Dear Authors
Of the era of millions of stories
Real, surreal, fiction and fake.
Told, Untold, retold, re-lived.
Forgotten, remembered, cherished.

Stories that began with a cup of coffee, and ended in a hangover.
Stories that helped you feel good,
About one, one hundred, one thousand likes on Instagram.
Stories with superfluous, desperate, metaphors.
Trying too hard to please a world that just won't shut up about an injustice you don't care about!
Stories created out of your mind
That is a mine of ideas
Born out of experiences, and pressure.
Pressure to write.
To earn a living.
To impress.
To please.
To pay the bills.
To leave a legacy.
But most importantly, stories that'll stay.
Stay in the minds of the readers and listeners,
That are so kind to spare their time, to hear you out.

Dear Authors
Of the time of lack of time.
A time where teens (and older) have sold their time to scrolling and swiping
So that they might just sleep through the horrors of emptiness that is their life.
Where the screens have won over paper.
Where the thick pretty dictionary has become a tiny blue rectangle on the phone.
Where the big words are only jargons for super-specialisations.

You have no time. You have no words. You have no listeners.
Unless you're a TV show on Netflix.
With a simple enough language, and no story.
Only graphics and war and nudity.
No story at all.


Dear Authors
Of a world of over-information.
Of WattPad and Wordpress and WhatsApp forwards.
Who will read your stories anymore?
Why will they read YOUR stories anymore?
How will they ever find your stories anymore?

Okay, by chance, they found you in the noise,
Too low to worry about failure.
Restricted to 120 characters.
Saying what everyone is not saying.
And you somehow won a lottery, found yourself on paper.

But now you're afraid.
So you write what everyone is writing, and lose yourself to fame, and your fans to money.


Dear Authors,
Who have lost their faith.
Who see hope only on screens anymore.
The libraries are going stale.
They're being haunted by ghosts of Hermiones,
Who now work in coffee shops.
Looking at couples making out,
Listening to the wrinkles talk about a war that stole their purpose.
Loathing the teens staring at their screens.
While the good old paper lies in a corner.
Oh wait, there is sound in that corner today!!
And that kid must not even be 10...
Oh, he picked it up. It was an Enid Blyton. The Secret Seven that still live in our hearts.

Oh, if only you still wrote for us readers anymore.
We will always be there you know, as long as you write.
I hope you remember us, when they give you money and fame and tell you to write for lazy people.

Remember us. And remember, why you write.