I know a little girl, who, by her 9th grade or so, realized that it was always easy for writing to become an obsession for her. She had this idea for a something-something-novel that she thought to be the ‘best’ idea of her life. She solemnly believed her book, eh novel, would make it big time. She bought all the tools necessary to write her soon-to-be major blockbuster book, tools that comprised of sheets of paper and pen only. The girl wrote day and night, till late hours, trying to dodge her mom at dinner time just to keep on scribbling; she wanted to finish it as soon as she could. For her, the ending was the most important part, where every thing eventually fell into place and all the people went home happy. Innocent. Naive. But pure. She wanted to marvel herself at her achievement as soon as she could.
Among many so called novels that the girl had attempted to write, that was the one story she actually completed. She claims that she still has it, the sides of the notebook folded and chipped off, in a child’s hand writing, written using the best vocabulary she knew at the age of 12. In a state of euphoria, she handed it to her mom the minute it was finished. It wasn’t something big, but the mother perfectly understood the girl’s passion. She turned to the first page. It said:
“I think my life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face. Dedicated to you, mama.”
Write. I know this is what I want to do, this is exactly what I see myself doing. The media might change, so be the circumstances, but I would want to never to change: I want to write with the passion of that little 9th grader, who wrote with all her heart and never lost it to any doubt or any thought of failure. I make her my inspiration every single day. Children seem to teach you so many things once more.
I hope you like it while you’re around here.
The 9th grader.