I grew up almost loathing the idea of literature, to the extent that I found reading distasteful and might I dare even say boring. At the time, reading would be presented to me almost in the form of punishment, that I was ordered to sit in a corner and pick up a book and read it. I found it exhausting and would try in every possible way to avoid that monotonous chore. I say this only to express to you that one can fall in love with the world of literature at any given point in time, one does not need to grow up as a reader or be cultivated in that environment. Simply, you could wake up one morning, read a book, and fall absolutely in love!

For me, it was something along these lines, as I said I never enjoyed reading, the idea of writing or creative writing seemed even far off. However, this was only the case up until the summer of Grade 9, where just as I have described I woke up one morning and fell in love.

For me, it was The Catcher in the Rye by J.D Salinger, everybody’s book is different but they all have the one that first makes you fall in love, almost like the first time you fall for a girl. After that point, I read more, I worked my way through the classics, Gatsby and Look Homeward Angel being my favorites and progressed into different genres. I greatly enjoyed my interest in existentialist literature looking at the essays and papers of Camus as well as his novels. Furthermore, I thoroughly cherished my passion for Beat literature, especially the works of Ginsberg and Kerouac. Reading now became a genuine interest and subsequently a pleasure.

I wrote my first story in G9 as a part of a creative writing task, my teacher commended me for my style and said I had a flair for description. Encouragement, in my opinion, has the ability to boost productivity, consequently, I began to write more. Starting with small creative stories and descriptive pieces until gradually working on poetry.

People often ask Why do you write? Or What drives you to write? The answer is simple.

Although most people have the inherent belief that writing is a form of escape, it is the way to rid oneself from the shackles and burdens of life and enter into the world of one’s imagination and truly be free. For some it is, personally, I disagree. Moreover, I believe it to be the complete opposite, I feel it is the only way not to escape, instead the only way to truly feel the intimacies of life. I write because it allows me to take a piece of myself, a fantasy, a thought, or an idea, someone I want to be or could have been, and put it on paper. As someone says, “all forms of writing are somewhat autobiographical”. I write because I have to not just because I want to and that I believe is the only way to write.

People consider writing to be a difficult task, such that not everyone can write. However, the truth is that everyone can write or has the ability to write but under the camouflage of ritual monotony they forget and almost ignore the duty to reflect and to question. They forget to sit down every once in a while and feel the afternoon sun burn their skin in the warmth of a lazy slumber or appreciate the loneliness in the midst of utter chaos and monstrosity. Or even so, feel the sensation of joy when one’s soul is tastefully content looking at the beckoning of heavenly rain or even solemnly anxious of all the things one has done and all the things one still has to do in the expanse of the night.

The point is everyone can write, some do and do it better than others and some purely don’t. On saying that, I must think to myself how awfully irresolute and disturbed they must be under their veil of ignorance and illusion of purpose.

Lastly, I write to not just know the world or know another, I write to know myself. In the hope that sooner or later when the words are exhausted and I have written enough, I might just come to know who I really am.

However, the question is, Will it ever be enough?