The underappreciated art of organizing a writer’s life.

After several years, I am contemplating writing for the public, but only to validate my thoughts and give a window to my readers about nothing serious but worthwhile, hopefully.

I am reading a journal entry from one of Susan Sontag’s notebooks on why she keeps a journal. That spurs a question in my head: Why does a person choose to write? Why do I write? When there is so much, so many diverse options to immerse oneself in to pass time, why would anyone choose to open a blank page? I speak for myself here, or attempt to make sense of my actions.

I write to minimize the overwhelming noise in my head. There are a thousand thoughts waiting to be released from the prison gate, and a blank page is a thorough and effective passage to silence my mind that is wrought with the atrocities of my personal, my private, my political, my social, my sensual, my existential, my inconsistencies, my innate tendencies, my seekings. If I don’t allow my thoughts to flow out, words pile up in my little head and, assume a monstrous figure that then doesn’t bode well with my inner peace. So I write.

A friend is aware of my need to express myself in the written word. They tell me I am scattered, that I do not maintain in an organized manner my writings. I have several journals at any given time, each with a different purpose. I also write on my phone. In my defense, I don’t know when the monster in my head will attempt to hijack my sanity, and therefore, it is only sensible I maintain several channels in my arsenal. I can’t help but be scattered. Because it is a reflection of my mind’s predisposition. And my mind is but a reflection of the planet I dwell on. A planet that is riddled with violence, anger, shame, duplicity, chaos, hatred, suffering. A planet that is dominated by a species that wants to love but doesn’t have the means or the skills to love correctly. Perhaps it overuses this simple yet colossally misunderstood four-lettered word. As Sontag puts it succinctly, trying to love in this world is like giving yourself up in a “whorehouse” so that you hope to belong. Doesn’t matter whether your belonging somewhere makes your life richer or ends up destroying any possibility of greatness that you could achieve. But we all want to belong — in someone, somewhere, in work, in meditation, in traveling, in art. You pick your medium.

So what if I am scattered? What if I cannot be a better organizer of my journal entries… my thoughts… my life? At least I am writing every time I need to ease myself. At least I have found a way to ease myself. If I focused on reducing the scatter, would I suffer less? Would I still be seeking refuge in the written word? Would I still manage to write with the earnestness, the gentleness I seek in humanity, and all spheres of life? If I cannot, then there is no point in pursuing a life that doesn’t speak to me. I write to give meaning to sufferings that hold no tangible meaning in this world. I write to breathe. I write to find meaning too. It is an endless laundry list, which is why I can’t ever be the same person trying to organize my own writings. If anything, I don’t write for the world. But if I ever do, I will need to find myself a secretary who is going to devote their precious life to unscrambling the literary mess I have been creating!

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