The first time I sat down and decided to write was after being prompted by the librarian in my local library. I was 15 – if I remember correctly – and I had never thought about writing before. One day she asked me if I wrote because I read so much.
I remember looking at her dumbfounded.
“I don’t. I’ve never written anything in my life.”
That was clearly a lie, because I had written stuff before. I had written my name, I had written for my Italian homework and my history homework and my Latin homework and my English homework. But I had never taken the time to write what I thought of as “real writing”, creative writing.
So I thought about it, sat down one day and started writing.
I can’t remember what was the first thing I wrote – even after going through my old notebooks – but I do remember my first attempt at a novel. It was about an arranged marriage between two rich kids in their 20s. I had the characters, I had written 50 A4 pages and then I didn’t feel it anymore. I abandoned the story hoping that I would get back to it at some point. That has yet to happen.
My first successful attempt at writing was a novel that took inspiration from Pride and Prejudice, and I wrote it from the guy’s POV.
Things have changed since I first wrote something. I have changed and my writing has grown with me.
The underlying reason that propels me to write has stayed the same. I want to tell stories, real or imagined. I want to read them and tell me what I think.
Today I write fiction and non-fiction. Today I write poetry and short stories. I write songs. I just write.
But I write about what I see now. I write about my reality, and how I interpret other people’s reality. I write about things I care about like politics, identity, and other stuff. I write because I cannot silence my opinionated voice. I write because I have something to say.
I write because my roots have put it in my blood. My family is one of bards.
I write to satisfy my inner story-teller, to unleash my inner story-teller.