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Beginnings

The most cataclysmic event in a writer’s career would, without a doubt, be their first piece of art.
If you find a person with these symptoms :
1. Hair loss
2. Random paper-crumbling hand motions
3. A certain tinge of morning java intertwined with their fetidity
4. A beard
Then, congratulations !! You just found yourself a young writer !!
Although this doesn’t necessarily happen with everyone out there, it did occur during my first time – In a quiet, dim lit room with physical locations varying from sitting cross-legged on the bed to standing upside down on my chair trying to concoct that perfect first story which could hopefully catch the imagination of millions around the world. I still remember going berserk after messing up those words which were so intricately strung together by my 16 year old brain. The worst part was when I would somehow forget the stunning plot-twists and sub-plots that were to be woven into the main storyline after hours of self-dialogging. No exaggeration there, I literally spent an entire hour to come up with such an intense, almost electrifying plot-twist which I ended up forgetting right after munching on a twix bar.
*A moment of silence for that pencil which I broke (right after giving up on the pen) at that instant of cognitive dysfuntion.*
Not intending to brag here but the English language was never much of a problem for me. In retrospect, I have been above average at it in school and there used to be times where I would just nonchalantly walk into an English exam, with no preparation whatsoever, and still ace it. Though I knew of my prowess when I was younger, I was a tad too complacent to even care about refining my skills. However, that was only until a good friend of mine (who is now my manager) put a foot down and got my lazy behind off of the ground last summer which led me to undergo the above stated experience.
Against all odds, I actually finished my story, but was too lazy to type it down and send it to her. After reading it again, I’d rather post that on greatest-plot-hole-ever.com, if it were to exist, that is.
A year passed. On a more personal note, a rather miserable year. Right after the ups and downs, tumbles and tussles, ebbs and flows, I managed to somehow trudge on. Into the 12th grade – my last year of school. With quite a fluctuant start, things slowly fell into place – My favourite topics were being taught, I was officially not a fat kid anymore and English just got better. So much better that there was an exercise which I had to finish after a poetry chapter which involved creating a short story of my own, related to the theme of the poem. With one unaltered stream of consciousness penned down in my book in around twenty minutes, I just finished writing my first short story – An open-ended story, which was , of all things, about a chicken in a farm.
And the review ? Just a single word from my teacher, ‘Excellent’.
So there I was, standing with the book in my hand containing my first official work, for which I had spent an entire week, a year ago. Well played life, well played.



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