I've Been Bitten By The Writing Bug
I wanted to write since I could read.
But I found a billion reasons not to. No mojo. No time. And my favourite — nothing new to write about. Who would waste their time reading what I write? Years passed, life happened, and “writing” went from my ambition to an ignored chore.
Then serendipity struck — I discovered Medium. #LockdownLife meant no commute. No commute meant free-time. Time in which I could read, contemplate and allow ideas to simmer. I stumbled upon the golden trio: time, idea and #content. For the first time in a decade and a half, I opened a blank Word document.
And the adrenaline came rushing back.
The writer’s high is legit. Going from zero words to an article per week was a cosmic leap for me. Converting a blank page into 2.5k claps was empowering. Experimenting with style, agonising over feature images, tweaking headlines…these became dopamine-inducing rushes.
Was it the positive feedback? The engaged audience? The autonomy? It certainly wasn’t the paltry cash.
The symptoms were showing. I had fallen prey to the writing bug. And I loved it.
I wrote through hangovers. Between work meetings. In my sleep. In the midst of hunger pangs. Through mental blocks and Arsenal matches. During late-nights, morning-walks and gym workouts. On the toilet. In traffic jams.
This wasn’t a chore — it was a fever. The bloody, beautiful, bastard writing bug.
I am writing this as I wait for my food to be delivered (I skipped cooking so I could write).
I started with writing about the books I read. I now write about my day, the TV shows I watch, the movies I sit through and long-forgotten stories. I feel there are writing prompts everywhere. My inner voice was subdued and quiet. Now, it rages and demands to be expressed. Each day feels incomplete unless I publish something.
Is this fruitful? Is my quality suffering? Am I neglecting life? Am I providing value to my readers? Are these just the ramblings of a disease-ridden mentalist?
Yes. No. I don’t care. It feels good. It nourishes my soul.
I gaslit myself into not writing. I conjured up imaginary psychological demons to procrastinate. I convinced myself I had a long, tiring day. A stable career. Decent savings. #Creatingcontent was for the supremely talented. Or the gratuitously unemployed.
I was wrong. We must all write. Whatever. Wherever. Whenever. However.
Forget about dwindling audiences or finicky algorithms or the perfect routine to get into your creative headspace. Pick up a pen and write. Put it out there for the world. Then repeat. Until you can’t.
You’ll be amazed at how you magically find time to do the things you want.
Maybe delusion is a symptom. Maybe my mojo will disappear as quickly as it appeared. Two days with zero views and I’ll drop back down to earth. When #LockdownLife ends and the 9–5 begins, my inner writer will be banished back to the dungeon he arose from.
But I ain’t done yet.