I had time tonight. Meaning, I lost sleep in favor of staying awake. I went over a few entries from my old blog, specifically a post about Haruki Murakami’s short story.
Everything I wrote there were raw reflections of myself at the time, however unedited, coarse, and visually unappealing. But I was writing for myself, I reckon. My audience was me, myself, and I. Save for a few friends who read my blog, I wrote primarily for myself. A writing exercise of sorts.
I was a little rash and unfiltered in the sharing, if I may say so, but still careful to leave out any revealing details of personal stories. The clues to which, I remember only vaguely now. Oh how the passing of time plays with your own memories!
I always tell myself on the rare times that I reread a past entry or two from my blog that I should have written more. I should have written more, however random.
If I were to give myself a piece of advice now, it should be: Write like no one’s reading.
Just the pseudo-private experience of coloring a blank electronic canvas with words all for the heck of it.
Write for the relief it gives you. Just write for writing’s sake. Never mind if it looked pretty or not. Maybe it will in time, or maybe not.
Create tirelessly like Salvador Dali who had thousands upon thousands of art made. Some regarded masterpieces today, many not a lot know about anymore.
Very few people become Salvador Dalis of their own field. For Salvador Dali was also shrewd in branding and marketing himself.
Not to go off course. What I only mean is to take inspiration in the sheer volume of what he produced.
Just keep going. The goal is to keep writing. The reward being that I simply kept on and wrote as candidly – as my own limits would allow – as a starry-eyed 18-year old baring her soul in a love letter to no one.
Practice may not always result to perfection, but surely practice – at the very least – makes better.
Image via Reddit