Preachy.

Write about death if you’re good at it. Write about emotions you can describe well.

If your best works are about decapitated heads and dying children, by all means write about it.

Describe the pain of a war widow or the deep hollow inside of the mother whose five year old died of cancer. Spell out the biting indifference you’ve witnessed; people who get over death even before the coffin is lowered or those who don’t base their happiness on anything materialistic. Write about it so I can feel your confusion which is lined with envy. Involve me in your tales, so that I may be able to tell that while you detest the indifference but you also desire it secretly.

Don’t be fooled into thinking that you’ll be as good at writing about happy things, especially when they don’t come to you as strongly. You’ll falter when the sunshine hits you in your chest, you’ll cringe as the calculated happiness leaks out of you. Don’t try and narrate your cheerful anecdotes to me.

I will not relate to it and I will not feel for you. I will be able to tell that your words are just words.

Write about it only if you really feel for it. Don’t write about because people chide you for writing too much about death. The chances are your story of your favourite football club winning a game will come out sounding way more honest than your story about India’s independence.

Don’t worry about all your stories sounding the same. The best stories, like we all know, are the ones you want to go back to and read again, even if they’re familiar.

Write about what matters to you.

Write about what moves you if you go back and read it.

Write.
Write.
Write.