A prevalent question is, “When did you start writing?” I wish they’d asked me when I started sharing my writings instead. I have been writing since I can remember being able to hold a pen. It is just that I did not know it was worth anything. From filling up journals and diaries about heartbreaks to writing school essays and trying to win a prize in youth magazines for some short story competitions, I just wrote and wrote and wrote. That was my release, a life I was in control of, where I was the narrator, in which the characters moved the way I wanted them to, and most importantly, happy endings. The books I read, the movies I watched, and the reality I witnessed were somewhat twisted. And that is when I dove deep into my writings, creating happy places, safe havens, an alternate reality, and fairytale endings, all to my liking. There was no hurt, pain, or bad people, just the imaginary world that came to life through the ink I poured. The only thing was I never shared that world with anyone else. Most of my classmates are now finding out in our late thirties that I had the talent to weave words into magic (or at least this is what they say). It wasn’t their fault either, for I never shared my words; I had always been a little insecure and highly possessive about them, like if I shared them, they wouldn’t be mine anymore, like they would vanish into thin air once released as they would belong to the ones reading them. Then followed the insecurity of being judged for what I carried within. So, from what I see, I was just a child and then a young adult trying to keep what was mine – safe. Soon, however, I started choking on my writing and words. The words embedded in my journals, the dusty torn diaries from my teen years, the many un-named (NEW WORD DOC files) displayed on my desktop, torn pieces of paper, napkins, shopping receipts carrying words I scribbled from the time when my thoughts ran wild in the middle of a busy day, shuffling to get a release through any medium available. No matter what I had in my bag, I’d never not have a pen. I don’t know why I did not give the same importance to a writing pad. Maybe because I knew anything could become my bare writing canvas, from my skin to sometimes my clothes. It was a writing pad, period, if my pen could stain it. But all those scribbles sat cluttered on the desk of my chaotic life. The more I wrote, the more I stacked and the harder it became to keep track of them, sort them out, and tell them apart from the trash.
That is when I turned to anonymously sharing my pieces on social media. The vulnerability of this new start made me feel naked, stripped to the soul in front of strangers. But knowing I, too, am a stranger to them kept me going. For some reason, it was easy opening up to a bunch of people I hadn’t met or didn’t know and then sharing it with those I knew personally. There is something about being judged that we all fear; I was no different. But the more I wrote, the more I shared, the more I received love. And just like that, my self-inflated bubble of fear popped, releasing me. I was no more insecure about sharing my writings when I realized that my words could also find a haven, a home, a canvas somewhere else. This time serving a purpose, my verses cradled between pages of poetry books, saved as wallpaper on devices as reminders, safely tucked in the hearts of empaths, and inked on the skins of a few brave ones…
