Reading, Writing and a Love for Words
I had not planned on starting a blog.
I was planning for an upcoming trip to Scotland and was viewing Google Maps to find places of interest, when I chanced upon a place called Seagull Island. In my search for more information, I stumbled upon this post on a personal blog, and was immediately charmed. I really enjoyed reading those few paragraphs detailing a person's ordinary day and some of the thoughts he had. I wandered and clicked around, reading about nature walks, and personal and family history.
This unexpected amble through someone's personal web world sparked something in me—I wanted to write down these stories that only I know, these thoughts that only I am privy to, these words that cannot otherwise exist. For me at least, and hopefully, too, for anyone else who might find some meaning or kinship in my life experiences.
My love for words started early in childhood. Mum said I started reading when I was five, earlier than my other siblings. I was a voracious reader—I read, and I reread, and I reread, and I reread. I even had a habit of reading the back of cereal boxes and the information on bread bags as I ate.
In primary school, I effortlessly filled up my reading logs and received my bronze, silver and gold reading badges; they were different animal pin badges we could collect and pin on our school ties. There were times when I received the special prize for being one of the students who had read the most books in the year; it was a hamper of three books—oh, the joy! When I was eleven, my English teacher even had doubts about the legitimacy of the entries in my reading log and called me up to quiz me on the books I had read; she found her doubts unfounded, of course!
I made religious weekly visits to the public library, where I would spend a few hours reading, before borrowing the maximum four (later eight) books back home. After school, I'd arrive home, plop down my schoolbag, sit on the sofa, and start reading. During the times mum banned me from reading, I'd sneak my book into the toilet and read there. I'd sometimes sneak my book and a torch to the bedroom because I was not yet done reading my book! One more chapter would lead to another. It was quite extreme, wasn't it? In hindsight, I think that was a hyperfixation that I had then.
Why did I like reading so much? It was escapism at first; books made life so much more interesting and exciting than it actually was. As I grew older, though, what arrested me was the comfort and sense of belonging I received from reading. You know that wonderful feeling when you read a line of words someone else strung together and feel, "You get me." In those moments, I feel slightly less alone, because a stranger on the other side of the world has put to words the unknown and unspoken things I have once distinctly experienced.
This concerted effort to capture abstract and ephemeral thoughts floating in my head and making them tangible, breathing life into them so to speak, is the reason why I enjoy writing. I write better than I speak, and when writing I find I have the ability to catch hold of the words that evade me in conversation.
I'm aware that my writing is not exceptional. I'm in that place I often find myself in—above average but never exceeding expectations. After browsing around this platform and seeing how well everyone writes, I feel a little embarrassed that my writing may seem childish and my vocabulary lacking. My default response in such situations is to give up—why try if it's not going to be good enough? I know, I need to work on having a growth mindset. Well, writing here is one step towards that. Maybe there is a place for me here, and maybe, there is a space here for my words as well.