I just realised its International Writer’s Day and I cannot stop thinking about how important writing is to me. It has kept me sane and grounded, and been a source of endless satisfaction. I won’t lie. I love being appreciated for what I write on SubStack, in op-eds and academic papers, etc. Much of my self-esteem is built on my ability to communicate, and getting kicks out of folks reading what I write is natural. Yet, it is the writing I do for myself (that I show no one) that is the most authentic and gives me the most pleasure.
I write a personal diary. I started as a teen and returned to it in my 40s after a long break. Most of my diary entries are staccato and unstructured. I allow my mood to lead the way and let my mind wander where it will. And words flow on paper. On occasion, I am able to be simultaneously spontaneous and lucid.
On the morning after a terrible showdown with a loved one, in the still of the night after a busy day, in the airplane while reading a difficult book. Whenever I find myself in the eye of my stormy life, in that rare moment of pause, the words explode out like truth bombs, telling me what I must hear (however unpalatable), releasing the chaos inside, rinsing me clean. To illustrate, I’m sharing a few excerpts from different entries.
On failure
Following an intense discussion about parenting and what kinds of success parameters we set out for our children, I soul searched all night about what I really believe in as I struggle to fight my social conditioning. This is what I wrote the next morning:
Failure is the inability to retain our humanity in the face of the trials and tribulations of life's experiences, parenting included. Failure is the inability to work towards becoming a better human every day. Failure is not loving yourself and your dear ones fiercely and unconditionally. Failure is passing on traumas others do not deserve; equally, the refusal to process and bury your own.
On writing and embodied emotion
In May last year, shortly after finishing the
memoir writing workshop, I wrote about the link between emotions and words, and my urge to listen to what my body tells me. Reading my writing later reminded me that I must allow myself to feel.Writing is a powerful tool to analyse and document what you are already working through in life. It is not as if you can lead an inauthentic life and produce words that appear honest and resonate deeply with readers. When you assign words to those deep feelings, to your struggles and dilemmas, your writing shifts. The workshop taught me that it is the same as reading. I now know to feel what I read in my gut, read with the gut and not with the mind. Aanchal Malhotra's 'The Book of Everlasting Things' begins with the protagonist smelling with his gut. Just pages into her book, I felt my stomach heave with emotions and tears trickle down my face. A good book must make you feel like you are in it; it must make your body language shift. This is a very important revelation. In this sense, memoir and fiction are more alike than different.
On privilege
I am intensely critical of myself and this emerges clearly in my writing. I have learnt to be kinder but holding myself upto very high standards is something I learnt very early in life. I have accepted it is not going to change much. Here’s an excerpt from a reflection I wrote about my own privilege.
While growing up, I was not deprived of anything, but I wanted many things I could not have. I dreamt incessantly about owning a pair of corduroy jeans for months before I actually got my hands on one. Many other such material things were objects of my fancy. Often I knew it was empty desire, and I did not even seriously want them. At other times, I desperately desired things. But I never asked for them. Growing up in the 80s to parents who were government servants, we are an entire generation of Indians who were well aware of our parents' limited incomes and India's closed economy. Foreign objects were rare, and of course we lusted for them! I suppose I was among the lucky few with foreign relatives and parents who occasionally traveled outside India. And I knew that was a form of privilege.
I have an entirely different relationship with privilege today. I am privileged on so many counts that I cannot comprehend what that really means. Even if I were to unpack this entirely in my head, I have no idea what it would mean to behave as if I was not affected by my many forms of privilege. Though I believe I have the ability to conduct relationships with a certain amount of humanity and humility, I have been privileged too long to know how to cast off those layers while interacting with those who do not have the same privileges as me. I suppose it is not humanly possible to do so, and perhaps even inauthentic, but I do wish I could think from a position of some distance from my privilege.
If you are wondering why I am sharing these lines here, it is really very simple. In my 40s, I have realised that the most important relationship in my life is the one I have with myself. The power my words have over me is paramount. Writing is my self-talk and regular, authentic writing offers me a lot more control over my own thoughts and emotions. At the very least, I have a way to understand myself. It may sound quite mad, but I think I have grown a lot by going back and reading my own diary entries. The truth bombs that emerge with blinding clarity in my notes to myself are very precious. They are unfiltered, raw and powerful. They make me believe. In me.
And that is everything.
Go Mukta!!!
True Mukta, we are always the rawest and our truest selves in our diaries.