There seems to be this gnawing fear in todays’ Western youth; a fear of making the wrong choice. Personally I think it probably stems from the abundance of choices we’re presented every day. Take coffee for instance. You can’t have it just black anymore. It has to be a non-fat salted caramel macchiato with fair trade almond milk.
I like individuality, I do, but I get confused. I’m basically an adult with a drinking permit. I have no idea what I’m doing. And the endless possibilities do not help.
And I started thinking about when the doubt started to grow. I didn’t always feel like this. There was a time, however distantly, when I knew exactly what I wanted to do. And it was when I learned to write. I was around a two and a half years of age. And nothing gave me more pleasure than writing. For me, there was no other option.
It was instinct.
I think I published my first book around the age of five. It was a marvellous creation, I’ll tell you. I was very involved in the publishing process, starring as author, editor and publisher as I crafted the cover and only hard copy (which incidentally, was the first draft as well) in my room. It was a fast, meticulous process. The launch of my debut novel happened in our living room some 15 minutes later when I forced the masterpiece of maybe seven pages on my mom and her friends. I was a published author and bursting with pride.
I remember thinking, ‘wow, this is what I want to do’.
I was hooked on language and narrative, the magical zeal that is well-written prose. That was 20 years ago, and the kid’s dream lives on. But life has scratched some of the innocence away from that dream, and I’m afraid. Afraid of failing, afraid of not trying hard enough, afraid of it being a dead-end. Afraid, a fraud. You can’t be a writer if you don’t write.
I know I’m not an excellent storyteller. I know I have a long way to go. But I want to go that way. There is nothing I’d rather be doing than to take words and weave them into wonderful braids of sound and meaning and just enchant you with the rhythm and beat of grammar, of context.
Writing isn’t something I choose to do. It’s a reflex. It’s linguistic breathing, happening effortlessly in the wake of thoughts I can’t get out of my head. I did it when I was a child. And I still do. So apparently, it’s something I have to do, because I can’t stop.
It’s like the green of spring. Sooner or later, it always breaks through the snow.
(That ended up more metaphorical than I was going for.)
But the gist remains the same.
I’m going to be sharing the process of my writing, techniques and tips I find useful as well as snippets of my own writing (I’m currently working on a novel as well as some manuscripts). Since I’ve inherited my mother’s squirrel-like ability of concentration and multi-tasking, I’ll probably be swaying off topic onto issues such as mental health, society and anything that might make me anxious. The point of this blog is to tune my skills as an author and to build a platform from which I can reach my peers ie readers and other authors. If you’re interested how to deal with life when you don’t feel like it, I got your back.
I’d give anything to go back to being that bold five-year old who just wrote without fear of being judged or rejected. This is my attempt to reincarnate that fearlessness and if anyone feels inclined to take a seat and follow this madness, you’re very welcome to. I do believe the world needs more sharing and kindness. I’d like to be a part of that.