Ink Drawn from Wounds and Wings”Is Great Writing Born of Pain or Pleasure?

“Ink Drawn from Wounds and Wings”
Is Great Writing Born of Pain or Pleasure?

What makes one write well? Is it the silent ache that sits in the corner of the heart like an uninvited guest, or the gentle warmth of joy that spreads like early morning sunlight across a winter courtyard? Is writing carved out of wounds, or does it rise like a hymn from happiness?

As I sit to reflect—perhaps as a retired Principal who has seen both the applause of annual days and the loneliness of empty corridors—I am inclined to say: it is neither pain alone nor pleasure alone that makes one write well. It is the honest conversation between the two.

The Ink of Untold Pain

Pain is a stern teacher. It chisels the ego, humbles the spirit, and forces us to look within. The death of a loved one, the quiet disappointment of being overlooked due to age, the sting of isolation when social circles shrink—these experiences carve deep furrows in the heart. And as the old idiom goes, “smooth seas do not make skilful sailors.”

History stands testimony to this truth. The poetry of John Keats, written under the shadow of illness, carries an intensity that transcends time. Rabindranath Tagore’s verses often bore the fragrance of sorrow mingled with spiritual longing. Pain, when refined by reflection, becomes philosophy.

In my own life, the sudden collapse of educational support after my grandfather’s demise taught me resilience. Those were days when survival itself was a silent examination. Such experiences do not merely hurt; they deepen. And depth, my friends, is the soul of writing.

Untold pain seeks articulation. Words become therapy; sentences become confessionals; paragraphs become bridges between isolated hearts. When one writes from pain, authenticity flows unfiltered.

The Music of Pleasure

Yet, if pain were the only source, literature would be a cemetery of laments.

Pleasure, too, plays its part. The laughter of a grandson, the melody of a harmonium at dusk, the serenity of a raga like Bihag floating through the evening air—these moments colour writing with tenderness.

Think of William Wordsworth, who found profound poetry in daffodils dancing beside a lake. Or consider Rumi, whose ecstatic verses sprang from spiritual joy. Pleasure refines perception. It teaches gratitude. It allows the writer to celebrate life rather than merely endure it.

Pleasure gives wings to words. It ensures that writing does not become a valley of shadows but also a meadow of hope. As the Bhagavad Gita reminds us, equilibrium is wisdom—“Samatvam yoga uchyate.” Balance is the true art.

The Alchemy of Both

In truth, good writing is born in the crucible where pain and pleasure meet. Pain provides depth; pleasure offers light. Pain gives gravity; pleasure grants grace. One roots us; the other lifts us.

A writer who has only known comfort may skim the surface. A writer who has known only suffering may drown in it. But one who has walked through both—the thorn and the rose—writes with resonance.

Writing, then, is not an exhibition of wounds nor a parade of pleasures. It is an act of transformation. The untold pain becomes empathy; the private joy becomes generosity. And somewhere between the two, a universal truth emerges.

A Personal Reflection

Perhaps, in this phase of life—post-retirement, navigating relevance, finances, memories, and music—I realise that writing has been my quiet companion. When the world seemed distant, the pen remained faithful. When applause faded, reflection deepened.

Pain sharpened my pen. Pleasure softened my tone.
And thus, my words carry both salt and honey.

The Source Within

So what makes one write well? It is not merely suffering nor solely happiness. It is awareness. It is the courage to feel deeply and the humility to express honestly. It is the willingness to turn life itself into literature.

For writing is not about displaying scars; it is about turning them into stars.
It is not about counting blessings; it is about sharing them.

In the end, the finest ink is distilled from a heart that has both wept and rejoiced—and chosen to remain grateful.

Because the true writer does not ask whether pain or pleasure is greater;
he simply listens to both—and writes.