I could never keep a journal for long. Oh, I’d try. When I see a beautiful notebook or a fancy journal at a bookstore, I’d pick one up and make a mental note to start writing one. I’d start it, but I’d never finish it.
Over the past 16 years or so, this column has sort of served as my journal. It documents, without going too much into detail, my feelings, frustrations and insights on life. After working for a year, I got the opportunity to write this column from my then-editor. My motive then was simple: If I had a deadline to meet, I would force myself to write.
It turns out, I was right. Had I not had the pressure of a deadline, I wouldn’t have continued to write. And the thing about writing, as with any skill, is that if one doesn’t use it, one could very well lose it. These days, personal writing is no longer just a skill. It’s no longer just a pastime either. I haven’t written a poem or a short story since… I can’t even remember. But it has become, as one of my good friends would tell me, a way to gather not just my thoughts but my very self.
So I was greatly surprised when after a fruitful pilgrimage that lasted almost three weeks ended, I was left speechless. I imagined myself scribbling away every moment of the trip, trying to capture the emotions that flitted in and out of my heart and to make sense of the myriad of insights and prayers that crossed my mind. But there was nothing. Only tears.
A fellow columnist and pilgrim jokingly told me: surely that experience must have been worth about four columns at the least. But I’ve not written a single one. Last week, I met up with another good friend and far more brilliant writer than myself. His advice (more or less): Thinking of it in four short columns is one way to do it. But maybe you can think of it, too, as one long essay. You wouldn’t even need to publish it. You can be writing just for yourself.
And so I followed his advice. I sat down about 30 minutes each day and I began to write. For the first time in a long time, I began to write without knowing where I was going. The memories of the pilgrimage came flooding back. I had the opportunity to savor one experience a day and I finally found the words.
I don’t know when or where or how that essay will end. I don’t know if I’ll ever show it to anyone. But for now, it is reminding me of why I write in the first place – to converse with the deepest part of myself.