What Writing Means to Me

At first, I wanted to compose this post as a poem. But, that would mean another poem on my blog. And, I have had a little too many poems on my blog within the last one year. This, in one way, diverges from the original contemplation on writing. But, wait. I don’t wish to begin this post with a negative thought. That’s is how much writing means to me.

My writing is my ambassador to you. It means so much to me because it is how I express what I feel. Usually, I don’t speak much. Yes, for a lot of my friends, I am an out-and-out extrovert. But, deep within, I am an ambivert who leans, in fact, toward introversion. My words convey what I can feel but can’t express, can see but can’t report, and can write but can’t speak.

Writing is my textual meditation. It is the way I introspect. Just like one must close their eyes to see within themselves, one must pen their thoughts to sieve through to the core. The clearer they think, the clearer they write. And, the other way around. My writing is my soul disguised as words.

Writing for me is like composing verses in prose. It is a melody. A song. There are sentences of all compositions and lengths. Some are long. Some, longer. A few, like this one, shorter. True! The long and short sentences convey the long and short of it—and everything that lies within—to the readers. Mentally listen to yourself when you read varying lengths of sentences. It sounds good. Good, because it is rhythmic. Good, also because it means that the melody is as important as the messages conveyed through the melody. My writing is a lyrical composition that I can hum, listen to, sway along with, or fall asleep to.

Writing is like a mirror. It is that sense of contemplation that adds a dimension of meaning to reflections. It isn’t only the reflection of oneself, but also a cause to reflect onto oneself. Writing is that catalyst without which the inner and the outer selves don’t equate. No reaction, whether it is chemical, is ever complete without a word of thought. It is that skillful, scientific art; it is that masterful, artistic science.

Writing is that folklore that records, refers, and rekindles life. It is that act of play where you are both the actor and the audience. Writing is both the pen and the ink that scribes your acts, with or against your will. It is both the cause and the outcome of your performance. It is also the background score that amplifies emotions without your knowing.

To me, writing is the means, the medium, and the end. It is as nameless, formless, and transparent as water. It originates with a spurt, from within. When it begins to flow like a stream of thoughts, it seeps and snakes through people’s minds, one after another, finding its way to you, who after traveling for miles has got down on their knees to enjoy their glittering reflections. When it flows from my heart to yours, it becomes a burbling river. When it becomes an ocean of emotions, you can watch it hug the limitless skies at the horizon and experience it wash-off the rare conch shells of revelations to the shore.

The most rewarding writing, however, often trickles down your cheeks as pearls of love. What does writing mean to you?

Change of Seasons

Change of Seasons

The chirping of birds,
Who, at the Mango tree,
Celebrate the
Change of seasons,
Welcoming the days of glory
Bidding the days of grim.

The drumming noise, tapping on
Your windows, epilogues the
Change of seasons, And
Highlights the crow feet on your face,
That once were ironed out,
Filling you in joy to the brim.

The last leaf, dry, falling,
Which once prompted the
Change of seasons, now
Sits atop a stone,
Crowning the idol that
People worship as Him.

©Suyog Ketkar


Image courtesy: The shutterbug within me.

The Delightful Life

The Delightful Life

Beholding the sunrise,
As I trace the ocean’s footprints on sands,
The drenched shore slips from under my feet,
Life becomes a delight.

Trailing through the woods,
As I listen to the rustling leaves that
Share with me the recitals of the Summer,
Life becomes a delight.

Humming that old song,
The forgotten lyrics of which
I happen to effortlessly sing,
Life becomes a delight.

Looking out of the window,
As I lull into thoughts that
Urge to kindle my imagination,
Life becomes a delight.

Weaving itself into a fabric of chronicles,
As the yarn of my words
Brings me to my self again,
Life becomes a delight.

Diving into the limitless love in those eyes,
As I happen to lose myself,
I happen to find myself, yes,
Life becomes a delight.
©Suyog Ketkar

No Such Thing as Aspiring Writer

No Such Thing as Aspiring Writer

A lot of us yearn for writing our hearts out. While all we wish doing is to get our feelings across, it feels more rewarding to receive accolades for the simplicity in building that bridge between ours’ and readers’ hearts. And, I know that writing is not easy.

Still, there is no such thing as an aspiring writer.

We all enjoy witnessing sunrise and sunset or our occasional trips to sit by the lakeside. That’s easy because we become a part of nature. To register that experience, however, and to write that down for the readers to help them experience the same magic when they are sitting inside the walls of their imagination is complicated and tricky.

I still dare to say that there is no such thing as an aspiring writer.

How many times, tell me honestly, ideas strike you when you are in the shower? Does it not happen to you as frequently as it happens to me? So, you know that you don’t write yet you keep thinking. Right? It is such that even when you are not writing—on your laptop or a piece of paper—you are writing. Right? It is such that even when you are not involved in thinking creatively or critically, your mind makes memories by cherry-picking from your thoughts. Right?

That’s why I say that there is no such thing as an aspiring writer.

I say that not because I write or blog. I say that because I know that there is more to writing than just writing. We all have stories to tell. We all have experiences to share. We all do something in our lives, every day, that’s worth an inspiration to many. We all are products of the driblets of wisdom that trickle down our ever-contemplating brains.

Now that you begin to see how I see, you will agree that there is no such thing as an aspiring writer.

We are our own companions. Writing is a conversation that we have with ourselves. It is that speechless interaction, which decides what we do. During such conversations, we lose ourselves, we find ourselves, we look within, and we look outside. Through such conversations, we don’t merely see, we observe; we don’t merely think, we contemplate. It is writing that brings us back to ourselves.

True that there is no such thing as an aspiring writer.

As we have this conversation, you and I, our garden of emotions begins to flourish. We begin to plant new seeds of thoughts. We bring our mental ears closer to our hearts to listen to the beats within. We begin to experience joy and warmth unspeakable. We may even venture walking barefoot through the thorny yet eternal pathway, called life, that eventually leads us to the light. But, most importantly, we begin to happen. We begin to realize.

The truth is, we cannot aspire to become what we already are! Which is why, I believe, there is no such thing as an aspiring writer.

The Wandering Cloud

The Wandering Cloud

Dressed mostly in black and white,
I am just another wandering cloud,
I am, sometimes, wild within,
And wild sometimes without.

I am that wandering cloud, my friend,
Who brought with it memories,
Some real, some inexistent.
For lovers and haters, alike
For adults and children, alike.
Making everyone feel empty yet content.

I am that wandering cloud,
Dear Sparrow, don’t worry;
For my poor existence is subject to a flurry.
When I shower blessings divine,
Really will the sprouts entwine
To offer a cushion to your babies
Helping them with cozy draperies.

I am that wandering cloud
O Soul, the resolute.
Beware, albeit
You can’t keep me under siege,
For I remain a roamer,
Acting upon my will.
A few things, like my soul,
Must only be felt with
And, not be dealt with.

But, above all,
I am that wandering cloud,
O Lord, for the hands that
Sowed in despair once,
Raise up to You,
Rejoicing upon my sight,
Thanking you and making merry.
The same hands had once
Attended to the days
That brought with them
Scorching heat and light.

The ‘If’ for the Else

The ‘If’ for the Else

If it were all sour but you,
For the world to see your might.
If they be all wrong but you,
For them to see you right.
If none believed but you,
For them to learn assurance.
If there remained no hope but you,
For them to experience perseverance.

If they all be naysayers but you,
To define boys different from men.
If they all were doom seekers but you,
To make the world your den.
If they could speak up for themselves, much like you,
To earn that feat of strength.
If they could be forgiving all mistakes, much like you,
To enable you to set a trend.

If they could keep their word like you,
For them to weigh the matter.
If they could make it look like you,
For them to keep from jabber.
If they be the one who be you,
To bring about the uniformity of change.
If they could lead like you,
To be what they see as the change.

If they could walk your path,
For you are amongst the chosen few.
They must do the needed,
To keep things tight until the last,
And do what’s long been due.
If you are what I say,
Make them keep from the nay,
Help them, too, walk that winning way.

That One Fear Every Writer Has

That One Fear Every Writer Has

When I look back at the design of how I grew up, I realize I was destined to be a writer. When I was young, I read a lot. I would play my favorite character by tying my bath towel around my neck. I would jump from one chair to another playing that character. I would punch pillows sending them from one corner to another of my tiny yet seemingly limitless room. I would envision a LASER beam emitting from my eyes and when I thought no one was looking at me, I would nudge off action figures, who played the villains, and tiny cars off the shelf.

When I grew up into my adolescence, I began writing fiction; stories that were about how the hero within me, or the fictional characters I sketched, would go around the town helping those in need. When I grew a bit more, I began writing poetry. Though I knew that I was [really] bad at it – my poems, like someone would say, “sucked” – I continued attempting to write. In fact, some of those came up to be rather good. Two of those poems, out of my occasional attempts, are on this blog. But, down the age bracket, I realized that at heart I was more a writer than a poet. And, that impression has stayed. Until the end of the first half of my twenties, I had experienced a lot – got my masters, earned a job, and lost a job – but I was still firm that I would make a career in writing. That phase, now I realize, meant a lot.

When I look back at this little journey of my graduation from my liking for writing to becoming a published author, I realize that there is one thing that I have been doing, consistently, over the years. This post is about that thing. Back in the days when I was still figuring out my survival in this industry, I was busy reading. Writing, I knew, was like every other industry where the research leads to information, which leads to insights, which in turn leads to wisdom. And, my reading kept me with the “competition”, so to say. I kept reading so that I could continue to understand how the English language evolved over time, and how and what people wished to read (and hopefully know). While this all appeared to be good, I gradually realized that the more I read, the more I ended up losing who I was as a writer. That’s dangerous because the readers wish to read the writer within me. After all, how many of us know that we can write until the day we sit to write? Of the ones who sit to write, how many realize what’s their writing style? Of the ones who know what their writing style is, how many get to write what they wish to? That proportion drops ever so disproportionately.

Readers wish to know you by your writing style. Readers wish to read you by reading what you wrote. This one thing is imperative to the writing industry. But, the trouble with research – like I said in the previous paragraph – and reading is that gradually you begin to write like the ones who you often read. This is that one thing every writer fears: either of not finding their own writing style or of losing it in favor of those styles they think their writing resembles. I am happy that I have a style of my own; a style that only I can have. This writing style is unique to me – much like most of the good writers who I know in person. Each of those writers who I admire has a style of their own. Amongst the things that you should keep in mind if you wish to step into this industry, or are enjoying your stay in here, is – without a doubt – this one that I feel I would fear to lose.

I hope that this post helps you find the writer and their style within yourself. Happy writing.

Information Projection: Where Meet Information Architecture and Information Design

The new capability that we introduced into our flagship product helped me learn a lot about information architecture and information design. But, this post is about information projection. As I understand, it lies on the overlap of information architecture and information design. The post is also about the layers of information projection elements and the parameters that affect those layers. Click here to read the full post.

The All-Important: Redundancy

Redundancy is inseparable. But, it is still important to make mutual sense. Your reader wants to search for content that resolves the purpose of the search. But, that sadly isn’t always on our list of goals. This article tries to see the possible definition and cause of redundancy, and suggest the probable solutions to resolve or avoid it. Click here to read the full article.

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Choose Your Luggage.

If life is a journey, and not a destination, isn’t your life all about how long do you keep walking? The challenges that you face, the people whom you meet, and the experiences that you glean: it all adds up to count as memories in your life. And, unlike the materialistic aspect, your richness is not restricted to the amount of money you earn, but the amount of memories you gather. C’est la vie!

We meet different kinds of people in our life. Each one has their own, small (but important) role to play in our lives. Some get registered as family, some as friends, and some as enemies. But each of them contributes something to our journey. We either succeed with them, or earn experiences because of them. But, we never walk alone. Nobody does!

So, what do we do to make the most out of this life? What do we do to go really long? Or, at least, go longer distances than we initially thought? Let us see.

We travel with a lot of luggage. Although, mostly an unwanted one, the luggage packs our memories. We carry our aspirations, emotions, learning, pleasures, treasures, and experiences. All in all, we carry two sets of luggage: the positive ones and the negative ones.  The negative luggage (of agitation, anger, frustration, hatred, or jealousy) are like bundles of cotton. Each time we have those feelings, the bundles become wet. And, the more we have those feelings the more those continue to get wet. And, if you’ve realized where I am getting at, it becomes heavier, and consequently gets difficult (almost impossible) to walk with a heavier luggage.

But, if we choose to leave aside those presumptions, let go off that negative set of luggage, we will eventually cover great distances in our journeys … I have realized that irrespective of what result do we get, we must choose not to get disappointed. That’s because, we will either succeed or earn a sufficient amount of experience.

I choose to set aside this negative set of luggage, so that I can go longer distances. What about you?

#suyogsutra