In search of something lost

I need to get to a place to find all the things that matter to me in place. I have abandoned my first love and the one thing I felt I had potential to do, because I lacked the courage to see it through.

Writing was a passion that started in my early to late teenage years. I started writing poetry when I was in Grade 6, and I remember how I could usually churn out poems in a few minutes (with form and content). I tried out short stories in high school and eventually became the literary editor of our school newspaper and literary magazine. I wrote yearbook write ups for countless friends and edited everyone else’s write ups before it was published. In college, all that remained of my writing were essays and boring excerpts that produced nothing quite original. A small spurt of my poetic self came out in my Junior year when I took a Poetry class and another writing class.

If I were to categorize myself as a writer right now, I’d call myself a frustrated writer. Whilst none of my writer friends have ever had something noteworthy (like a book or an anthology) published, I still feel that hunger come up to me from time to time.


What would therefore qualify me to be a writer?

Books are my passion. I love to read books written by anyone and which covers topics and storylines about anyone and anything. I love fiction, non-fiction, memoirs and autobiographies, history books and poetry books, classical and modern literature. I used to draw inspiration from these books I read and I secretly credit these books for shaping my vocabulary and grammar.

I love to talk. I can go on and on, narrating stories, formulating opinions, reflections and insights for people who ask and do not ask for it.

I’m a stickler for powerful endings. I believe in how every piece must have a good ending. Nothing ordinary or written in the last breath- as if to say- this is the end! I believe that the endings make or break every story and every piece. This is where my horrible habit of going to the last page of the book originated- from that search for that great ending only obsessive people like me can understand.

On the other hand, I have lived almost ten years without having written any notable piece, almost ten years have gone by since I’ve lost myself in my (written) work.

I miss it terribly. It’s as if I was mourning for something I once had, but lost. Is it possible for one person to gain something that has already been given up? Subconsciously, I think it has always been there, and only manifests itself from time to time through various outlets. But maybe, I should think about “coming out” again. Perhaps it’s a start to my quest of reclaiming myself once again- what I once was, and where I want to be.