When words feel heavy

 

Writing is not life, but I think sometimes it can be a way back to life.

- Stephen King

I have often felt that my relationship with writing is an unfinished and evolving business. The reason why I say it is because I have written all my life, at least, since I started writing for a creative outlet. Reading helped to a very large extent, especially the spurts of ideas that would propel me into another dimension where I become someone or something else, inspired by the words in between those pages. That is how my rendezvous with poetry and storytelling began. 

 

Initially, I enjoyed imagining stories and acting them out when I was alone, which prompted me to think that it could be the reason why I ventured into theatre - again, a very similar discipline. But then those 'living out' experiences made me see stories and poetry in everything I saw. More specifically, I enjoyed the intentionality of weaving words to build a story around the mundane and not so mundane things: a rebellious dandelion that converted its presumptuous weakness into fleeting beauty; a lone chinar leaf waiting for its partner's fall (pun intended - if you know you know); two docked boats wading through uncertain waters hoping they bump into each other; an old dilapidated house longing for its long gone occupants; an empty hallway of a palace whose walls were smoothened by royal silks; and grandfather's armchair that embraces you as you sink into it. When I was recollecting these poems and prose I wrote as a form of creative expression the other day, it made me pause and reflect. 

What made me write? Was it something I did because I genuinely found joy in it, or was it my subconscious memories trying to find an exit and seek meaning of its existence - I honestly can't put a finger on it, really. 

If I had to dissect, I would say that I have enjoyed writing because it took me away from a rigid form of thinking for the longest time. It helped me freely construct my thoughts, especially the very spontaneous and often radical ones. It allowed me to think the way I wanted to, embody the experience, become one with the imagery and my complex feelings, and articulate accordingly, no filters. But lately, I have been struggling with structure. It began with containing myself in a PhD thesis, a framework, a scientific article, a prescribed format, and a slideshow. This expectation has led me to a space where I have been feeling the weight of the words, which have not found their way out. Most of the days, I am drowning in impersonal emails, PhD orders, and catering to asks that never ask me anything meaningful. I want to pour out or tap into these unexplored opinions and words and ideas, whatever form they may be. But the structure has stunted my voice. What was once muscle memory has become a limb that has forgotten how to move. And the worst part is that I have stopped nursing it back to health. That scares me. 

From a psychological point of view, there is the constructivist 'Dialogical Self Theory (DST)' (Hermans et al., 1992) that I connect my ongoing internal dissonance with. DST propounds that our mind is a society of different identities and voices we hold (what Hermans refers to as 'I-positions'), and these voices engage in constant dialogue with each other, which is further fuelled by our context and lived experiences. This multiplicity of 'I-positions' also includes external positions (voices of our family, friends, teachers, mentors, supervisors, and how they perceive us). Against this theoretical disposition, what I have come to realise is that this friction I feel is an internal conversation that I have not paid enough attention to. As an individual, I hold multiple 'I-positions' or identities, such as that of a researcher, instructional designer, social worker, daughter, sister, wife, daughter-in-law, and also, I am influenced by the responses of the people in my 'society' bubble. Mostly, these I-positions peacefully coexist, but sometimes, they can't stand each other. While Ashwathi the poet leans towards imagery and freestyle thinking, Ashwathi the instructional designer demands specific facilitation cues that cannot be messed around with, Ashwathi the researcher is always seeking qualitative meaning in quantitative data points, Ashwathi the social worker is advocating for moving away from traditional educational practices to support all students, and Ashwathi the family glue is always finding the right words to break a fight (or to begin one, in some cases). These opposing voices are having a constant dialogue, and each one of them wants to get its way. Perhaps my struggle with writing for myself is not that the voice is lost, but that I may have allowed my other positions to become so dominant that I may have unintentionally silenced my core creative identity, thereby shrinking it into oblivion. More importantly, it made me doubt my inherent ability to think like a storyteller.

But I get it. There is an invisible hierarchy to these voices right now, and I cannot dispute that. The question is: how do I carry them equally, without sacrificing my authentic voice? I acknowledge that I can only work around this hierarchy. Maybe that creative voice is not something I need to grieve for as if it's dead *eye roll*, but something I need to return to, as my anchor. Even if it means that I will fumble and tumble like a baby giraffe trying to find its legs for the first time, even if it means that I will have to start from scratch again, I want to get back to it. I may not be able to publish it anywhere, but I want my words to exist without apology. The dominating voices may continue to parade around me, asking me to conform, and I will try. But the words that fall beyond the edges of my spreadsheets or slides will find a home somewhere; I will make sure of that. Maybe, just maybe, the writing that taught me how to escape the madness of this world can also teach me how to stay and embrace this discomfort, even if it's not ambitious enough. That's enough to begin with. For now. :) 

A very interesting note for those interested: Although articulated by Hubert Hermans in 1992, this theory is also heavily influenced by Dostoevsky, the person who inspired literary criticism in theatre, which I personally find quite ironic considering my own connections with writing and theatre. So, here's a little creative crazy spurt that was inspired by a theatre production on Mughal history that I co-wrote and directed in 2018, featuring my middle school and high school students. I was feeling quite frustrated, clearly.