I've been asked this question a lot, especially in the past few years, since I've started sharing my stories, my poems, and writing for online publications.
Before I answer this question, I’d like to take you, my dear reader, just a few years back in time.
I’ve always been a writer. Ever since I can remember. Being an only child, I would bury myself in books, or when I couldn’t find one that entertained my imagination enough, I would flip to the back of my school notebooks, and write stories.
Some of these were short stories, some lines of what I thought were poetry, and some, just narratives of how I had spent my day. I never thought much about these, once I was done. I would file them away in my head, forgetting about them almost instantly.
Luckily, my mother once saw me writing intently in one of my books. She knew me well enough to know, that I wasn’t sitting there finishing my homework sincerely. And so, when I went out to play, she opened my notebooks, and found the worlds that I had carefully built.
Some stories were about three sisters (inspired by the ‘adventures’ that my cousins and I would enact around the house on sultry summer holidays), some were about a family finally gifting their daughter a puppy; a dig at my parents, since they were always against this. And some, were of lands far away, my very own fairytales that helped long days pass by.
The first series I was ever inspired by was The Chronicles of Narnia (C.S. Lewis). And so enamoured I was by the world-building within those pages, that my 12-year-old self was keen to someday become another 12-year-old’s favourite author.
On some days, much like today, I envy the ease with which dreams like these would find me, sway me, and better yet, convince me to write. Today, I find myself pushing these urges away, to silence the distractions, and either go old-fashioned and pull out a notebook, or sit with my laptop, and just let the words flow.
Mind you, there are days when I can manage to churn out words, stories and, worlds in a way that would definitely make my 12-year-old self proud; but let’s be honest, it doesn’t happen as often as I wished it to.
With the bustle of the world around me: as I’ve become a content manager, communications consultant, and even a freelance writer to help others bring their stories to the world, I found that I had forgotten what my dream was in all of this.
I was born to tell stories.
Over the years, I’ve been fortunate enough to read books that moved me. And I mean this in the most literal way possible: these books, whether the stories, or just one character, or the world that it was set in, they tugged, and gnawed at my heart enough to find a space inside of it forever. Sometimes, I re-read a few passages.
Sometimes, I just keep the book on my desk, near me; it comforts me as a friend would after a particularly long, and tiring day. Some days, I forget about them completely, and out of nowhere, a moment in time will take me back to that one book I read, on that monsoon day, when the winds howled at my window, the rain poured mercilessly, and there, unaffected by it all, I read.
Some chapters- at the risk of sounding like a heroine in a cliched romance - make me hold my breath without me even realising it. I giggle, blush, laugh or cry as I go through the pages.
There was once a book, so horrifying was the reveal in it, that at one point, I simply had to let the book fall away from me, for I couldn’t find a way to continue. And there have been a few, I hate to admit, but I would skim through so quickly because I just had to reach the ending.
Books have been my midnight company, my comfort friend, my travel companion, my muse, my guilty pleasure- basically, a companion like no other.
And you must be wondering, how does any of this answer the question I asked in the very beginning?
I’ll tell you now.
Why do you write (what you write)?
I write because I want, even just you, my dear reader, I want one person to read my words- whether a sentence, or a paragraph, or a short story- I want to create within you, this very urge.
To keep reading, to be breathless after reading, to want, no, desire more. Whether it is my words or books of another. I want to be the reason you find a reason to fall in love with reading. And even better, with writing.
When I fell brutally out of a relationship, I found solace in the poems that I wrote of lovers that found each other on moonless nights. When I fell in love, I wrote about lovers that lost each other on full-moon nights. Yes, read that again. There’s no mistake there. I wrote, almost as a reminder to myself, that love can be brutal, and fleeting; but love is love, and it is what we crave the most.
I write articles about relationships, and sex, because pleasure, desire, and lust, all strong, valid feelings that live within us. It took me a long time to get comfortable with my body, and I write to help make this journey a little bit easier for others.
I’ve written about that new, first-time-kind of love, I’ve written about adultery. I’ve written about friendship, both the joy of making new friends, and the hurt of losing an old one. I write about the places I’ve been to, I write about experiences I wish to have. I write, and write, and write.
Whether posted in a magazine, or as an Instagram caption, or here, as a newsletter. I write, because of you, my dear reader.
Because without you, I am just a 12-year-old girl, scribbling away in an old, dilapidated notebook, keeping her stories all to herself.
A List Of (Some) Books That Changed Me
(in absolutely no particular order, and I am most likely forgetting a lot of titles I wish to add here, but it’s a good list to help you understand me just a tad-bit better)
The Chronicles of Narnia
The Lord of the Rings
The Alchemist
Brida
The Handmaid’s Tale
The Book Theif
The Palace of Illusions
Le Little Prince
1Q84
Curtain
Matilda
Before The Coffee Gets Cold
The Song of Achilles
The Stationary Shop of Tehran
The Complete Adventures of Feluda - Vol.2
Harry Potter And The Prisoner of Azkaban
The Art of Stillness
The War of Art
Dreyer’s English
Crime of Punishment
Atlas Shrugged
Waiting for Doggo
The Sense of an Ending
This has been an odd read, a little different from what I’ve usually shared with you. But I had an urge today, to tell you my story, with the hope, that you continue to love, read, and maybe share my stories, and my writing with those whom you feel would love them too.
Let’s Talk Books
Sharing your Shelf, is sharing your Self.
Tell me what you’re reading, or share your favourite books/ author of all time. Do you have a favourite quote or passage? Feel free to share those words here with me. I’d love to get to know you a little better too.