Back in college, I wrote like mad. It felt good to write, to exorcise ghosts, objectifying confused thoughts on paper and seeing how silly they looked. Verbal excreta, was what I called my scrawls. I loved those kinds of words – scrawls, excreta. They sounded deliberate and rough, a cover up for my frightened unconscious. I ached to make sense of my thoughts. I wrote them out in unorganized ill-kempt unsightly notes, constantly worrying over the possibility that my mother or any one of my sisters might come across them and see just how crazy I was. As what is wont to happen about taken-for-granted diaries, I forgot altogether that I had those tucked away somewhere. I lost track of them.
I think that is what happened to me too. I lost the spirit in me that enabled me to write prodigiously, though perhaps too shabbily. I saw photos of myself at that time, and what I saw in my eyes I sorely miss now – guilelessness, a precarious and intriguing combination of uncertainty and defiance. I understood why it was so easy to write then about how I felt: I did not care that I would have dirt on my fingertips.
Over the years, writing became a conscious effort. Words that come from the heart are like prayers of the soul, and in my work heart and soul are best clothed in gray tailored suits. My job requires writing words that express to persuade, not words that shout. I learned to write with artifice. I had to choose words like a girl would choose clothing and accessories – to suit an occasion, to attract attention, to show off, to outshine the competition, to project a glossed-over image. I had to write with un-emotion, with artsy detachment. I liked it.
