Writing can be a magnificent process that awakens, heals, and nourishes.
Published, it can take on a life of its own that others can relate to, connect with, learn from, share, and even have tantrums over. It allows the reader to get to know the writer… and the parts of themselves that are invoked by the power of her words.
It ultimately leaves behind a piece of the writer, her story, her wisdom, and a unique perspective of the world.
Writing takes me inward. I get to introspect.
It transmutes my need for external approval into self-referral.
It asks me what I think I know, about myself, or on any given topic I write about. It asks me what is so important about this topic that I need to put it through this (at times) excruciating process to share it with the world. It’s an examination into myself and the values I hold.
I get to create something from nothing from a blank page. And I get to do it over and over again, week after week. Though it’s not really from nothing but somewhere deep inside me, and at the tip of my tongue, wanting to be expressed.
It’s an excavation. I dig, unsure of what I will end up finding. Yet some part of me knows. So it’s also a reveal. One that I get to learn about almost at the same time as you. I really only realize what I’ve unearthed after I hit publish; and more fully when I get engagement around it.
A blank page asks me to find the words to begin. My first draft spills the beans in one long steam of consciousness, getting as much down as possible, without judging its accuracy, choice of words, or the mood in which I write. This is a practice in itself, to stream and ignore the temptation to question or edit myself during this stage.
Even though I’m not writing a personal memoir, it exposes me. It makes me vulnerable to the different ways my words may land on different readers. Or arguably worse, on no one at all. Especially in the beginning, it’s all about exposing the level of inner peace I can maintain when there’s nothing coming back to me but crickets.
I never truly feel in command of words, and yet I love them. I find relief in the need to keep things simple, and yet simplifying can feel like a monumental task. It’s a frustration I’ve come to embrace, a way to dig deeper into what I am really trying to say, and how to say it in a way that can be understood.
I enjoy the thoughtful process of writing that often falls short in oral communication where we seldom allow for pauses before speaking or listening to one another.
I question what I know, and sometimes imposter syndrome creeps in, which I’m happy to say that I’m no longer afraid of. It puts me in research, instead of freeze or procrastination mode, and I like that a lot; I get to learn more and get clearer on my understanding of things. I get to see where I struggle and where I take full command.
Yogi Bhajan said,
When you want to learn about something, read about it
when you want to understand something, write about it
when you want to master something, teach it.
Because I shifted from in-person teaching and coaching to online writing, I tend to teach in my writing. The above has been the single most influential quote for my work because it gave me the permission I needed to share what I’ve learned. It heightened my sense of purpose.
I get to see where my ‘regurgitation’ ends and origination begins. I get to share my translation of things, my lens with the world. I get to discover and share what makes me unique.
I also get to read my own voice, see what sounds ridiculous, and have a chance to correct them. Compared to verbal communication where the common instinct is to defend what I just said.
On a similar note, I get to see how I’ve evolved over time, in company with anyone else who’s interested enough to follow my writing and notice. I get to re-learn things from my past self. This is a very cool experience, actually.
Writing gives me opportunity to push the envelope and share the more unpopular, less known, less conventional perspectives in a more thoughtful way. This can feel scary, and it’s something I’m working on pushing further of myself.
I read so much more now than when I didn’t write.
I’ll read anything that elevates and expands my mind, helps me see other perspectives, connects me to other humans, opens my heart, and makes me introspect, laugh, or cry.
I stay away from writing that causes me to judge or feel divided.
Reading is my favorite part of the writing process as I get to discover other powerful writers and entire other worlds. This refreshes and allows me to come back to myself more authentically. To understand myself better in relation to what I’ve discovered around me.
This is not a comparison, which is the domain of the ego, seeing ourselves through our need to excel. I’ve long stopped comparing myself to others; it’s competitive, and it ultimately sucks the life out of you or someone else.
This is self-reflection, which is the domain of the spirit, seeing ourselves through our relationships with the world around us. To know oneself is to thrive. It’s collaborative, diverse, and life sustaining.
As a reader, I’m exposed to the best parts of humanity that yearns to go deep and know each other intimately. I appreciate the beauty and power in this mode of conversation between reader and writer.
Of course there are writings that inject fear, scarcity, and division to get what it wants, but we have the power to reject them.
Skipping this process (reading) gets me stuck in my own isolated thoughts and takes me to a more illusory sense of self that is mired in circular and over-critical thinking.
While it may seem like a lonely process, writing never feels lonely to me. This is probably because lonely is NOT a symptom of being or working alone but of feeling disconnected. It’s common phenomena these days to be surrounded by people and to feel lonely. Writing is connective tissue.
It’s a spiritual discipline of overcoming our tantrums’ ability to take over.
Until it finally clicks, it’s easy to get distracted by our daily to-do lists and put writing off until later. Until then, the struggle to make the time to write sacred and consistent is real.
It calls on me to believe in myself enough to sit down day after day to write. To commit to the daily practice of writing to strengthen my ability to create on command. Which allows me to create more, and on a more flexible time schedule.
It calls on me to believe in myself enough to decide that my work is good enough to publish, and to overcome any fear of pressing that send button. To let it go public. Then to start over again.
Writing is an archive. It’s a legacy. A recording of every word I share.
I get to make a unique contribution by sharing experiences, lessons, and perspectives that were informed by my background, the context of my beginnings, the belief systems I’ve inherited and have had to work through.
While my words may have zero interest to some, they resonate deeply with others and provide the tools, prompts, and inspiration needed to answer their own calls to action (or non-action).
Every single publish gets to live on and get read at any time, on any day. An article can be found just at the right time for someone who is searching.
There’s grit-building here. Grit is necessary to create, edit, publish, take feedback, and keep going. Much of this process can be so uncomfortable. Yet so satisfying.
Finally, from a business perspective, I get to build up digital assets.
When I want to, I get to figure out how to monetize it in a way that provides freedom from trading-time-for-money.
I get to decide that my work has market value and figure out how to provide said value.
I get to put myself out there, to let the world know I exist.
I get to ask them to engage with me.
I get to work through and celebrate the human experience of rejection and acceptance; of doubt, criticism, and praise.
In the end, even if I were to quit writing, my work remains. I love the permanence of that.
This business aspect of writing is a bonus. It’s bonus because writing itself has intrinsic value. The bonus of taking it to market is that I get to come out of hiding, out of privacy, even out of what someone once accused me of being - stingy (in sharing myself) - and stand with my most authentic self, the parts of me I yearn to share with the world, and the value that I create through this process.
Writing is essential to me.
Love, Savitree
I love that I get to read your writing. Thank you for sharing your lens on life!