When I could write...

Years ago, the ten year old me whiled away his time reading a book before an exam. I don't quite remember what it was, maybe an Enid Blyton, or perhaps it was The Goblet of Fire. And my dad angriliy asked me as to what I would do if I failed. Unerringly, without thinking, I said I would write a book.

I used to read a lot, from pulp fiction, to the classics. The joy of reading a good book was to visualize the world which the author created. To enter a whole new world on the mere imagination of another person, with you adding the fuel needed for the fire. And every once in a while, a book came along which was truly beautiful. To Kill a Mockingbird, The Kiterunner, The Catcher in the Rye, and yes, Harry Potter. Say what you may, but I did smile four years ago as I read the final words in 'Nineteen Years Later', and I did silently cry that there would no more. But reading was more than that. It was the andidote to life.

Maybe that's the reason I could write. As far back as I can remember I was good at writing. And more often than not, the only thing I was good at. I used to love writing English Language exams. Not those wretched comprehensions, not the mindnumbingly stupid grammar which everyone, including me, somehow always managed to get wrong. No, I loved the composition section. Because every composition was the opportunity to tell a new story. Boy, did I love doing that. They weren't always great, but almost all of them were good (I know because I got good marks). And of all the things I miss from childhood, perhaps writing stories is the one I miss most.

So what happens? In a nutshell, you grow up. I read a lot less now. After reading hundreds of pages worth of study material, sometimes a novel seems more tedious than fun. And writing? Well, it was a lot easier to write a story when a topic was handed to you. Writing a story from scratch is a lot tougher. But I wish I could still read one book a week. And someday, write my novel. It may not be great, it may not be good, not even average. But it would be mine. Maybe its a lost dream of a ten year old. I sure hope not.