Writing has always been a passion of mine, when I was younger it was a form of escape. An alternate universe made especially for me, by me. What else could be better than that? I lived in a fairytale and dreamed in reality.. Ever had that feeling? Nothing like the imagination of a child.. Oh but once we start growing up, a sense of responsibility, social status and future endeavors start rolling in. That once fantastical child’s imagination starts to transform into something more responsibility driven, adult-like state of mind. And I cannot imagine anything worse! Because that’s exactly what happened to me along the years.
Simply put: Life got into the way and I became too lazy to work on my craft.
Don’t get me wrong and don’t misunderstand my confidence for arrogance, I do have talent for writing; I say this not because I had always been praised by my family, friends, peers and school teachers, but because I know that when I put pen to paper; I feel magic.. And isn’t that all that writing is? Magic? The worst of its kind no doubt..
Days past into weeks, months and years. From writing journal entries daily [Which I lost in my younger years, I’d have loved to dive into my child’s mind], I moved to writing every few weeks, to every few months and even less into my teen years. From writing freely, it felt alien; forced.. It wasn’t my voice anymore so I stopped writing creatively [Mostly short stories] and ventured into hells of poetry. They were shorter, direct and raw. My feelings all wrapped up in a couple of lines, that satisfied my hunger of self-expression.
High school became cliques, music, fashion, boys and sports. Too busy to write what was ravishing through my mind, I distracted myself subconsciously with other irrelevant things. University rolled around soon after and writing became as foreign as the Country I then called home. Boys, education, boys, sports, boys… Distractions. I had occasionally written throughout my University years, but it didn’t flow like it used to. I did take a writing course, my senior year though and for those quick 3 months I felt that rush of love again.. I longed for it, but as quick as it came rushing back, it fled.
8 years later and the love affair I have with words is still there.. Sadly, it took me this long; but the journey has given something for me to write about, inspiration that I needed to survive.
Two weeks ago whilst scanning through my social media sites; I stumbled upon a post by one of my favorite writers/poets of now and it felt like my calling, ‘FINALLY‘..
A “30 Days of Writing” Workshop with Tyler Knott Gregson and Andrea Balt
So now here I am, about to begin the single most terrifying and exciting journey of my life and I cannot begin to put into words what this means to me. Instead I decided to bring you along the madness. What’s a writer to do, but tell her own story right? So, first up is a warm up project before the course begins, January 29th by the way.
“A series of 17 questions for the Writer’s Soul.”
As a very descriptive writer, you can imagine that some of these responses will most probably get quite long, so I have decided to post at least one to two questions per day until the day I officially begin. I warn you though, this will not be for the faint of hearts; it will be graphic, raw and real. The truth will hurt you, but will most likely kill me first. Good luck and welcome to my inner thoughts – Let the bleeding begin:
1) Question 1:- When did you first realize your love for writing? Do you remember any people or events attached to your first writing ecstasy or have any significant early memories around this art? Go as back and as deep as possible.
Picture this: A classroom surrounded by fingerprint littered glass windows, the morning sunlight pouring into the already hot, but violently air conditioned room warming the bodies of around 15-20 grade 5 student [Girls, of course]. Sitting on a thin layer of blue carpet located in the corner of the room close to the door, a yellow stool with a teacher in her mid 40s, wild golden-yellow hair wearing a floral dress, I don’t remember the shoes. 15-20 pairs of dreamy little eyes watch her every move, waiting for what happens next as she continues to read from the latest copy of the R.L. Stein Goosebump series. Innocent little girls chased by scary, ugly monsters; courageous boys that climb to the highest peak of whatever it is they climb up! I am transfixed, mesmerized by the world that flashes in my mind, as if the book has come to life before my very eyes.The silence of the room only makes the sounds in my head that much louder; I look left embarrassed and search right quickly, but no one else can hear it.
I remember this so vividly because the collection of books we would read an hour, once a week with Mrs. Jane, were mine. I was an avid reader from an early age. I don’t know exactly who encouraged me, but I am pretty sure I picked up a book much earlier than the 5th grade and never put it down again. I realized in those stolen solitary moments, listening to Mrs. Jane’s singsongy voice, I wanted to become a writer, I wanted to create worlds for others like me, others that could imagine them in their minds, other dimension that they could escape to.