line. I might even publish a paper on whether bookmarks secretly judge me for never finishing the books.

When I entered my midlife, the noise quieted. The urge to write grew stronger. I believed the words would finally find their way out. But they didn’t. They remained trapped in my mind, like people stuck in an elevator between floors, pressing buttons, waiting to be freed.

During that time, one dark morning, my Papa disappeared from this world without a hint, and my world turned upside down. I was completely lost. The vacuum he left behind was soon filled with unfamiliar noise of my own thoughts, louder than ever.

But then I began to wonder if sound could even travel through a vacuum.

Out of that silence, one day, I heard a faint peep—as if a newborn bird had just cracked open its shell. I waited. Slowly, more shells began to open, and soon I saw the chicks chirping around me.

They weren’t really birds at all—they were words that had been stuck inside me, waiting to be born. And then, one day, the cage cracked and finally burst open. A blog post happened!

Eventually, I began writing. Still, the words came slowly, hesitating like introverts at a loud party.

Now, I write more often—not because I’ve grown wiser or overflow with ideas, but because the weight of not writing feels heavier than the fear of not being read. And yes, I do have more free time now!

They say serious writers slip into an alpha state when they write, where the world fades, time slows, and words begin to find their rhythm.

But I’m not quite there yet. Even when I’m deep in writing, I can still smell the sambar just before it boils over or sense exactly when the dosa needs flipping.

Somewhere along the way, with the courage I gained from blogging, I started writing a few stories, thinking I’d eventually weave them into a novel. Some are half-baked, some nearly done, and a few have burnt edges.

They now live in a password-protected folder on my laptop, neatly titled and mostly ignored. I haven’t opened it in a while—not because I don’t care, but because I care too much.

I’m afraid that if I peek inside, the stories might not recognize me. Or worse—I might not recognize them. At worst, they’ve become frozen stories by now!

Will the characters in those stories still speak the same way? Will I?

But I’m sure the characters are still there, right where I dropped them—unsure if they fractured anything when I let them fall.

Sometimes, I picture them as patients in the OP wing: some in wheelchairs, some on stretchers, some with no visible signs of pain. Waiting quietly but anxiously. Hoping I’ll finally call them in and listen to the aches that hold them back. And prescribe a gentle plot twist they hadn’t imagined even in their wildest dreams!

Maybe someday, when the hesitation softens and the fear of writing fades, I’ll return to them. Still, a blank page stares at me like it already knows why I’m avoiding it. And that’s what scares me!

As time passes, we all become stories. Or characters in someone else’s story. Stories people tell—daily, weekly, monthly, yearly—and then, slowly… not at all.

P.S. Every writer’s journey is different, but sometimes they cross paths—quietly reading each other’s posts without the other ever knowing, without ever saying a word. Just hoping to glimpse that quiet theory of mind: the way someone sees, feels, and thinks through their words…