I start with a frame of mind not quite conducive to writing. Especially cause I intend to writing something impersonal, more detached than is usual for me; so that others may read it and yet not be able to read into me. Having no sense of direction on what I wish to write about, I’m just continuing putting the pen to paper as I love the beautiful letters that form when the two meet. In the few sentences that I’ve written so far, I’ve gone from sitting upright to lying sprawled on the bed – a gradual progression of positions that culminated on the most ‘muscleless’.
It’s a difficult exercise, especially for an amateur writer, to conceal his innermost self, while writing for the general audience. American author Nathaniel Hawthorne was himself quite concerned about this propensity of a writer to let go of the shields that subconsciously bar his private self from being revealed to the unforgiving public. The writer, more often than not, would throw caution to the wind and fling his thoughts on a wide audience, which will never try to empathize with the writer’s emotions as expressed; in his quest to find a reader who is a twin soul of the writer himself. Whether he finds the twin or not is irrelevant. The only thing that remains is a naked soul, which may never be understood or accepted.
Have I done the same? I earnestly pretend to be neutral, to speak from behind a veil of pragmatism and sagacity, so that none may chance to see through the written word into my soul. Do I succeed? I know not. And at this point, I pause. Is a writer’s wordsmanship assessed by his expertise in concealing his soul? Or is he being true to his writing by exposing himself to the reading public for their scathing or their applause, fearless and gallant?