It’s not always that I sit down to write
and end up with sensible words to read.
It’s mostly
a mess,
a string of words dangling
like they don’t want to be together
but are forced to be anyway.
Like incoherence is, after all,
what being a writer means.
Sometimes I am so proud of myself
for being courageous enough to scribble the words
when they don’t make sense even to me.
But I put them together
in an attempt to make sense of them
and share them,
and call myself a writer.
That’s bravery, my friend.
You just don’t see the insanity
it takes to be a writer.
The trembling with fear,
the what-ifs questioning my right
to call myself a writer,
the imposter syndrome having its day,
month,
year
at my expense.
Yet I come back to the blank pages
to write what inspires me.
When I string a sentence together,
however feeble it looks,
I find respite in wanting to try
again and again,
even if I fail
again and again.
Sitting here and trying to write
is the best thing ever,
for I’m not just writing
but battling the demons
that constantly try to stop me
from wanting to write.
And perhaps that is all
being a writer asks of me—
to return to the blank page,
despite the fear,
despite the doubt,
despite all the words
that refuse to make sense.
To come back
and try again.
And somehow,
in that trying,
I find respite.
This piece is written in response to the three hundred and fifteenth edition of Fiction Monday inspired by the word prompt – RESPITE hosted by yours truly. Do join in if you have a tale to tell.
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Beyond Scribbles 
You have expressed so beautifully what all of us experience. That fear, that imposter syndrome, the hands shaking before committing words to paper. It’s so real.
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To all these fears, I would also add the fear of revealing too much and too deeply of oneself to the world. Have a beautiful week, dear Vinitha!
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