Writing’s an art, in my opinion but this wasn’t what I thought until about two years ago. Before that, my relationship with writing was merely obligatory, just a requirement to fulfill a task assigned by teachers, tutors, etc.
My imagination has always been wild and untamed and I allow it to be. However, that fantasy exists in my mind only and never has the thought of writing it down and sharing my fantasy occur to me. Until two years ago, that is.
The day after my 22nd birthday, I sat in my classroom, bored of doing homework. My computer was opened to an excel document, numbers and figures scattered all over the spreadsheet. It was almost one, my students were set to arrive soon.
Meanwhile, my boss’s wife and also one of my student’s parent sat in the back corner of the classroom. She had nothing better to do. So she decided to come and observe. She wanted to learn English, she said but really, she was keeping an eye on her son; Chinese parents like to do that.
As the clock approached closer to one-ten, I drummed my finger annoyingly on the table. I was annoyed that my students were late again. Either that or they weren’t coming again. They like to do whatever they want and I have no right to stop them. After all, I’m just a tutor.
At the same time though, a scene began to play in my head like the opening of a movie, an impulse flooded through me and I immediately opened the browser to my blog. There, I opened a new post and wrote out everything that was playing in my head. That became the first fiction post I’d posted on my blog.
I posted a second part a few weeks later and that’s when I realized, writing is also a gift, the greatest gift that has ever presented me. It gives a way for imagination to spread beyond the widest horizon. It is a way to express myself like when an artist paint a masterpiece.
Several months later, I declared myself as a writer to the one person I thought would understand, my mom. She laughed. “Like what?” She asked, “Oh, you’re going to write about your poor childhood? Of how people treated you poorly?”
I’ve written several essays before and most of them were of subjects like bullying and suffering. She claims I exaggerate the events that happened in my childhood. She says I don’t have proof of anything like that happened.
She’s exactly right. There is no proof and there might never be any. For all I know, I could’ve imagined the entire thing, the pain, the embarrassments, the bullying, and the suffering because most of the time, I was alone or surrounded by strangers whom I’ve never seen again. My relatives were never around when these things happened. I was always the own witness of my suffering.
After her laughing fit, she said in a serious tone, “Writing won’t get you money, won’t help you support yourself, writing is useless whether you’re good at it or not.”
This is obviously not true but I could say no more. With my mom, every word I say can be used against me in any circumstance and any way.
So I went the only route possible, shut up and let her think I’ve given up on yet another one of my silly dreams. Still though, I continued to write in secret. This dream remains my passion.
Whenever I heard her loud pattering footsteps, I’d navigate my browser to another site; she, like my student’s mother, likes to keep tabs on me.
Underneath it all though, I have always wondered, is money the only thing matter in life? Why is she so adamant on me to do something I get paid for? Does anyone care about obsessions and talents anymore?
After continuously writing and developing ideas for various projects, I become completely obsessed with writing. I feel as though I’ve been drawn to it, I cannot stop. Tales and stories filled my mind and at any second of the day, a plot will suddenly appear, prompting me to write.
The fantasy in my mind became a place I eager to explore and writing has almost become the air I breathe.
Every breath I inhale and exhale is a new story waiting to be told. Every time I closed my eyes, bright pictures fill my mind, giving me the story to tell. I don’t know how it works nor can I control it. At times, it even feels like I’m addicted.
Maybe that’s how an artist feels too. Maybe that’s why an artist keeps on painting until the masterpiece of a lifetime is achieved. Maybe that’s what I’m waiting for, an idea so perfect that I can write it down and never change a word.
Thank you for reading.
All image credit: Google Image
Original written and published: October 16, 2013
Revised: September 13, 2015