As a writer, who aspires to someday
be a published author or poet (or whatever you write), you’ll be all too
familiar with how many hours you spend working towards your dreams and goals.
You’re probably also familiar with the reception received when vocalizing the
hopes of someday making a living off what you absolutely love doing more than
anything else in the world- writing! Yes, I’m talking about that
oh-that-is-so-sweet-shame look, like you’re a sixty-year old wishing to make
her debut on Broadway; as if your dream is so
naïve, so cliché.
When I speak to other writers that I meet online, and I ask
them how they got into writing, not one of the responses I got so far
highlighted anything specific. It is the same for me.
There was never this one day when I woke up and decided
that I wanted to write. I didn’t see someone writing and, wanting to be like
that person, decided that I wanted to write, too. I didn’t see anything on the
television, or hear anything on the radio or job-shadow anybody who introduced
me to the world of writing. It was always just… there!
Perhaps I could say that my mother’s insistence on me
only receiving books as gifts (resulting in my room being full of them) opened
up the way for me, maybe. I mean, my siblings were also given book upon book as
birthday and Christmas presents, yet we don’t share the love of writing,
journaling, or even reading. So maybe, you know- maybe my mother ensuring that I
could read and write at a young age played a key role, but maybe not (if one
looks at my siblings); I really can’t say for sure.
I remember falling in love with Enid Blyton’s works,
going on the amazing adventures her literature made possible, imagination the
characters and surrounds in my mind’s eye and never wanting to put her books
down.
Some of my family members called me a bookworm (an
association of which I was only too proud), saying that perhaps I was going
through a phase – sitting in whatever corner I could find, my face permanently
hidden by an opened book – which would probably pass when I reached my teens. But
I knew better! I knew that I had found something that would be my love, my joy,
my escape and my comfort, for the rest of my life.
I started writing before I reached the age of ten years.
I started with short stories (which I would read to my little sister), and then
moved on to poems (which I felt were too personal to share with anybody, and so
hid my notebooks under my pants at the back of my cupboard) and even lyrics,
which I would sing to myself, and later on share with a friend I met in school,
who was also writing poems and lyrics.
When I reached High School, teachers, friends and family
started asking me what I wished to become someday, and what I was planning on
studying at University.
I knew immediately that I wanted to study Journalism. I
wanted to do a course which involved furthering my English Language studies and
focused on writing. I didn’t jump from wanting to do one course one week to
another the following week, like many of my classmates; I knew what I wanted to
do. I knew that if I could write for a living, I would the happiest person in
the world.
It was really a shame when I went on to study Journalism (and
despite passing very well) only to discover that it was nothing that I’d
imagined it to be.
I learned a lot about media, language, photography and
all the rest of it, but I knew, from the very first textbook that I opened,
that I did not want to be a journalist.
I did not want to report, or necessarily write articles. I
could do it – I wasn’t half bad – but I am and always have been an extremely
introverted person; I could push past the discomfort of what journalism and reporting
required me to be, but I didn’t want to do it for the rest of my life, knowing that
I would run myself down going against who I am as a person.
I did go ahead and do it anyway (for a short while) to
gain experience, and also to just check if perhaps I did maybe find a liking in
it, which in the long run, I didn’t.
Recently I was talking to a peer who is studying Economics.
She went on to study this after she’d studied Human Resource, which naturally
made me ask her why she’d changed directions. She mentioned that after studying
H.R, she found a slight interest in Economics, and her father advised her that
she could go ahead and study in this field as there is a big market for it. I was
confused. I asked her if she didn’t have something she always wanted to do and
be when she was growing up; did she not have a dream?
She told me that she’d always loved Cosmetology, but that
there wasn’t really success in this field unless you were really good.
I gave her the exact same quizzical look I’ve received
over the years for knowing that I want nothing more than to be a published
author who makes her living off her writing.
I mean seriously- nothing is more puzzling to me than
someone not knowing deep in their gut what they were born to do.
We, writers, and other artists, have such a hard time in
this world, don’t we?
Our arts are not taken seriously until we finally come up
with a work that sparks the interest of someone who is notable and influential
enough (often someone who doesn’t even get
the intricate details of our art) to ‘make us famous’, which in turn, will
begin to make us money.
How many artists have had to live from day to day, barely
surviving, in the name of their art – their passion – only to die that way,
allowing irony to have its’ vindictive way; becoming a legend after taking
their very last breathe?
I have shared work with peers, teachers, colleagues
alike, and have received praise for my writing. I’ve thrived in it. I loved it.
I have to say, though, that there are many published
authors/writers, who offer no advice, choosing rather to pass along condescending
remarks to aspiring writers, as if they, themselves, weren’t ‘aspiring’ at some
point in their lives.
I am not someone who would say that I have nothing to
learn. I know that there are many things that I still have to learn, but why is
there no one willing to teach, to guide?
As a published author, what is the harm in mentoring young
writers, to show them the ropes, or to guide them?
Why can’t what they do right be praised and encouraged,
and what they do wrong, corrected?
How will the world of writing progress if only a few
select (by who knows what standards) are chosen and the rest cast aside?
I am not saying that all published authors are this way,
but many are. It’s a fact!
I am sure that I do not only speak for myself when I say,
as a writer (or as any other artist), this is what we were born to do. We are
born with talents and with passions, meant to be used, tapped into and shared
with the world.
We all have certain ‘something’ that we do and that we
are, that when done and lived, we are truly connected to our true selves, where
we are at peace.
We must continuously strive, tirelessly work towards and
never give up on what that ‘something’ is for us, personally, no matter what anybody says.
Turn away from what your passions and dreams are and you
will forever be miserable.
Worry not about the ‘nay-sayers’, for really, what do
they know? What do you have to lose?
I know how sensitive our souls can be, but you have to
always believe in yourself.
Most importantly, we need to be a community, always there
to read, write, and comment on, offer advice, one another’s work.
As artists, we need to see ourselves in one another,
because I truly believe that we share a common thread. We need to see that
dream and aspiration in one another and hone in on it, always encouraging.
Let art never be a dwindling breed.
Technology has allowed us to connect in ways never before
imaginable, yet are we not meant to be the ones with the imaginations?
Let us use all our resources and be what we were born to
do.
Yes, I am an aspiring author. I am a writer.
It is what I was born to do, and it is what I will die
doing.
Oh and yes, it is terribly romantic.
- Yentl. T. De Luna
