me and writing - or rather, writing and i - have been close friends - relatives, even - for as long as i can remember. i wrote my first story at age 6. it was messy, and i can barely remember the plot if i’m entirely honest. what i can remember is showing it, excitedly, to my mum, and watching her expression as she read it along with me. being the daughter of a teaching assistant meant going to school with my mother. reading books with my mother. enjoying extra lessons with my mother. my life was always in some sort of classroom - whether at home or within school’s hallowed halls. i enjoyed education - and more importantly, i enjoyed learning. i devoured any and all books i could find, any my mother would bring me - and when those ran out, i was endless in my search for more. it’s because i loved reading so much that writing was the natural progression in my journey.
when i was 8, i started to write out my emotions in a diary. it wasn’t a hobby i ever came back to until i was 17, and had much more complex, much bigger feelings to write about. it’s been a constant in my life since. whenever my emotions become too much to bear - or whenever life seems to be overtaking me - i get this sinking, ice cold feeling in my chest. it’s something that only disappears once i put pen to paper and write. i’ve been thinking a lot recently - as my 25th approaches, i think of all the lessons i’ve learned on my way here. of things that have changed. of things that have stayed the same. the pen has been an everlasting companion of mine, and i appreciate it more than anything else.
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. […] I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
i think of the above quote often - and how much it appears and reappears in our modern lexicon, especially amongst other young women my age. all the different futures that exist, that are there for the taking. i know that no matter what path i take - no matter what fig i choose to pluck - the pen and paper will be right beside me. i’ve never been able to hide my love for writing in any of the things i’ve created. in seconday school essays, in university level academic papers. even in the 5, 10, 20k word fanfics i wrote across the years of my teenagehood. i polished my skills at wielding the pen as my literary sword. i got to know metaphors, similes, conceits, semantic fields - all as closely as my real life friends. the pen and i became closer - over countless nights and days of poring over essays, books, reviews, and various forms of literature. this substack, even, is just another way that the passion and love for writing that has always been inside me can be let out.
i like to think that passion - for hobbies, topics, interests - is not only something we cultivate as human beings, but also something that is fundamentally a part of us. the same way all humans are technically stardust - that we are, technically, the sum of our planet and our cosmos - i think that as humans, we are our passions. that fire, that urge to create, to think, to speak, to express - is innate. my passion just so happens to be this. it just so happens to be the inexplicable need to say whats on my mind in as many forms as possible, but always with the written word. and i take solace in the fact that this urge is not restricted to just me. if you’re on substack and you write, then read this with the knowledge that the same urge i mention is a fire that lives within you as well. if you’re here and you simply read because you have the same desire i do - to learn, endlessly - then that’s also a passion. it’s also a fire, that you have to continue to stoke. for your own sake.
i’ve written many things across my lifetime. flash fiction, song lyrics, novellas, unfinished WIPs for novels, op-eds, etc. some have seen the light of day, but a lot have stayed in my google docs folder or in my microsoft word folders. when the desire to write is there, i never say no. i allow it to overtake me, and i feel all the more lighter for it. it’s the kind of thing that keeps my soul alive. that allows me to keep going, even in the darkest of times. in the era that we live in, i view writing as not only a tether for my troubled mind, but a balm for my restless soul. your 20s are a time of change, as well as stagnation. in all of this, writing has provided a catalyst for motion, just as it has provided an anchor for calm. i feel as though i have an obligation - to write not just for myself, but for others. how can i reach out and let other people know that yes, i see you, i feel the same, if not through this medium? how else can i begin to understand and learn through the lens with which other people view their lives, if not through reading and then writing to entrench what i’ve learned?
a lot of my posts here weren’t written in advance. i didn’t plan them or think of topics beforehand. the urge to express myself came to me, and i obliged, as i always do. as i reach the end of this post, i ask you, reader - (and maybe writer) what sets your soul alight? what moves you? find that answer, and cling to it. let it be your compass as you navigate life. let it always guide you north.