THE TALENTED WRITER WHO NEVER WRITES.

One of the things I used to hoard as a kid was notepads, jotters from birthday parties and funeral ceremonies of people I’d never met and of course, regular 2A exercise books. Anytime my mom returned from a party; the first thing I asked was always if they 'shared' jotters.

After a while, I stopped asking because she started saving them for me and one after the other; I’ll write in them. I’ll write words I was learning, thoughts I had (most of them were funny thoughts. I had a really huge sense of humour as a kid) till they were all filled up with a kid's incoherent, unfiltered and vulnerable words.

I’ll pen down ideas which mere mostly how a movie I’d seen should have ended, I’ll write poems and stuff that had no categories. I’ll also write dreams, short snippets of the kind of person I wanted to be and the type of life I wanted to live.

Even at that age, writing was a solace. It was an impregnable fortress where I felt safe, heard and approved of. Of course, as a kid, I didn’t know what I was doing and I’m sure I probably couldn’t articulate it but I knew every time I was in a corner all by myself plotting, planning, writing, cancelling, ripping a page from the book to start afresh; I was committing to a gift I didn’t deserve anything to get.

Have you ever read some books or articles that completely knocked your socks off? It wasn’t about the words or the command of grammar (these are important to master if you want to be a writer) but it was more about the delivery, the manner the author wrote that captivated your entire being.

That’s the kind of writer I want to be. The kind that helped you forget the passing of time, the frailty of our existence and the urgency of life. That’s the kind of writer I’d always wanted to be.

This is where the story takes another turn because I abandoned writing. No warnings, no headsup, no drama; just called it quits without saying a word. It must have been easy to do because I can’t even remember when or why. All I knew was that I had to ‘grow up’, face my studies and become a successful adult. I could blame the seriousness of life but I know I’ll be lying. It was my call. I made the choice to let go and face something more important, useful and logical.

No one discouraged me from writing. As a matter of fact, even though my mom couldn’t read much, she encouraged me to write and kept teasing me about all the jotters and stuff I wrote.

I knew writing required work and I wasn’t ready to plunge into that deep. I thought as a natural, things would come to me more swiftly. I thought the world would notice, focus on the gift and not demand a skill from me. Also, I needed to figure out my life. I was in school, had life to deal with and life outside of school waiting to deal with me. The last thing I wanted to spend my time doing was be a writer.

I have tried to also remember when I picked up writing again but I just can’t. It wasn’t a radical action. It was gradual, easy and enduring.

Why am I writing this? I know there are others like me who have abandoned their natural gifts; maybe our routes are different but one way or the other you found out that writing that used to mean a lot to you is now a total stranger and you need help to get back in the ring.

You see folks who aren’t even as half as talented as you and you feel a pain in your chest because you should be doing what they are doing and also because you are sure you can do it better. I think it’s high time you stopped seating with the critics and move in to the arena where all the fighting, sweating and bleeding are happening.

?

This is what the Writer’s Lab is going to help you do. You’ll love writing again. You never stopped loving it? Even better. You’ll get your mojo back.

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