What compels me to write? When do I put fingers to the keyboard and start typing with gusto, words flowing out like water bubbling through that broken pipe which you've been meaning to fix but never got around to and now it's too late and your kitchen is flooded and oh, hell.
When I was young, it was mostly love. The feeling you feel when you are going to feel a feeling you've never felt before. I wrote pages after pages, not necessarily about love but because of it. Because of the high I used to feel after meeting her between scoops of ice cream, meeting her between rows of books, meeting her at bus-stops, walking through narrow streets sprinkled all over that tiny hometown of mine.
If not love, it was reading. Which is a kind of love too, of course. Love with words, with dialog, with the process of creating worlds which take you away for a few hours. Worlds of horror, of mystery, of intrigue, of castles filled with incredibly funny Earls, secretaries, and butlers. My writing at the time echoed Stephen King, Robert Ludlum, Agatha Christie, Arthur C Clarke, and every Indian english reader's constant source of amusement, PG Wodehouse. It was terrible writing, now that I look back at it, but it flowed.
It changed later though, after several years. Especially after my daughter was born, which was peak blogging era (LiveJournal, sigh). I wrote about emotions, about her growing up, about what we learned, my wife and I. Strangely enough, my son's birth a few years later was peak social media. It was Facebook, it was Instagram, it was Twitter, and Whatsapp. Which meant I have fewer videos and pics of my daughter compared to my son, but more words for Rachu than Karan. Not quite sure how I feel about that now.
So, what compels me to write? At this age, at this moment, I think it's the opposite of love. Not quite hate, but anger. Bitterness. Sadness. Frustration. With the world, with politics, with the irrationality that surfaces every day. With the unfairness of it all. And the realization that it's here to stay and there's little I can do about it.
Other than write.
