I’m blest

I'm a fulltime writer but I don't just write for a living. I write for life.

My mother was a voracious reader. I remember the stacks of novels on a shelf in the living room of my childhood home. Almost as much as her memory, I cherish a volume of Shakespeare's works and another by various authors which she bought umpteen years ago. One day they might be considered antiques. They are a blissful reminder of her and the legacy she left.

From as young as seven, I too, learned to appreciate books; I still find the smell of their pages intoxicating. My mother read novels, but even today, I read everything; list of ingredients on tins, bottles and boxes, appliance manuals, junk mail, ads in magazines, etc. I don't consider it a waste of time either - words, sentences, and descriptions. It's writing and as far I am concerned, that's reason enough to read.

And it is the same with writing. Life is reason enough to write.

Just the way we, as human beings think, function and feel is fodder for me to chew on and inspiration for me to pull up to my computer of reach for my notebook or journal. Even when I don't write about my musings everyday, the thoughts don't escape my roving eyes, keen ear or my searching heart. Sometimes it's the sheer wonder of the day, a gesture, a conversation, a song, the layout and ambience of a room, the look in someone's eyes, the tone in their voice or any of a host of other instances in any one day. I collect them all wherever I am and whoever I'm with.

The questions, "Where are you?" "Are you alright?" "Are you listening?" dot my conversations with others. You see, I am easily distracted and mentally board my own train of thoughts for a short journey to wherever they may lead. And, since I can't hide my feelings very well, that wistful, faraway look in my eyes plus the fact that I no longer hear or respond, is a dead giveaway, every time.

I have long since stopped feeling guilty or making excuses. My family and closest friends understand and take it in stride. They put it down to me being me, the writer.

Now, that's a compliment. Well, I consider it to be. I read all the time, about writers struggling to be acknowledged as writers and taken seriously. I'm blest to be able to spend my days immersed in what I love and to be surrounded by people who accept me as I am and understand my quirky ways and appreciate my passion for writing.