Most writers are considerably humble. If not for all writers, I believe I am one of those. They do not prefer widespread appreciation. Modesty comes as a gift to them. Maybe people might think that they are being too proud of their work. The very feeling of inferiority in terms of words and art makes them a bit too harsh. I mean, everyone feels a bit overwhelmed by someone who seems better. I, sometimes feel a little jealous of ‘average’ writers my age. And by average, I really mean it. No one is supposed to write better than me. Is that really despicable of me to say those words? I’m contradicting myself on being humble. I’m turning out to be straight arrogant which is somewhat bad of me. It doesn’t look good on an author’s biography. But for me, it’s as simple as one, two, and three. I can never be like Haruki Murakami but I’m surely way ahead of that dude who writes ‘nanotales’. Murakami is like a god to me, someone whom I might never witness. If my work appeals half as good as Murakami’s I’ll know that I have succeeded. Success is such a minor word for a writer or for any artist in fact. How can an artist be successful? He just contributes to a whole arena full of paintings, books and records. An artist should not dream of money or fancy cars. For all I know, an artist should be humble. He must learn to express himself as vividly as possible with his work. I could go on all day about art and artists but let’s keep this for another day. Now I am talking about myself (which I always do). I, as a writer find it difficult to open up about my work. I can start with expectations. Even though I am humble, I am very conscious about my writing. I expect a lot from my words. Of course, I must please myself before I go on pleasing the world. It hurts when I can’t deliver. I remember a week from last February. That week was one of the best periods of my life, I felt good all the time. Neither were days eventful nor I was going through a purple patch. I just latched on to healthy living and motivated myself enough to write ten pages a day. Never had my words found their way so smoothly on paper. All of my friends knew that I was inspired. Sometimes I think about those days and ponder about how good it’d have been to continue. What if every day was as energetic as those days seemed to be? As you can guess, now I’m not at all inspired. I’m not being able to deliver my best. I’m not as good as I expect myself to be. I write many articles on WordPress but still, I feel that I could’ve added more spark to my content. That’s what keeps me up at night. I always feel that I could’ve done better. It’s funny how all writers feel the same way, they unintentionally find flaws in their work and try to edit on high notes. Are we perfectionists? Maybe not. But we are very unsatisfied with what we do. There is always room for modification.And no matter how hard I try to beat the writer’s block, it just keeps getting bigger. The only solution is to read and write a lot. If you want to write, you have to write. That’s pretty sick. I feel bad when I have nothing to write about. I mean, there are a lot of thoughts and ideas surfacing in my head but they just don’t receive the clarity it deserves. I lose my cool when I can’t offer the attention my ideas deserve. Take the current moment for instance, I don’t know what I want to write about. I don’t have any idea where this will end up. This isn’t necessarily a writer’s block but it won’t be a lie if I call it that. Online experts want me to get over my block by writing. I guess this is what free writing is all about. It might be both a good and a bad thing that I have stopped writing on paper. Firstly, it consumed a lot of time and energy. It’s an altogether different story when I press keys on a keyboard. I am faster then. My writing is getting better on the laptop. The only best thing about writing in my journal was the privacy. I could write anything about anybody and nobody would know a thing. Not many knew about my journals. It felt authentic to write on paper. I could only guess how my children would feel after reading my papers. Some part of me doesn’t want them to read my journals. As a father, I wouldn’t want them to know how emotional and vulnerable I was. Maybe I’d still be like that. Only time and experience would tell. Now that I write immensely on WordPress and Instagram, people are more in touch with me through my words. I try to be modest when somebody appreciates me on how good I write. I try to be a lot humble than I already am. Just because of my writing, people assume that I have a parallel life on social media. They’d remark on how unpredictable I am and I’d silently adore myself. Maybe I have nothing to write about tonight but I will write. Because at the end of the day, all I do is write about myself and by myself.