Once, sitting in the coffeehouse with my worn out notebook where I jotted down new ideas whenever they would hit me, I asked myself how did I start writing.
I don’t consider myself a writer, because for one I kept getting rejected wherever I sent in my write-ups, and with the pressure of my exams coming up I felt blessed if I got an hour to myself. Gone were the days I could set aside time to dedicate myself to creating worlds out of words.
Yet, my eyes still lit up every time I saw something in my environment that would make a brilliant plot. This is why I carried that notebook in my bag when I did my marathon classes because I was never out of ideas and I succumbed to the fantasy that I would get back to these rough layouts to build something concrete out of them.
I’ve always been quiet as a child. My mom bought one notebook for me, where I started writing in whatever bad grammar the 7-year-old me knew. It was my first ever diary.
That diary was no Anne Frank’s diary material, but it was the starting of what made me feel like I was never isolated.
I didn’t write with only one aim; to be published someday.
Writing and I, we have a far more intimate connection than I’ve ever experienced with a human being.
Writing was my savior when I was only seven, and it continues to be so to this day. I’m still quiet in nature. In my mind, I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts.
But when I open my mouth, everything collapses. This is where writing saved me, it helped me keep track of all the intermittent thoughts. The words are allowed to flow freely on the pages without any judgement, no restrictions.
As Maya Angelou has said, ”there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.’