I don’t write as much as I used to when I was younger. People who know me would definitely agree about this.
I used to have this particular book I write everything on and take it everywhere I go. I could fill one empty book in a single month, with all of my silly stories and dreams. Apparently because there wasn’t much to do in boarding school. There was no distraction like phones, internet, or good film/book recommendations (my biggest weakness). But apart from all this, writing created some kind of this energy that makes me happy. Felt like I was born with it. Although I never find Dad or Mom spend most of their time on books–which basically means I might not inherited it from them–it’s just here in me.
Or should I say… was (?).
Or is it still? I don’t even know.
Dad often reminds me that I should continue my writing hobby. He said he likes reading anything I write. “Doesn’t have to be something ‘heavy’ or something. Just a short story about how was your day going will do,” he said.
I feel bad I always take what he said for granted.
But I still have those dreams, you know. That someday, there would be people in subways reading a book with my name written on the cover. Or that my kid would come home from school, open up his/her bag and say, “this kid in my class say your book is amazing, he/she wanted me to have you sign it,” while handing me the half-read book.
Damn, wouldn’t it be awesome?.
Although, of course, I don’t want to wait until I have kids to release a book. If I can, I want it to be tomorrow. Or next month. Or within this year.
But who am I kidding? I still haven’t even start any first page, still clueless about what could I write. Even blaming my boring life ungratefully for this writer’s block, and other people for my writing anxiety.
Sorry, Asma in the future.
Sorry, world, for keep breathing your air without doing something actually good for you and the human species.
I’m working on it.
(This was actually already published in my Tumblr. Don’t judge me.)