Creativity is such a beautiful thing, isn’t it? A chef puts his heart out in every component that he presents on a dish, an artist uses colour to immortalise every idea or thought in his mind, a musician uses little squiggles on his sheet to produce sounds that move the soul, dancers communicate what they feel through body and expressions… the list is endless. While my level of expertise in all this is nil, I can talk about something closer home. Writing. Without blinking an eye, I can vouch for a fact that a writer, like Hemingway so eloquently put it, simply bleeds.
A person with a passion for writing bleeds out every ounce of emotion, from every pore of his being. He paints pictures merely using words and brings dormant imaginations to life or offers solace from pain to a hapless soul simply by providing a haven of words, a world away from reality.
For many, writing is an escape from pain as it is meditative; quite like what a painting does to the artist. Writing or typing away furiously, in a trance-like state, creating words, giving life to scenarios and birth to entities that become immortal through words. A poet strings words together, once an idea takes shape. The words, they just flow and the prose is formed, sometimes rhyming, at others, simply existing in wonderful defiance to let the idea take center-stage. The process is magical, the words touch the fringes of your mind, born out of emotions, experiences, pain, joy, suffering or quite simply the love of a muse…then, they escape and find expression in the tangible realm; giving a voice to something that was once merely a feeling. To see it all in its final form, to find an outlet to all that was bottled up inside…is a rush that not many things can rival.
Writers are an awfully weird lot. Weird because most of the times, our ilk uses intense emotions to really connect with an idea. This connection stems from the intensity of feelings. At times, everything is in excess and swings to the extremes. Take for example, David Copperfield where the author Charles Dickens put in a lot about his own difficult childhood as a wretched boy, struggling to simply survive in a city as unforgiving as the London of his times. He used several instances from his life as a young lad, making the book one of his most autobiographical works. The picture that he paints is certainly grim; but it lends to the words a quality that is beautifully human. There are countless instances of poetry stemming from pain, the loss of love or of a dear one. While the subject of the work may not be direct, the emotional graph that it displays is a clear indication of the state of mind of the writer.
This however is not to say that all writers operate in a similar manner. Some can wax eloquent about a subject that does not interest them in the least bit while others cannot function without bringing a bit of themselves in their work. Many can produce the most forlorn of words, without really feeling any great pain. To them I’d say, “Lucky you”.