We think writing is easy!

To write...

To be able to write...

To be able to express emotions with subtle clicks when you pick up a pen or sit at the keyboard... Sometimes writing slowly, thoughtfully... Like a child climbing up the stairs for fear of falling down... Lean, sincere, without thinking about the aftermath, living in the moment. Sometimes writing by feeling the heavy, limping, breathing of an old man leaning on his cane... Filled with verbiage and phrases, reeking of experience, giving advice... As if every word was carefully chosen, pontificating... And sometimes, like a musician immersed in the rhythm of the piano, jumping from branch to branch, making potpourri...

We think writing is easy. Every pen in hand thinks they can write something. Writing seems like an easy profession to us... We start with great enthusiasm and enthusiasm. But over time, these enthusiastic beginnings give way to forced, dutiful writing. You cannot find the enthusiasm and taste of those days when you wrote for pleasure. The real difficulty is in finding a subject. When you pick up a pen and sit down to write, it is as if a hurricane has taken away all the words in your repertoire. Sentences play hide and seek in your brain and no matter how good a midwife you are, you can't get them out. You try in vain to write. When you think about what the readers will think about it, how the critics will pontificate, rather than what you are going to write, the crumpled pages form a pile in front of you as you try to write nervously and diligently. It is as if your senses are paralyzed... You suddenly become blind, deaf and dumb. Your pen stops writing, you stop feeling...

You get up and either light a cigarette or take a break with a cup of hot coffee. You are probably at the window of your house overlooking the concrete piles. Suddenly, as if a magic wand touches your emotions... The moment you have been waiting for has arrived and the words start to sting. You rush to the pen and paper... You start writing so quickly, so childishly that it is impossible not to smile.

You tear it up and start again; with the excitement of success, you throw yourself into the soft armchair like a victorious commander... I wrote it, I succeeded!

It is not clear for whom you write, what you are happy about. Is it to comfort yourself, for people to read it, for me to get credit? Did you write egotistically or for social interests, the reason is never known...

And is it only important to finish? Did what you wrote penetrate the mountains and flow like a thin flowing water or did it build walls that are more difficult to overcome than the Great Wall of China?

Maybe nothing matters to you except the fact that you have written. What makes you happy is to warm yourself in the flame of what is written and burned before it can be read... Maybe those words don't carry any meaning for you because you think and express your thoughts freely, because you scribble without any concern. Most of the time you don't care where an ellipsis you just put there takes the reader... Sometimes just for the sake of words; without thinking about anyone, any phenomenon; whether it is read or not, whether it is read or not, with the mentality of let me do my duty, you don't even think about how the words you write make the reader feel.

If you wrote without adding any feeling to the words, choosing them without care, coloring them with word games... Without believing but pretending to believe... With false emotions... To say that you wrote... With false words full of empty promises... Without hearing, without feeling, just for the sake of it.

If everyone admired what you wrote when it was over, without thinking about the mediocrity of what you wrote... And if you know that those words will leave a deep mark in the memory and will not be erased for years; even if they contain false emotions, empty promises, despair... That you have often written, drawn, scribbled, crumpled and presented them to the reader without putting a drop of emotion into them...

Though I know that words are all liars, just like people. But what is the sin of torn pages when they are piled up in a corner?

As long as 'articles written in such a way tell about lives lived in such a way', there will be more columnists in this country.