“Ask her not to waste her time writing blogs, and switch to more productive things.” The message that I receive, doesn’t bother about being subtle, and is in my face. I pause for a moment to imbibe it, nod and move on to the next conversation. There are some things you know that are not worth explaining to the world. But the thought stays with me, day after day.
Productive work. Who defines it? I look at the list of scientific articles that I have published. Slaving hours at my desk. Burning the midnight oil. Has anyone ever read them? Yes, they embellish my CV. Perhaps they earned me promotions at one stage in life, but would I define them as productive? Do I have pleasant memories of the process of writing them? All I remember today are heartbreaks. But there are times when I wonder if they are even worthy of being called research?
Life tends to go on auto-pilot mode. You join the herd- doing what everyone does. Nodding away to everything that is thrust on your desk. Somewhere in the process you lose a bit of the real you. The quiet time I spend formulating my thoughts, helps me slow down and discover myself. It is my way of getting back to my default settings.
Writing has always been a passion. To tell someone who wants to write, to stop doing so is futile. Even if I’m not putting it down on paper, chains of these words form in my head, hour after hour. If I’m not typing on my keyboard, I will be probably scribbling on some scrap of paper anyway. How does one stop the rhythm of thoughts which are desperate to be heard?
Writing is not an option, need or want. It is a part of me. It is a lifeline. Having to explain why I write is moronic. And to think that stopping me from writing will improve my so called ‘productivity’ is a delusion.