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A star’s death is very symbolic. It burns out all of its own fuel and collapses on top of itself. That’s how I feel sometimes: like all my expectations, dreams and hopes are going to collapse on top of my tiny body. The only way to stop myself from being completely crushed by the debris is to write. But writing, for me, is not easy. The words in my head are tangled up very recklessly; they form a knot that hinders my thought process. But in the end, it is not my failure to untie the knot that prevents me from writing; it is the fear of mediocrity and failure that paralyses me.

I would love to write for hours, but never can, as the frustration of not being able to represent the ineffable kicks in mid-way, leaving me in fear and anger. Writing is therefore a painful process. But the fact of the matter remains that it is liberating and beautiful. My words may not mean a lot, they may not always hold greater significance but they do keep me from imploding.

But sadly not everyone understands my love affair with words. Writing is not widely accepted as an art form. In fact, many a time I have encountered people who have told me “anyone can write, everybody wants to be a writer”, implying that writing requires no artistic talent or hard work. This statement is not only condescending towards my dream of becoming a published author, but it also manages to belittle writing as a whole…

read more in the Autumn/Winter 2012 issue or view this specific article here