Is writing a solitary act?

Is writing a solitary act?

Image courtesy: https://www.themarginalian.org/2018/12/10/emily-dickinson-love-letters-susan-gilbert/

It is one of the most immersive experience a writer goes through. All that she watches, observes and absorbs gets assimilated within and is manifested in words. Writers might choose to be silent for a while but that only means something is brewing.

That space becomes so vital for a writer at times that she aggressively defends this right to sit in silence and choose to be away. I think artists are blessed with this space along with the will and desire to turn inwards and reflect.

Coming back to the act of writing being an immersive experience – I would like to reiterate and endorse the thought that a writer or an artist is nothing without people, nature and surroundings.

But, it is solely the prerogative of a writer either go out; step out of the four walls or be in a closed space and write. Surprisingly, Emily Dickinson wrote 1,800 poems in her bedroom. So, she was away – in the midst of the same surroundings.

Image courtesy: https://lithub.com/the-light-as-she-saw-it-on-sitting-in-emily-dickinsons-bedroom/

Thus, an artist is a creator and can imagine so much more – irrespective of the surroundings.

An artist has a world within – so does it mean that when she writes it’s a lonely process and a solitary act?

Still confused!! 🙂

Let us attempt to answer this question!! Hmm…a world within that no one else can see – yes, true.

But when the writer shares this world, it doesn’t remain her own. It is shared with the universe. But the act of writing is surely about being alone and describes the need to reflect and then share.

Conclusively, writing is a lonely process!!

Any thoughts on this? Share them!!

Love,

Rashmi Malapur

A wonderful poem by Maya Angelou

 

Photo Courtesy: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/may/28/maya-angelou-poet-author-dies-86

Maya Angelou- I know why the caged birds sing

 

The free bird leaps

on the back of the wind

and floats downstream

till the current ends

and dips his wings

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

 

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

 

The caged bird sings

with fearful trill

of the things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom

 

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

and he names the sky his own.

 

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing

 

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou

 

 

 

Offering

While I crush the flowers under my feet,

I am so oblivious of their existence.

But, I think I ve harmed none,

Cause they don’t cry out their pain.

If I had to notice each word that pierced some hearts

I have sinned a thousand times only with words

Like the flowers I crushed while I walk carelessly.

Each step I take has to be with your memory.

Each breath I take has to be an offering at your feet.