My posts are random, almost ridiculous conversations I have with myself in my head. And the best part of writing a blog is complete freedom. I am free to be quirky and self-aware all in the same post. Now, I am in no way implying that I have arrived. But since I started posting publicly, I have been burdened by this question, ‘what is my niche?’. Almost every research ends with this big question. In order to have writing as a career or to find a freelance job, you need to find your niche so employers can identify your strengths and hire you. But I never found my niche.
I write 15 mins a day as practice, but mostly I write anytime I can. My email drafts are filled with random thoughts and short poems. I have diaries in every bag with my favorite pens to write in moments I feel lonely or clueless. Losing my dad has been the biggest reason I feel like I don’t know anything. Sadly, I keep looking for signs because I look for his assurance for everything I do. I cannot remember the number of times I have dreamt of my dad rescuing me from burning buildings and wild rainstorms just because, in my head, I want to believe whatever I am doing is in line with his approval. A therapist would give me a logical term for this behavior; I am pretty confident. But so far, I am also looking for assurance from my dad, even here for every Monday and Friday post. He was the one I used to test my writing skills on when mobile phones first started. When you had to press (literally press and not tap) on a number 3 times to get to the letter ‘f.’ I used to send him random thoughts on anything and everything, which now I realize were short poems, while struggling in local buses to college every morning. Because it was in college, I realized I was not so bad at writing. And I can create a decent poem with my capabilities beyond my personal diary.
So, bringing back to applauding myself for writing over 200 posts and staying with it, I want to thank you, lovely people, for being that sign for me to keep going. Rest will follow!
Miss you Dad!
I still feel like a headless chicken without you trying very hard not to get run over.
Black Coffee and Grey Stories 