When words feel small in a world of noise
The columnist in me is frustrated today. The author in me is despondent. And my creative instinct is at a crossroads. In spite of being in the opinion space for nearly 17 years, I find myself questioning what truly matters. My words feel hesitant and my voice sounds feeble today. The brain is frozen and thoughts don’t ferment easily. There is so much noise around that it feels as though even shouting isn’t enough to be heard.
My writing has always been gentle — zephyr-like — touching lives and spreading salve on bruised skin. Suddenly, it feels as if that’s not what is required of me in the new environment, where howling tornadoes wreck human destinies. I am conflicted, unable to decide what’s consequential in an expanse where noise masquerades as relevance. There is more than one reason for this quiet despondency to creep into someone who has engaged in the craft of shaping people’s sentiments with balance and restraint. Opinion has stopped being the exclusive privilege of newspapers and magazines, and has exploded into more democratic domains, spilling reckless views from anyone who has a gadget to punch into. In this cacophony, the real voices feel stifled and silenced. It alienates truth and provides legitimacy to empty assertions. The pressure to turn up the volume weakens the purpose, and words stop emerging from the innermost reaches of the self. Add to it the distress of witnessing the most hideous transgressions happening in the world. The depths of depravity to which people have descended leave little room for mindfulness in a writer. Writing, all at once, becomes an act of rigour. Last week, when The Washington Post announced that it was cutting out the books section from its pages, along with scores of jobs, an author’s heart many miles away sank once again. Why are long reads and literature getting sidelined in mainstream media?
The answer is not hard to find. They don’t capture attention as much as gossip and controversies do. They don’t get traction; they don’t bring in revenue. Book-related content, such as reviews, has become redundant in a business environment where every column space has to be monetised. Books have made a slow exit from people’s lives, making it necessary for publications to boot them out as well. The literary space itself is murky now. Thousands of books are churned out each week, many of them lacking in quality and finesse. Let’s not even start discussing the role of AI in polluting this sacred space. Although openly denounced, adulteration is now secretly accepted. Paid publicity and planted reviews have given authenticity short shrift, and those who once wrote stories because it was the only thing they knew to do are left wondering — why should I write anymore? With interest in reading dwindling, the space for the propagation of good books shrinking, and optics and forced marketing claiming the foreground, how do authors from a different time and place keep their urge to write going?
The creative in me stands at a crossroads. The muse falls silent at times, diminished by a loud, restless world that believes it already knows everything. Everyone speaks; few listen. Yet giving up is not easy. Writing is an act of selflessness — a calling of the soul. Those who revere words will continue to write and release their stories into the universe. The ones meant to hear them will listen. In that quiet surrender lies a writer’s true grace and fulfilment.
The writer is a Dubai-based author, columnist, independent journalist and children’s writing coach; views are personal
