What might have I been had I not been a writer?
My mind rewinds to that time when I first picked up a pen and notebook and started writing. Just about anything. My thought diary. Then what was an innocent childhood pastime blossomed into fervent passion, a passion that simply cannot be put out. A fire ignited in me, and I knew I wanted to spend my entire life writing, rewriting, editing. Maybe I’d even write my own book and become a bestseller; but becoming a bestseller was the least in my mind. I wanted to achieve something. Rent myself a small cottage in the countryside, away from it all, then I’d have my computer in front of the window overlooking the beautiful seashore. In the afternoons, I’d watch the sun dip in the orange-pink sky, as I try to catch the last verses of my poems, or watch the stars congregate in the black night sky as I gather more ideas for my next story.
These are my dreams. My dream is not to become a famous actress or become a supermodel or a beauty queen. I’d rather be remembered for my literary work. And when I’m gone, I want the special people in my life to read my words; these words are the token of my life, they are what sustained my life when I wanted to die, it’s one of the more precious things in my life, precious like a rare gemstone.
Had I not been a writer, perhaps I’d have pursued ballet or dancing and become a professional dancer. Maybe I’d have been a ballerina first, a writer second. Maybe I’d be a violinist and play in an orchestra. But same old, same old. I’d still choose the creative profession, because it’s where I found fulfilment, it’s what gave my life meaning and breathed colors into my life. Had I not been a writer, maybe I’d still be a writer.