Strapped for energy, uninterested in the task before me, diminished by the hand of disregard, I made the bold decision to quit my job. The first two weeks was liberating. The cells of my body regained its plush state; the ache in my back subsided, and spring in my step returned.
A few weeks further down the timeline I was slapped by reality. I had been employed for some time now and it fuzzed my memory of the turmoil and thrashing of a job search. This good kick in the gut was well received, since I now resided on cloud nine. Not much later I had two interviews, both of which posed one very particular question that plagued me my entire life. What job do you really want? I was thrown off both times. Both times I had to stall and ransack every thought that bounced around in my head in a futile attempt to produce a substantial response. After the second interview, I felt the need to find out. What is it that I really want to do? What job could possibly make going to work an event I looked forward to? Growing up I changed my mind about the job I wanted so often, that after some time I was no longer taken seriously. It was not only those around me, but I also doubted my true interest. It may sound cliche, because in a lot of ways it is. But in my opinion there are just too many careers to choose from, and for someone like me who find almost everything interesting, and wonderful, this was quite a challenge to figure out what best suited me. After much deliberation, and ample reading of self -help articles flush out my passion. I took some time to just think.
To sail away on my thoughts, to peep inside the closed boxes in my mind; the ones beaten up from over use as a child.
soft and radiant,
growing in the distant darkness of my confusion.
It grew rapidly, engulfing my extremities, working its way down to my core and in time encompassing it as well.
That was my eureka moment.
I loved reading. I had accepted a long time ago that I belong squished between the pages of a book, drowning delightfully in the words that shaped the world of another.
. Fiction and fact intrigued me.
The artistry of twisting words to paint pictures and mold lives, was beyond me, or so I thought. I snuggled between pages to write as much as I did to read. The ease of self-expression kept me, and comfort I found in expressing myself grew. I loved writing. And I loved reading. It never occurred to me to aim to do it professionally. I didn’t have the skills to whip a lasso around anyone and pull them into my world. I didn’t entertain the thought that I too could be an active part of the world of words, and that our relationship could blossom into a rare and beautiful flower. I faced this epiphany with much trepidation, but as much as I had not considered the option, it forcefully evoked my interest. Could I be a writer? I thought.
It felt like I would make mistakes, many mistakes.
I read about other writers online who started out of the blue and succeeded, and I want to write as well. The more I fed my appetite, the more I wanted to reach out and make the life of an indie writer my reality. It was then that I decided, I wanted to write a book. The thought excited, and scared me. A rush of emotions danced over me, hope was banging on the muscled doors of my heart, vibrating every tissue, calling each cell to mutiny. I wanted this.
I wanted to be an indie writer.
I began my research to find out what it really takes to publish a book. There are books and courses in all corners, and shelves on the internet to assist anyone hungry to inspire, motivate, and create a world with mere words. It’s a something that I never realized I wanted to do, but here I am starting my journey of MORE THAN A THOUSAND WORDS.