I did not ever think of being a writer. Writing began as a play with words where I rhymed to make little, silly poems (When Harsha died/Varsha cried…) that delighted my parents and teachers alike. They discussed my writing skills, and subsequently, my great future, at parent-teacher meetings while I watched on with a shy smile. As a precocious little girl, I began to believe that I was destined to become a writer. My belief in my abilities as a writer was as unshakeable as Arjun’s faith in the victory of the Pandavas.
Was. Now, I am not so sure anymore. I am not old enough to mourn my lost years, but young enough to realize that I have words in me that are screaming to be let out. And, there’s time.
In the summer of 2008, I attended a book reading by Salman Rushdie, right here in Toronto. He was here to promote his book, The Enchantress of Florence. The book was a complete disaster, and I still fail to understand how it managed to reach the Booker long list that year. However, this is neither about the book, nor about Rushdie. It is, rather, about what he said. “Don’t write, if you have nothing to say” or, something along those lines. He believed that if a person (a writer) cannot be motivated enough to write, then he/she shouldn’t even bother. Because there is already so much to read out in this wide, wide world! Now, in retrospect, I agree. What is the point of my desire to be a writer, if I cannot sit still to pen my words down? That I am distracted by facebook and twitter every few minutes?! Blasphemy, according to real writers!
I want to be a real writer. I believe I have several books in me just waiting to be written. Waiting… for me to decide to be.