I can still remember that first definitive moment that put me on the path of becoming a writer.
I was six years old when I saw a girl on TV being recognized for composing her own songs. With the certainty and audacity borne of youth, I scathingly thought, “She’s no good. I can write more songs than her. Better ones too!”.
It didn’t take long afterwards for me to fill my pink Barbie notebook with original compositions and a couple of poems. Unfortunately, that notebook has long been lost but I will never forget that moment of searing clarity when I decided that I could write.
Soon after, I wrote my first book. It told a tale of me and my family travelling the world visiting places like Africa and Canada. I had written and illustrated the story on sheets of bond paper I found lying around the house. Having stapled the pages together, I proudly presented my book to my parents. They have kept it all these years.
Writing for a living didn’t occur to me until I was eight. By then I had been mostly reading Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes and Goosebumps. Looking at those books on my shelf gave me an exciting idea: my own book series.The thought was so incendiary that I got to work at once. I was convinced that as long as I got the theme and the stories just the way I liked, I’d get published.That part of my childhood was spent constantly scribbling on any notebook or piece of paper I could find. I never did get to finish a single story, having too many ideas all at once. I did, however, start seriously considering writing as a real future profession.
Seemingly unremarkable events in my childhood such as these have snowballed to become my life’s ambition. I want to be a writer. The struggle, both internal and external, to achieve such an aspiration can get onerous. Looking back on those shining moments of certainty, accomplishment and excitement reminds me why I can’t settle for anything less. No matter how rough the road gets I have to keep going because it’s what I’m meant to do. I don’t know how to be anyone else but myself and I know in my heart that I am a writer.
The fight continues.