I’ve been feeling a little lost lately. In a sea of tones and styles I adapt everyday to take on my career as a writer, I feel like I’ve forgotten how to sound like myself.
On a local blogging community, when I asked for help, someone said, “Think about why you started writing.”
I was 6 when my cousin walked in and said she’s going to be a journalist. I was not sure what a journalist did. I didn’t know how to pronounce it. But at that moment, I told myself ‘This is the dream’ !
Over the years, the idea of a journalist didn’t seem so appealing but I never stopped wanting to write. I failed every class in high school, I always passed English. I began writing my first book when I was 14. A cheesy love story about the girl with a dream. I still can’t believe I let my friends read it.
When I was upset, writing became my mental health specialist. It healed me in ways that people couldn’t.
When I was happy, it became my secret friend. I could pour out everything for hours and not have a care in the world about judgemental behaviour. When I was a teenager, writing was my one true best friend. If my parents didn’t understand, if my boyfriend didn’t text, if my friends were being bitchy – I could just always write about it. When I saw the man, who I believed was the love of my life, with another girl on his arm, words became the shoulder I leaned on.
It’s almost ridiculous to think I gave up. For a while there, I told myself it wasn’t for me. That I was meant for something more conventional rather than creative. But life caught up with me.
At my worst, I turned to words again. This blog became my sanctuary. The people I got to connect with. This is my world away from my world. This is where I am true to myself because social situations may fail me, but words never did.
I began writing my thoughts, troubles and tales. It was supposed to be my personal diary on a public platform.
But along the way, something changed. Something inspired me. I started hearing people tell me how they’d needed to hear what I’d written. And I felt something. It made me want to be a writer again. It reminded me about my first poem. It reminded me about something very emotional. It reminded me why I began.
And it wasn’t a lost cause. It wasn’t random or silly. I didn’t write just because I needed an outlet. I didn’t write to make memories unforgettable.
I began writing my first book when I was 14. It was a cheesy love story about the girl with a dream. She struggled. She fought her way through life. She chased her dream with all she had. And she made it. I wrote that book because I wanted to give hope to those who didn’t have it at that moment. I wanted to let people know that if you fought hard and refused to give up, you’d find your dreams, no matter what. I wanted to inspire someone to chase their dreams.
This is my reason to write.
I began writing because I believed that words can change the world. That it can change lives.
And I wanted to prove it.