My Story

For the first 14 years of my life, I always thought I’d become a writer. I was published in two poetry anthologies – once before and once during early puberty and had filled 3 hardcover books full of hand written stories – one of which was dictated to my mother since before I could write by myself. I look at the ink, now, as a mother looks at a child she hasn’t seen in many a year. A profound distance purges the empty longing between me and the words that I can’t quite seem to grasp onto, anymore. And I know exactly where it started.

If you had asked me what I planned to do in grade 8, I instantly responded with the word ‘writing’. I obviously hid the true meaning of this word (that being crafting fiction novels) behind the title of ‘journalist’, but as time progressed, I found the inner light I kept blazing within me seemed to dissipate, as the sun surreptitiously slips away before we realise we’re in the midst of the moon. Throughout my primary school life I had received the English award, with my ‘creative writing’ receiving particular recognition in grade 7. It buoyed me, filled me with so much excitement and hope. Steadily, though, my writing began to assume a different tone.

Eager to prove myself, and longing for some confirmation of my so-called ideal job, I began to abuse words. In the eyes of my grade 8 English teacher, in the second term, I concocted an essay of verbose monstrosity, something illegible to the average reader : a vile labyrinth of Latin catchphrases, metaphors and arbitrary descriptions. Yet, I saw it as a masterpiece of the abstract. I had simply written the conventional as ‘lanoitnevnoc’ and inserted it diagonally. If you looked past all the logorrhea, you would’ve found the golden egg of my meaning. I remember this ever so clearly, because for the remainder of that year, I had never questioned my identity so deeply. Grade 8 was shadowed, afterwards, but I do remember the deep despair and realisation that I really wasn’t who I thought I was – and I certainly won’t become who I thought I would be.

That’s not to say I didn’t try. Indeed, I muttered oaths under my breath that people would regret eschewing my dreams, and one day I would prove myself capable. Perhaps that day came when I received a Gold certificate for the De Beers English Olympiad, but it was hardly anywhere in the top 10, and thus irrelevant. But… I digress.

Thereafter, the criticism followed :
“Writers don’t make much money, you know.”
“The field of journalism is overrated and inundated.”
“It’s a tough business to make it in.”
From the end of grade 9, I found some joy in debating, and we all found a new façade to pose as my future career: lawyer – although I emphasized thoroughly that the extra curricular activity and the actual field of study have but a smidgen of similarity. Whenever people would pose the question of what I was to study, I would throw out various fields and say I’m still thinking about what I’m meant to do.

Some people in this world are lucky - they’re born with a burning passion for what they’re meant to do. Some people have their decisions made for them by wise parents, and have had their entire path guided and moulded by these paternal forces. I, on the other hand, have been a lonely scrap of paper floating through countless pipe dreams and aspirations, only to carve them out on a MS Word document and post part of them on a little blog on the corner of the internet.
Indeed, I have become conventional. Part of me longs for the prideful irreverent plays I used to enjoy with words. The all absorbing passion, and the darkness with which I would write poetry.

And the other part wants to forget every moment of it.