When writing finds you

When Writing Finds You

By Nidhi Guglani

There are moments when writing flows not from discipline, but from stillness. From simply being—being there, being present, being quiet enough to witness what most would pass by. I’ve come to believe that writing, when it’s true, doesn’t always begin with intent. Sometimes, writing finds you.

Writers are, before anything else, observers. The art lies not in knowing what to say, but in noticing what others overlook. In that noticing, something stirs—something that wants to be written. It may begin as a fleeting image, a sentence that lands and lingers, or even just a feeling that has no name yet.

On a street once, I paused near a man who looked like a beggar—barefoot, wrapped in a tattered shawl, eyes deep with some untold story. He asked for help, but it wasn’t the words I heard—it was the tension in his voice, the flicker in his eyes. Sometimes, there’s a truth behind the eyes that doesn’t match the story being told. Other times, there’s a lie wearing the clothes of suffering. And occasionally—beautifully—there is a quiet dignity in the most weathered face, asking for nothing but being seen. That’s what writers catch—not the surface, but the underneath.

Another time, it was just a tree. A familiar one I passed every day. And yet, one morning its leaves looked different—softer, almost trembling. Another day, those same leaves felt stiff, unmoved. The tree hadn’t changed, but I had. The light, the air, my mood, the season—everything came together to give it a new personality. And so, even a tree becomes a character. Even silence becomes story.

Life offers such moments endlessly. A child spinning in circles in a park. A rickshaw-puller humming an old song. A stranger at a café staring too long into their cup. A friend masking pain with laughter. Every human, every corner of this world is teeming with stories. We just need to sit in the spectator’s seat long enough to notice.

I’ve learned not to force the writing. On some days, words arrive unannounced—I write for hours, as though they’ve been waiting for me. On others, nothing comes. There’s no shame in that. In fact, some of the best writing begins not on the page, but in the pauses we honour.

I remember speaking once during The Adventures of the Literati, and realising how often we dismiss the little thoughts—those quick scribbles, ideas jotted in margins, or half-formed images that flit through the mind. But they matter. Every thought carries a thread. And someday, those threads may weave a book.

Even now, a quiet dream lingers within me—to open a bookstore. A space filled not just with books, but with people who read them without hurry. Who sit down with a cup of tea and feel the words. A place where stories aren’t just bought—they’re shared.

Writing, I feel, is born of empathy. It’s not just about expression. It’s about connection. It’s about seeing someone or something so clearly that the only way to honour it is by writing it down.

So, if you’re reading this and wondering when or how to write, maybe just begin by noticing. The light on the wall. The weariness in someone’s voice. The way your own thoughts shift with time. Let it be gentle. Let it be honest. Let it be slow.

Let the writing find you.

“The world will never lack for wonders—only for wonderers.”

—G.K. Chesterton