I love this text on a brand new draft.
It welcomes the countless possibilities that could fill this page. Talking about writing, I have realized that I have never really told you how I came to love writing.
I never intended to write. I loved to read. Well, I think I inherited my love for literature from my mom who is a writer too. (Wait, is writing love an inherited trait? Not sure. Wait, it’s an acquired trait. My biology teacher who just took a dozen lectures on heredity is gonna be mad.)
Acquired or inherited, I can positively say that she’s the one responsible for creating an atmosphere that made me take up this noble mode of expression.
When my mom was pursuing her Masters in English, I would see books on literature scattered around her desk. So my curious self went ahead to peek into them. I was quite young and still unacquainted with the ingredients of prose and poetry. But these experiences were the building blocks for the creation of this deep passion. I remember reading Daffodils from Mom’s book and I still remembered the verses when I chanced upon it in my own book, some years ago.
I still had not started writing for the love of it. My writing was limited to the few compositions I wrote for school tests. (I never bothered to practice even though I got second-rate grades at writing.) But I never minded.
When I was in Grade 5, we had to study a poem for a class assignment. During one of the free periods, I saw my classmate writing down the pairs of rhyming words in the poem. Then I saw her using the same words, altering the lines of the existing poem and writing a new poem. When I confronted the person, she said it was alright to draw inspiration from other writers.
Somehow I did not feel good about it. I don’t know if that counted as plagiarism, but I felt uneasy about seeing someone copying off a poet’s work with minor changes and then calling it their own. That’s when I thought, hey why not? Why don’t I write my own poem? I wanted it to genuinely be my own.
I wanted to start from scratch. I wanted to start something new! I wanted to discover how it felt to have something to claim as your creation, even if it wasn’t up to the mark. I didn’t mind if it did not live up my own or anyone else’s expectations.
I managed to write the poem:) I was so thrilled at its completion! I had decided that the theme of my poem would be the same as the one we had studied but the content would be purely mine. I did not care whether it was meaningful or beautiful (though I was slightly disappointed when I unabashedly showed it to my English teacher and she wasn’t blown away by the forcefully rhymed lines. Years later I did realize how ordinary it was, hehe:) I was just happy that it was original and my own. I had created a new possession and did not forget to read my poem to myself everyday until I got tired of it and decided to write a new one:)
And so here I am, trying to recreate the magic of my ‘first time’. I want to write a poem for the first time again:) The first time brings so much passion- the first paycheck, the first day at school, first love. I believe that every passion springs out of the first time and our subsequent efforts to replicate it. These efforts are desperate and vain, and that’s why they are strangely, poetically beautiful. ❤
This brings me to choosing the last block on this now filled draft, which moments ago showed me a million possibilities.
I have chosen a block…Thankfully ‘writer’s block’ isn’t a choice. (Sorry for the pun, hehe)