Last night before I sleep, I was thinking about writing as a hobby after recently attending an event where my interest seems boring. People I met were into photography, biking, surfing, business and travel. I had to make writing sound as exciting, unless the other person whom I’m talking to loves to read. I actually thought maybe if I had enough money I’ll be pursuing those other things, too, and excel at them. I am that talented. But maybe for a person living in a “social box”, writing is the only choice. Well, this has been the choice of J.K Rowling, R.R Tolkien, and Paulo Coelho – not bad for them and for writers who have made a name for themselves. It just takes a few people to appreciate you in the beginning and believe in what you can do.
I was recalling if writing has been a way for me to escape when I was a child. Perhaps it has been. Imagination was my only ticket to places I’d want to travel. I will draw a character in my mind of personalities I’d like to meet and be with and equip them with powers like how the usual kids enjoy magical super heroes on TV. There are interests I’d like to explore when I was nine or ten (gymnastics, swimming, modelling) but can’t. So instead, I invested my time in all worthwhile things one can learn in the home – writing songs, playing instruments, experimenting on food, drawing and writing. Not all outgoing people can be good at these.
After all the thoughts about how I turned into a writer and doubts if I was made to be one, I still wrote anyway. When inspirations come and I am left with no audience to whom I can express my ideas, I get a pen and a notebook (now it has been my laptop and my fingertips) where I can create heartfelt pieces. And I find contentment whenever I finish, and read them, and have someone, at least one person appreciate it. I’m sure someone out there does.