I started blogging in Feb 2006. I was not exactly a writer as a little kid. But when I started taking it seriously, I really began to like it. I am sure if I had a career with nothing to do but read and write all day and am allowed to sleep till 11 in the morning, I couldnt ask for anything better!
A little more: I am from Kerala, India. I’ve been a software engineer for over 2 years till one day I felt that thing I confused to be what Buddha felt long back when he was enlightened. Turned out it was only a voltage fluctuation. But I had already acted. I quit the job and went in pursuit of a writing career – yeah you feel you are born to be a writer when some of these electrified enlightenments dawn upon you. Well, am still in pursuit and by the looks of it, will be for a long long time. Sigh!
Looks like I need to emphasize a little on my (hallucinated) connection with writing. Ok I’m copying something I wrote about –
Me and Writing
(warning: it is an attempt at serious musing)
I wanted to write about writing. I had written before about why I chose to quit and be a writer. I felt a need to elaborate as I was writing on the subject to a friend of mine.
As a child in school my writing was no good. I did not lack imagination but it never occurred to me to write them down on a piece of paper. I cursed when I had to write essays and compositions and went on to make a huge mess of everything. I wasn’t bothered about it. My grammar was not so bad but I had no real matter in whatever I wrote. I wrote for the sake of passing my exams.
I think it was somewhere in my 11th grade that I first enjoyed writing something. It was an essay to write a story that started with the line “I could never forget that day”, or something on those lines. I went wild with my imagination, wrote a story about a 6 year old girl getting lost, who had a pretty wild imagination herself, and there was a whole lot of pages about a lady and a shop keeper and a worried Mother. That’s the only thing I remember so vividly from all the works I did in school. The English teacher mentioned the essay in class. She was not appreciating it, she just pointed out that someone had written an essay which went too far fetched and wild and that you shouldn’t get carried away when you write. I did not worry that it was not appreciated. I felt a silent thrill that she remembered my essay, my story. But what I can remember more is the pleasure I got out of writing it. Whatever was coming out of it, good or bad, I loved doing it. I hope I don’t sound evil when I talk like that (good or bad?!)!
As I went to college, I used to write to my long-distance school friends and I got the same pleasure out of it. I used to re-read a few times what I wrote and many people tell me they never bother to do that, especially if it was an informal letter for a friend. But it mattered so much to me that I read it again. I knew communication with a distant friend was what the letter was for, not an essay competition. But nevertheless, I found myself taking huge pains to make all my letters perfect, read it again and be happy with what I wrote before sending it. I hope I don’t sound egoistic! It was still from-the-heart precious little things I wanted to talk about, but it had to be done the right way; it just had to be.
Later on I used to write songs about everyone in my class and write a newspaper titled “Cris & Cris” to send to our yahoo group of classmates. I loved my Cris & Cris. It meant so much to me. Something which I never thought of back then was how much time and attention and care I gave to these things. To the letters, to the newspapers, to anything I wrote. It was all so important to me that it was looking right. Now I can understand that it is the one thing I could work hard on and on for hours without feeling tired or wanting to give up. I remember the enthusiasm a friend of mine used to display in academics back in college and wondering how she could study so hard. I did not understand it when she would worry over a single lost mark she could have avoided. Now I can relate to her so easily. I would feel so wrecked if I felt I missed a single important word that completed or gave the essence to what I wrote. Studying was her thing, writing was mine. When I say complete and perfect work, I don’t mean something that meets the most cynical critic’s eye. I mean something where I had each word at the right place I wanted it to be. Writing something was the only thing I ever wanted to make perfect to the last bit; I would sit with one line for hours worrying about the right words, the right commas.
I felt a kind of elated happiness as I wrote about all this to my friend, and was at the same time realizing it myself. I was telling her what I was telling myself. I had a connection worked out here. It didn’t matter anymore if I was proven good or bad. I am where I belong. I don’t want to be lost again.