I rarely read non-fiction, but for the past few days, I have had this constant urge to dig into one, any one – a memoir, a self-help book, an essay, biography or an autobiography, and that was when I stumbled onto the book ‘Playing Big’ by Tara Mohr, which is part memoir, part tutorial and part enlightening. This is not a book review, but half way into the book, I felt like summarising the essence of the book in a few words, as I found myself agreeing to a lot of the nuggets mentioned here.
‘You dare yourself to lean into your heart and listen to the faint hum of its naive desires. For a second, you are confused. In parts, they sound not the least like the ‘you’ who have been presented to your family and friends over the years. In parts, they sound different. They seem to have culminated into a completely different, ably formed, alter-ego of yourself, well inside your body, taking charge of your mind and soul undeniably. What do you do?
Neglect it, wondering how in the world you are going to include this new facet of yours in your life? Do you contemplate ways to explain this new found unique interests of your heart to people who have known you since ages? What would they think? How would you fit in when your freshly blossomed passion threatens to shatter the bridge that otherwise connected you to them? Wouldn’t they find you odd? Would they eye you as someone way out of their league? Should you simply ignore the pleas of your yearning heart and live your life as you used to? Wouldn’t that make it so much more easier? But then, if you do that, will you be happy of your decision many years down the lane?’
If you have found yourself asking these questions atleast once in your life, well, then this book might be of interest to you.
As I have stated in few of my blog posts before, I started writing seriously late in life. At 22, to be precise. I have had my stints with writing even before that and even writing a good piece of essay during my exams used to brighten me up! I never considered myself to be worthy of being declared a writer, even a few years into the commencement of this blog. I liked keeping this cherished space of mine a secret hide-out, where I would seek solace in during tough times. But gradually, more and more people started acknowledging my writing and that was when I decided to publicise my writing more, because that was when I realised the importance of receiving reviews from readers and how much that would encourage me to write better every time. The kind words of bloggers who read me propelled me to write more and share more.
Now, at this point of my life, I am surrounded by people who read and appreciate my works, nevertheless, the fact that I am trying to do something entirely disconnected from my profession takes a jab at me at times. There is an ‘inner critic‘ inside me that looks up from a dark, dingy crevice of my mind occasionally to taunt me with questions as to why I write when I already have so much to read, learn and immerse myself in with regard to my higher studies. I hold a degree in ENT surgery and I am undergoing the second part of my higher studies. Why wouldn’t I simply be happy with that? Isn’t that what most people would dream of?
I haven’t received answers to all my questions yet. But the book seems promising enough. And no, I am not greedy nor do I consider myself ‘Master of all trades’. Yes, I do consider myself special in a way that I am trying hard to listen to my heart, when I could simply ignore its calling. But then, If I had done that I would have missed out on so much of the joy I have received while writing down each and every word of a blog post/ story/ poem. Most of the times, I forget that there is no compulsion for me to write. I write because I want to. I write because it seems a normal thing for me to do when inspired. Even while doing so, I try my best to not let myself down when it comes to keeping up with my studies. I am basically a doctor by profession and it would eventually feed me bread and butter, for which I ought to be up-to-date in my knowledge and polished as far as my skills are concerned.
I have now accepted writing a part of my life, a part which wouldn’t and shouldn’t jut out from my body or mind for the fact I don’t find it suitable enough to carry alongside my profession. From this day on, I shouldn’t and wouldn’t be afraid to declare to people around me that I am a doctor who writes and shall be till words decide to abandon me one day.