This is a short autobiographical post on today’s Daily Prompt “First”:
I am the sort of person who is comfortable with how things are proceeding. I don’t have to like what is happening—and it must sound very egotistical and selfish—but as long as it doesn’t concern me, I don’t bother with something. (Imagine me trying to run a government. My country would fall.)
The change in me happened very inadvertently. You see, I am the kind of person who always gives a second thought to whatever I am about to pursue. Yet, ironically, one of the major developments in my life, and now my passion took me no time at all. It was divine intervention, really. Fate just pushed me onto the right path and I went along with it.
It was the summer of 2009: the day of the English Language exam, which although a very important and interesting subject has sadly always been neglected by students. I might be counted in that category too, in a way. I studied English because of two reasons: because I found it engaging and because I respected my teacher. That day, I fell into the latter category.
The paper was fairly easy: I tackled the questions quickly and came to the last part.
I stopped writing for a minute and took a look at the questions—there were six. I did not want to attempt the argumentative one—I saved that for debates—and was simply not in a mood to attempt either the narrative or the descriptive one. The one I usually attempted had a boring title, and the other one had a picture that I was not at all patient enough to analyse. That left me only one option—something that people never attempted—the story.
On a whim, I somehow spun a yarn about a father and daughter in thirty five minutes and came out of the hall, thinking whether people could actually flunk English.
The result, however, was quite unexpected. My essay—scratch that, story—was praised by all of my teachers and sooner than I knew, the faculty was encouraging me to write more and more. Now, like any high school student, I hesitated at first, but gave in eventually.
I can’t say that I am not glad I did it.
I fell in love with words after that. My mind inadvertently started working on its own—looking, thinking, seeing, analyzing. Suddenly, I was itching to put down everything I saw in words. They became my best friends, whether they came out of my mind or someone else’s. Even today, I write better than I speak. It was this passion for words that gradually made me progress from Nancy Drew to Virginia Woolf to Homer. It had influenced me to the point that I want to make it a career, and there are days when I want to do nothing else but write. I am not saying that loving words and writing—or typing—them down makes me a writer, but it does make me something I never knew I was.
I find myself in words, and I like what I see. A short story about a father and daughter changed my own.