About 15 months ago, I published something. Not on my blog. Not on twitter, which is the only form of reading anyone does any more. I put myself out there and published a piece of writing that was never meant to see the light of the day. I did not think, because if I had, I probably would have hit shift+delete on the entire folder. I looked up Kindle Direct Publishing and put it out there for people to read. I wanted it to be free, but Amazon does not let you do that. So, I put a minimum price to it.

Fifteen months later, I got some feedback. Feedback that I did not expect or anticipate. I got what I can only call constructive, even if it did not feel quite so constructive when I received it. “You got me invested in the character and gave me nothing in return,” he said. It felt like an attack on my writing. Like he had unreasonable expectations of me. I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to tell him I’m not Margaret Atwood. That my story was a simple one. One of love. I stayed upset for some time. But then, you cannot really create something if you are not willing to learn from those experiences.

When I think back to the process of writing, I realise some very important truths. My story could have been better. The narrative could have been tighter. I could have said the exact same thing in 4 pages instead of 14 or 24. I could have been brutal in cutting out unnecessary embellishments and pointless storylines. In hindsight, there are a hundred things I could have done that would have made my book (for want of a better word) more readable. But I also realise that when we write, we invest a part of ourselves in it. We tell stories inspired by our own experiences and observations. But what we fail to realise as writers, as creators and as artists is that our characters are different from us. When he told me that my protagonist disappointed him, I took it to mean that I disappointed him. That his estimation of me as an individual had somehow fallen because of his response to my writing. And in that, I am completely wrong. While my protagonist may have some similarities with me as an individual, we are actually different. And unless I learn to dissociate myself from the characters in my book, I am never going to be able to put myself out there and write another one again. Nor am I going to be able to take that criticism that comes with the turf.

What I understand today is that I need to be happy that I actually put something out there for people to read and comment on. That it may not be perfect, but it is a part of me that I cannot deny. While I have let go of that piece of writing, I need to retain the lessons if I am to ever tell another story in my life. But isn’t that what life is about? The process of learning and unlearning. The ability to hold on to the lessons while learning to let go of the emotion.

Today, I have grown. As a writer. And hopefully, as a person too.

This is a special day. This day, 10 years ago, I began a journey that became one of the most important journeys in my life. What began as a protected blog under the name of “A Space of One’s Own” evolved to what it is today. I’ve blogged under my real name, moved on to a pseudonym, slowed down, written furiously, then slowed down again, and even considered quitting. Yet, this space is something I could never complete let go of.

The journey that I began ten years ago has been adventurous, exciting, depressing, and difficult at the same time. Yet, I’ve never really felt the need to stop or turn around. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s a need to express things I wouldn’t dare speak about in person. Whatever it is, it’s an important part of not just my life, but a part of my growing up.

As a 24-year old, I was idealistic, full of zeal. I wanted to change the world and believed that my writing had the power to do so. I wrote furiously, and with a frankness than amazes even me when I re-read those posts a decade hence. I wrote in sheer outrage around what’s happening in the world around me. I wrote, because I didn’t know any other way.

As time passed, my blog evolved. From speaking of politics and society, of the ills that we face and the injustices of life, it evolved into something more personal. It gradually became a refuge from the world. A place where I could cherish the small things, and speak of things close to my heart. Of art and literature. Of love and life. Of desire and longing.

Today, ten years older, and slightly more mature, I no longer blog because I’m outraged. I no longer react as spontaneously to news or happenings around me. I watch, I wait. I observe and analyse. And most of the time, I choose not to speak. I don’t speak because I feel I have nothing to contribute that hasn’t already been said a million times over. If I do feel like adding something, the 140 characters usually suffice. I find today, as I look back over my journey, that my blog’s tone and content is actually a reflection of how I have evolved as a person. And I am happy to say that it’s no longer the quantity, but the honesty and the intensity of my writing that’s become important.

Here’s to the next decade of writing. May this love for the written word never fade!