Stupidity lead me to writing

Feb 16-17, 2013

What writing means to me?

Am I being a stupid to dream of becoming a writer? Am I not worthy of it? I have no idea but I am sure my good friend, Time, can answer that for me.

Writing, something I was really scared to do long ago. How and why did I start writing? It’s quite a story.

When I was a kid who could barely speak I wished to become a mom. I always wrapped myself in a saree that was in the dirty clothes bin for a wash. I used to cook with toy kitchen and serve food to my imaginary husband, of course my age but tall; just like how mom did to dad.

Days passed and my envy shifted to dad. Mom obeyed dad and I felt dad was superior. I thought it was because dad was going to office every day. My mom, being a teacher, never calls the school her office. I wanted to go to office. I used to fake going out, bidding bye to people at home and saying that I was out to office.

Things changed when I joined school. I wanted to become a teacher as I found her bossing over everyone around me. I found her to be the center of attraction, the spot light person in the class. Then my focus shifted to becoming an IAS officer as dad wanted me to become one. When I realized that it needs a lot of news paper reading, I had to give up on that ambition too. Then came the dream of becoming a doctor; thanks to tamil cinemas in which people call doctors the god. Somehow I found it an out dated and not-so-cool dream. I had just one option left- the computers.

I really did not know what I wanted; not now, not then. I always assumed I wanted what I said I had wanted. I always convinced myself with what I got to be what I had really wanted. I took the computer group and convinced myself that it could enable me to remain sophisticated in AC always. I took up engineering just because people around me took and assumed it to be my ambition.

I was never extra ordinary or even good at anything. When I saw people sing I used to burn within for my inability to do that. I didn’t even dare to sing when I was alone. My voice- one horrible thing I always felt odd about even when talking, leave aside singing. I thought I will try dancing, I tried but I was not good at that too. Drawing was out of question; I always end up with curves when I try to draw straight lines. Drama? I never really got a big chance to do something about it. I felt so lonely when I realized I had no proper hobby or talent. I was good for nothing. If someone says I had to do something I did it the best I could. I was lazy; lazy to an extent that I learnt to make spelling mistakes when I was a kid. It’s another big story  I was never good at spellings and grammar. So writing was a night mare. I hated to read books. I had nothing that I could call favorite as I didn’t know what I really liked. No act gave me pleasure. I was a trained speaker back in school. I had won many prizes in various speaking events. I thought I was good at speaking. But I did not know if that was a talent and if it was something special. Everyone could talk if they were trained, right? I never bothered even to find what I like. I just assumed to like what came up in life now and then; I made stories about things I didn’t like to do but had to do. Those stories helped me a lot.

I was fascinated with writing. Being a writer was so distant to me. I remembered a poem in which there was a spelling mistake. My English teacher told me that poets have every right to skip grammar and spellings to enhance the beauty of their poems. I thought I could become a poet and started writing poems. I was bad at both spelling and grammar, considering it a qualification I wrote a lot of trash that I call poems.

Dad forced me to write to every column I could in various news papers. A lot of them never got published but a few did. Those were beautiful days of my life. I used to write to a column and wake up as early as 5 am in the morning the next day. I used to keep my house door open and wait for the paper to arrive till 6. The pleasure that each time I saw my name printed can’t be explained. Maybe I still haven’t become good enough to write how I felt back then. Thanks to dad for forcing me into writing.

During my college days, I narrated stories to my friends when the lectures were boring. They liked it a lot and encouraged me a lot. I started writing error-filled stories as Facebook notes. People who read it told me that I was good in narrating stories and I was very imaginative. They could look at the story beyond my mistakes. For the first time I had someone telling me I was good at something. Over a 100 likes for a story of mines? I couldn’t believe. I always thought I was fit for nothing. I loved logging into facebook those days. Every like, every comment on my first story, He looked into my eyes  excited me so much. I started writing more. I wanted compliments to be frank. I wanted to be worthy of becoming something in life. Writing started giving me happiness. I started writing for my own pleasure than for the comments. I started a blog, the one that I live in now, GB Land. Thanks to all my readers, I can see for myself how much I have improved; though I still haven’t learnt to write good enough.

Whenever I felt lonely I started writing a story and lived in it. Whenever I was happy I wrote something and multiplied the happiness. My blog was there with me during my thick and thin. Writing is one thing that gave me an ambition, a reason to live and something that makes me want every next dawn. Writing gave me a life, a meaning to my life. I wake up each day to improve a little in writing. I look forward to every tomorrow with a dream of becoming worthy enough to be a writer.

I enjoy every second of my life because of writing. Know how? When I cry I think it’s because I should know how to sketch a scene where my character cries. When I smile I assume it to be a chance to bring out emotions better in my writing. To me, every emotion is worth enjoying and has its own purpose.

Writing gave me a lot of friends, gave hope to my family that I could be something someday. Writing gave me a lot of happy moments- thanks to Indiblogger and Blogadda. Writing gave me the Chennai Bloggers club; I love CBC a lot. Writing gave me something that really means a lot to me that i wont reveal here; something i consider life. I earn enough but even if someone says there was a contest for Re.1 for writing I would toil as hard as I can to get that Re.1. Every paise writing gives me is special to me. Every badge I get is so special to me.

What writing means to me? I still can’t explain that. Maybe I will improve further and one day I will be able to explain exactly how I feel about writing.

If you are reading this, thanks to you for bearing this boring article that talks a lot about my own self. I will someday write something that is worthy enough of your time.

I always wanted to tell it out; cry out what a big loser i would have been if i had not started writing. Thanks a lot Blogadda. I feel a lot better now after all those tears that dropped out when i wrote this. 

This article is very close to my heart and will always remain my favorite :) 

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda