I put off writing this for a week.
Despite writing numerous “why I write”s, I can’t confidently say I know myself as writer. Sure, I constantly appreciate writing in others, in the can’t-put-me-down novel, in the crisp dialogue of a solid movie, or the aesthetics of attractive marketing. We consume writing is a multimodal form, and I find myself writing in this realm. I rarely see myself a purely a writer writing solely for the sake of writing something. I often look to other media — sounds and pictures — to add to my writing. I find often writing or pictures alone cannot fully explain my ideas.
Writing’s pervasive nature appeals to me; I love the way it affects almost everything we do, consciously or not. Even with life-changing technology, from writing letters to drafting emails to sending texts, we constanly use words, pictures, emoticons to express ourselves and share tidbits of our lives with others.
As a writer, I am a communicator. I create pieces to share with others: photo blogs posts, instagram (follow me @ruchitaiyerphotography) pictures and captions, photojournalism. I tried keeping a diary for a year and royally sucked at it because I ran out of things to say about myself. Don’t get me wrong, I love personal writing for the clarity it provides and so often engage in this genre, but I greatly prefer more public forms of writing. That being said, sharing personal writing is hard, and I often distance these two sides of my writing self. The things I write for myself I rarely share with others, and the ones I create publicly I post everywhere.
I wonder if there is a way to bridge the two, if I even should connect them. After all, writing is solely a public endeavor; many people write personal things never to see the light of day or the eyes of another. Others writing smashing novels translated into a bajillion languages to transcend the regional boundaries. I see myself as a writer hovering between these two worlds, dipping my toes on both, yet not fully immersed in either.
At the end of the day, my writing and I, we change constantly. One day it’s for me, another it’s a birthday post for my roommate. But I find an attractive quality in the capricious nature — I wonder what type of writer I will be a month from now. A year?
Needless to say, upon completion, I feel good about this post, as I do with most piece I write. Of course, I may read back on in a couple days and be like what was I thinking. But for now….this is good.