To put down words onto paper is one of the little joys in life that recharges me. I’m trying to remember when or how it all started. I was around 15 when poetry and literature in general started to interest me.
Until that time I still read what I had to in school but I cannot recall any enjoyment. Poetry got through to me. Understanding the hidden messages, feeling the words. As I read them out loud to myself I felt the power of its wholeness. Perfection. Saying what you feel without explaining it all. So I started writing poetry first at that age. Not so great ones. Childish rhymes but with a hint of passion boiling behind the words. Nothing concrete in my soul yet, just the desire to create something that is me. I’ve always been a little selfish especially at that age so perhaps that’s what fuelled my desire for writing in the beginning. I wanted to be great. To be the master of the words. I wanted people to question and analyse what I had written. I believed that true self-expression was to remain mysterious, to get others trying to understand me. But even I didn’t understand me back then. I do now, and as I carried on writing I opened the door slightly more. Show them who I really am. Let everyone know what runs through my mind, what cuts into my soul, what makes my heart beat faster.
Once I was at the stage when I truly accepted myself and learnt to love honestly the person who’s hiding within, my writing slowly started to reflect that. Now all I want to do is to entertain others, make them think or perhaps open their eyes a tiny bit more to look at life from different angles. The moment I evolved into writing fiction was a gigantic milestone for me. I no longer felt the ego. I didn’t want people to worship me because now I can do that for myself.
I’m curious to find out what will be the next stage for my writing. Until then, I honestly hope that I can entertain you along the way and share my journey with you. Because without you, dear reader, I’m just talking to myself.