one word at a time

on writing, life, and the courage to be honest

Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to wake up, fully possessed by an idea—just like old poets. To rise with the dawn, not to the sound of an alarm, but to a stirring within that demands the pen meets the page. I envy the ease with which those artists seemed to capture their thoughts like they’d dipped their fingers into the sky and smeared the clouds into words. I wonder if they, too, fumbled on their first draft or if the lines flowed like a river with no rocks to trip over.

sitting with my thoughts

For me, it’s different. I sit here, trying to think and feel my way through the words. It’s not the quiet hum of a fan or the occasional squawk of birds outside that pulls me into writing. No, those are just distractions, background noise, the world in its usual state. What stirs within me is something more elusive, something that shows up unannounced and leaves without warning, like an unexpected visitor who doesn’t stay long enough for tea.

I get these urges to write, you know? These impulses that I can’t always ignore. But I hesitate. I hesitate because once the thoughts leave the comfort of my mind, they feel exposed, raw, and vulnerable. It’s safer when they stay tucked away, known only to me. Out there, they’re susceptible to judgment—from others and, perhaps worse, from myself. I don’t know if I want to see my thoughts in the light of day, where they might seem less profound than they felt in the quiet of my mind.

There’s this voice that whispers, don’t say it, don’t write it, because once I do, I can’t take it back. I can’t retract the words or the sentiment, and that terrifies me. So I keep the thoughts swirling around inside, living quietly with them as they replay like an endless loop. The problem is, when I don’t let them out, they grow. They become these monsters in the dark, and suddenly, they’re too big to contain, too overwhelming to silence.

I want to write about my life, but where do I begin? It’s not particularly exciting. Most days feel like a slow-motion scene from a movie—one where nothing extraordinary happens, and yet, the stillness holds a weight that you can’t quite put into words. That’s the thing, though. Life is full of these quiet moments that don’t scream for attention, but they’re the moments that stay with you. The way the sunlight falls through the curtains, or how a thought creeps into your mind at midnight and refuses to leave.

It’s not about the fan spinning lazily above me or the sound of traffic outside. Those things feel too simple, too mundane to write about. But maybe it’s in the simplicity that beauty exists, where meaning hides in the corners, waiting to be found. Maybe that’s what I’m missing—this understanding that life isn’t about grand events or thrilling experiences. It’s in the pauses, in the space between the noise, where we truly live.

rereading A Thousand Splendid Suns here

But still, I struggle. I struggle with the idea of putting my life on the page, because how do you write about something that feels so…unremarkable? There’s no great tragedy, no soaring success, just this middle ground where everything is fine but not spectacular. Writing about that feels like a disservice like it’s not enough to hold anyone’s attention.

And then there are my fears. I’m afraid that if I write too much about myself, it’ll come off as self-indulgent as if I’m wallowing in my thoughts. I don’t want to drown anyone in my inner turmoil, but at the same time, I want to be honest. I want to say, this is me—messy, uncertain, and always doubting.

I look at the poets who seemed to understand their feelings so well, who could distill their emotions into a few lines that felt universal. I long for that clarity, that ability to turn chaos into something beautiful. But when I dream, it’s not of epiphanies or moments of genius. My dreams are heavy, sometimes bordering on nightmares, where my anxieties and doubts take center stage.

I wonder if I’m like this in real life, too—always running from my thoughts, avoiding happiness because I fear it won’t last. That’s the thing about joy, isn’t it? It feels fleeting, like it’s always one step ahead, teasing you with its presence but never sticking around. Meanwhile, sadness lingers, settling in like an old friend who overstays their welcome.

I want to write about these feelings, about the strange dance between happiness and sorrow, but it’s hard. It’s hard to be that open, to let people see the parts of me that I’m still coming to terms with. But that’s what writing is, I suppose. It’s about being brave enough to say, this is who I am—even when it scares you.

So here I am, trying to write like those poets who woke up knowing exactly what they wanted to say. I’m trying to capture that same impulse, that same spark of creativity, but it’s messy. My thoughts don’t come out in perfect lines or neat stanzas. They spill onto the page, sometimes incoherent, often unsure. But that’s okay, isn’t it? Writing doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be honest.

me on a morning trek

And maybe that’s what I’m aiming for—an honest reflection of my not-so-exciting life. Because even in the quiet, in the mundane, there’s something worth saying. Maybe it’s not poetry in the traditional sense, but it’s my version of it.

And that’s enough.