In my early 20’s, I realized that good handwriting was not going to take me anywhere. Friends with jumble handwritings had clearer future than mine. Smart and scoring good marks was like it came naturally through their brains while I had to shove it down my throat and save it in my head. But still somehow I would lose it like the papers on my desk. On the other hand, there were friends with pretty faces and pretty handwriting who were scoring pretty good marks. And I was there the botched one, with just good handwriting that only helped me score 1 extra mark. I was praised in school and high school for the calligraphy and neatness of my notebook.
However, after reaching college it changed, the praising part. Then 21 was more frustrating, having no idea about what I would do was killing every flesh in me. In the mean time, starting to catch feelings for someone you would never have was taking me overboard. No way No way at all, is what head had been screaming and heart was stuck there having fun catching feelings. It just pulled the trigger of mild depression. But someway, I still knew how to laugh in right things. Well I had always been sad for no reasons so being real sad was easy. A reminiscent friend of mine, who always knew the difference between black and white, handed me a paper and pen. “I know you’ll write good,” said he. “I’m so not interested,” said I. Though I was shocked, on the fact that he somehow knew that I write. I’m not a born writer but I always had a thing for paper. I can just throw old clothes but I have to think twice to throw away notebooks. Scribbling on the broadsheet was normal for me but it never was meaningful. It just came out of boredom. Bits and pieces of moments lived in past was all what I wrote but once in a blue moon and then just throw it away.
The first time I wrote something longer like a book was when I was in grade 10 and my the-then best friend read it and we tore it out. Second one was two years after that which I still have hidden inside my favorite paper bag. That’s how I started writing, but I officially started posting just a year ago. I wasn’t good when I started. I had to give up my bad habits of not reading novels and stuffs then turn it into my usual undertakings. I was bad when it came to English both speaking and writing, I still am. But I’ve been working on it. The first paragraph I posted was about someone who was longing for friendship. Nothing much came but when I posted the second paragraph that is when they suggested and pointed out my mistakes. Getting feedbacks was more encouraging and for the first time in life I was happy getting criticism.
Then slowly, writing became fun but I write for myself. I don’t write to impress others, when I do the rhythm of words just goes off the beat. I write and I read it again which made me realize how deeply sadden and broken I was this whole time. It’s not that someone broke my heart or something but I was incomplete with bunch of broken dreams. As long as I can remember, I have been ambitious nonetheless with no particular aims. I switched from wanting to be doctor to fashion designer then to modeling then to fashion blogger. However, after analyzing whatsoever I wanted to be the result was, I wanted to have a name like every other being. Leave a mark of my presence for the generation coming. I am not scared of death but I’m scared of being invisible. I have felt that way and I never even in hell want to feel that way again. I met pretty good people on my way up and sincere thanks to them. I have inked your name on my journey to become a good writer and never will I forget you guys. Moreover, a highly sincere thanks to people who laughed and threw sarcastic words like “When will you publish your book? Or have you published it? Why on earth do you want to be a writer?” and so so things. Dreams don’t have age nor it is fixed that you should achieve it before a certain point of time. I’m not that old but It’s not too late to start dreaming is what I learnt. I know there are people like me who are not born with a mindset and perfect line in their hands that would tell them exactly what they would be. It’s frustrating, I know.
Moreover, many of us realize in time about what we want and others need time to analyze and comprehend exactly what they are good at. After crossing my teenage I came across what I am good at. Like something I really want to be. I have been pretending like a writer since then, the day I realized I can write so fascinatingly and I’m so ready to give some autographs. Sounds funny but I am ready.