It is amazing how we will be able to conjure many definitions to what we can actually mean by a writer but when we try to fit ourselves into any of them, they magically seem inadequate. Let’s see, if we say a person who writes is a writer, then it would seem really inadequate and may even elicit jeers and boos for all the definition’s worth. But if we say a writer is someone who writes something that someone else deems appropriate to read, now that is a scary thought which humble souls like yours truly would have trouble in accepting till we will be read. And I’m not one of those people who can write without caring whether their works will be read. No sir, I need an audience. 

Now every writer worth his laptop and time would tell you that there should be an inner voice urging you to put down your thoughts, and implore you when you stop and all that jazz but well we all know it is a very broad definition of a writer. The idea to define a writer came to me when I was in one of my retrospective moods over some Old Monk Rum. Now that is one fine rum if there ever is one. It is more of a need to define myself, which I chose to equate to the bigger thing that looms in all my thoughts. Now it is important for all of us to know what we are writers or no writers but at the point at which I find myself now, the question seems far more relevant than what I took it to mean. 

One of my earliest delusions have led me to believe that I would be able to scribble coherent text and make a point that I wanted to make or my thoughts would be miraculously deciphered by reading between my intellectually vague lines.  But if there is one trait that I don’t have that writers should usually have is the art of being articulate with my thoughts and most often when I read my own stuff, it seems far from what I wanted to convey. My lamentations on lack of discipline to research and organize my thought processes were entirely futile and now I’m afraid I’m running out of time. 

Most of the time my reviews or opinions lack the point of view or a stand for the fear of not being well researched to take one. The fact that I attributed that to my skewed definition of being objective was coming across as quite lame as I uncovered more facts about anything I have written till date. At those times I want to discard all my work and disown my blogs. I have done it but that never gave me any solace. Nor did starting it all over again. Though I do have a bit of hope in my fiction and screenwriting I cant chose one over the other and that leaves me rather stupid or ambitious much to my own chagrin. The miserable fact is that I don’t fit into any category of writers due to the lack of a vision. 

But I write mostly to satisfy my megalomaniacal instinct that surprisingly never gets satiated. I tell myself that I’m not important in the scheme of things and try to be modest but I can’t kid myself long with that line of argument. When I write, it is not to say that I have an opinion or I have something to add. It is not even that I can write but it comes from an inherent insecurity and inferiority complex that I never lived at all. Through all my innumerable failed decisions, guilt trips and lost opportunities when I step into a distant future and be lucky enough to find someone who calls me a writer, I would turn back to ask him what kind of a writer did/does he think I am.