On Writing — Don’t Try
There’s this Charles Bukowski quote that serves as my first prompt when I sit to write: don’t try. It’s engraved on his tombstone.
He meant writing, I think, should come as naturally as a sneeze — a reflex, not a calculation. But let’s be real: most days, my writing doesn’t feel like a sneeze. It feels like pulling — no, hanging from — a rusted and resistant old lever in a long-abandoned factory, groaning and clanking before it even thinks about moving. The words stumble out, awkward and unpolished, making me want to scrap the whole thing even as I write them.
But then, something magical happens — if I keep pulling, the gears start turning. The machine starts to hum. The words that felt forced in the beginning suddenly flow, lubricated by the act of simply trying. Thoughts and words find their rhythm. It’s like stepping into a stream: cold and jarring at first, but soon, you’re just part of the current.
I didn’t know this about writing until I read it being echoed in a friend, Ankush’s, blogs. Sure, in theory, we all know that writing isn’t about the first draft but about the proofed and edited pieces, fit for publishing. Didn’t Tolstoy famously say, “write drunk, edit sober”? But writing isn’t just about penning down knowledge existent or thoughts already cemented in one’s mind. It’s often a process of discovery, of unearthing the thoughts you didn’t even know you had.
Luckily, since my journey is nascent, writing for me isn’t about perfection or an audience. (Heck, I may never get around to reading what I write myself.) I’ve learned that writing doesn’t need to be about anyone else. It’s not for readers, editors, or even the imaginary audience in my head that claps or sneers depending on the day. Writing is for the joy of the act itself — for the sound of keystrokes, for the alchemy of turning thought into language. It’s about letting the machine sputter and wheeze because, eventually, it purrs.
Some days, though, the machine doesn’t purr — not without coffee, anyway. And I’ve been thinking about that a lot too. My relationship with caffeine is...complicated. Without it, the world feels heavy, my thoughts sluggish. And yet, here I am, trying to write without it, wrestling with the lack of motivation and the tire in my eye. Writing becomes an anchor—not just a task to be checked off, but a way to stay tethered to myself. Even when I’m writing about nothing, it’s something.
And here’s the thing: writing doesn’t need caffeine or the perfect setting. It just needs a little faith in the process and the courage to keep going. Each word, each awkward sentence, is a step toward something better. Not perfect, but meaningful.
Writing lets me leave breadcrumbs, however small, that say: I was here. I tried.
So, here’s to pulling the lever, creaky or not.