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My beginnings as a writer
I find that most authors believe they had the gift of writing from the moment they were born. They nurtured it throughout their lives, started by writing essays, short stories, participated in all sort of literary activities, you name it.
I didn’t have a clue that I could write something other than notes to my son:
Remember that the hallway floor is awfully creaky. Please use the back entrance when you come home in the middle of the night from your dalliances.
Then one day I sat down in front of my computer and started doing some bullet train typing, all because an idea had crossed my mind. It sounded fun.
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| Image Courtesy of Adamr/ freedigitalphotos.net |
My writing ability must have been born sometime along the way. Couldn’t tell when - I don’t have any reliable study statistics on the gestational period of personal skills. One thing is certain, my aptitude had mellowed by the time I started writing my first novel. When I finished it, I thought it was a masterpiece. And a masterpiece it was, being the ripe fruit of my heart and soul. I still love it to pieces, even though it now sits on a shelf; full of dust that makes me sneeze and hazes my eyes with tears every time I look at it.
Since then, I’ve written another five novels. Two have been accepted for publication. I’ve just finished my latest story and have sent it to my beta-reader.
When I look back, I realize that writing has done quite a few things for me. Firstly, I realized I had better things to do than spend time in front of the mirror plucking my white hair. So now I’m only half bald.
Second, I was able to come to terms with the reality that I have multiple personalities. But all writers suffer from the same condition, I suppose, having to constantly jump from one hero’s shoes to another’s.
Third, I discovered the wonders of fast food, as opposed to traditional cooking. The result of two years during which my backside remained glued to the couch while I kept demolishing my laptop’s keyboard tapping my crazy ideas.
Last, but not least, I found out that the purpose of writing has something infinite about it. Once the writing bug bit us, we authors fight our entire life to bridge the gap between our vision and its ultimate expression. A perpetual, painful challenge that clings to every word we write, yet the most rewarding experience.
If you’d ask me what I’d like to be in my next life, the answer would be: a writer. So I will keep writing to the day I die. And when that time comes, the last words I’ll type won’t be THE END. Just like my blog title, the words will be A NEW BEGINNING.
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