When I was nine years old, I discovered the joy of writing. I discovered that I could recreate fantasies in storybooks that I had loved so much. I discovered that it was .. a thrill ride, manipulating the characters, weaving imaginary tales, all with a flick of my wrist (sort of).
And soon, writing became my passion. My life. It encompassed my being, till all I could think of, was setting that pen on that paper, and letting my imagination run wild. I was proud to call myself a writer.
I was ten years old.
And I was foolish. To think of myself as blessed with the incredible gift of writing! Ha. Now I can only reminisce in anger, at my bogus ten year old self.
To be honest, anyone who writes is a writer. I don't care whether you've got stellar works, or your writing's a piece of crap. Just as long as you
want to write, that's good enough for me.
So it became a trend. Out popped new writers in the class of Primary Four Generosity. It didn't matter what they wrote about. It was suddenly this new fad. But I knew it would never last.
It didn't. At the end of the year, I was the only one left.
And so, I kidded to myself, that I secretly
did possess this amazing gift. It was a fool's hope, perhaps, because all the teachers hated my writing.
But three years later, fast forward to where I am now, and I realise that I possess no such gift. My writing is important to me, yes, but it is not the writing of an artist. My creativity is curbed by my own logic, and so, my imagination is limited. It's because of this limitation that I cry, out of anger, out of sorrow, out of pain; it's the only thing that stands in my way. And it's because of this limitation, that I cannot paint windswept tales of adventure and romance or bone chilling thrillers or enigmatic mysteries. Again and again, it is always the same sobstory, just altered to twist in a different direction.
Yet, I continue writing. This fake, unimaginative, unoriginal person that I am, I cannot write. But I still do.
I can dream, and that's why.