As a kid I had a very vivid imagination. I remember chasing fictional creatures around, jumping from couch to couch, and weaving stories for playtime during school recess with the other kids. I kept feeding my love for storytelling, writing plays to enact with my siblings. When creative writing was introduced at school, my words flowed with such ease at the gush of my thoughts. I read a lot of fiction books, from fantasy to sci-fi and detective fiction, which enriched my vocabulary and gave me better structure for my stories.
As I lost myself to books, I disconnected from people and reality seemed more and more dull. I cultivated a rage and hatred against the world, against the cruelty and naiveté of mankind. I was locked inside a boundless world in my mind, and writing was my only vessel for expression. I spilled thousands upon thousands of words, typing frantically on my keyboard. Stories of apocalyptic worlds, epic journeys and somber murders, stories that never left the binary mind of my machine and very few eyes ever witnessed. My computer was struck by a virus, and everything was lost.
In my shock, I rebelled and stopped using my imagination. I stopped writing novels. For the next few years I used a notebook to scribble poems and random thoughts, ranting on the harshness of life and the idiocy of men. My words were tainted with a dark fury, a madness that enslaved my mind and shrouded my thoughts, keeping me from seeing happiness, blinding me from my own idiocy.
It was the last year of high school. I hadn’t had creative writing in the curriculum for four years. Out of nowhere, I landed on a creative writing subject. I fished my thoughts from the depth of my mind, working the wheels of my imagination, and reluctantly, my pen spat the words with a bitter sweet passion. I presented my work with little conviction, and put it all behind me. A few days passed, and then something happened. My teacher called out for me in private. “You’re a writer,” she said, half asking, half stating a fact in surprise. She could tell from my words. Even though I mourned the stories I had lost, the years of writing shaped my style and made me a better writer. “You’re a writer,” her voice rang in my head, sparking a flame.
The flame of passion was quickly doused however. I never thought one could make a living being a writer, and with college in the horizon, social pressure pushed me further away from writing. I do not blame society, there was a time where I did. But I hold myself accountable now for the choices I made. I chose fear of failure, comfort and validation over excitement and my own happiness. I lost myself and surrendered to the churning wheels of life, wandering pointlessly. I was miserable and suffocating.
Years passed. My pen was dry, and my mind was numb. The epidemic hit, and for a brief period of time I had to stop working. As I completely disconnected from the stress of the mundane, I found myself in utter silence with the sole company of myself. I ventured into my mind, and awakened a deep longing, an ancient thirst. I wrote a word, then a sentence, then a paragraph, and it snowballed from there. The flames of passion were lit, and they burned stronger than ever before. Images from my imagination gushed like a tsunami. I couldn’t sleep without writing. I ate and drank by my keyboard, my fingers strained to translate my thoughts onto the screen. I was a writer. I was alive again.
After that, how could I get back?
I quit my career, and set on a new journey, dedicating myself to writing. I finished my first manuscript. In the words of Hemingway “The first draft of anything is shit.” But I did not let it drag me down. I studied books, sharpened my skills, hired an editor, swallowed my pride (there was a lot that) took in all the constructive criticism, and kept writing.
My journey is one of passion, happiness and excitement. A journey filled with boundless worlds, marvelous creatures, mystery, and fantasy. I found my purpose in writing, and waking up and getting out of the bed has never been more exciting. I hope you find your purpose whatever it is.
I will be documenting my journey as a writer in future entries, discussing the reasoning behind some of the choices I made along the way, hoping to inspire in the process.
In the meantime, if you’d like to share your experiences, I will be happy to get to know you and hear all about them.