Am I a writer? Well, I hope so. I find so much joy from writing.
Or do I?
Is the joy from writing, or is the joy from putting a title ‘writer’ above my head? I really am not sure.
Some days get into the flow as I write. But another day, my mind went somewhere else as I sit to write.
I tried learning the craft from great writers — S. King, P. Coelho, N. Gaiman. Everyone seems to possess the same trait: beyond writing, they love to read for the sake of reading.
Me? I show people that I read a lot. But the universe knows very well that I don’t. I don’t read to immerse myself in the writers’ world. I read to survive.
I read books so I can sit comfortably in the upcoming exams — life trials. It fascinates me that there are people giving out the answer-sheets to the public, yet few grab them.
Writers are storytellers.
And I tell the worst of stories. I get nervous every time the spotlight shines on me. And I’m cursed with the consciousness of the microexpressions of people every time I talk. Or is it a blessing? I really don’t know.
Phew glad that worked, my heart speaks every time a punchline hits.
My heart speaks every time I’m by myself in the bathroom or kitchen — Am I really a writer or am I forcing myself to be one? For if I am a writer I would’ve started writing ten years earlier. And I would enjoy reading for its own sake.
Neil Gaiman said something I can’t forget, “[…] I didn’t have anything to say. It’s not because I haven’t lived. But it was because I wasn’t prepared to say anything true about who I was.”
Am I a writer? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I will be. When I’m ready to strip off naked. Revealing who I truly am. Or who I truly was.