I sat there, in the midst of dust boxes – the smell of parafin reeking from the freshly painted walls. I could hear my dad coming down the stairs. If feigned all the concentration I could muster.
My nose was buried deep in the only Sidney Sheldon that I kept picking up – The Naked Face – to this day, I have no idea what that book was about. The truth is it was all an act. An act to hopefully one day hear my dad proudly talk about how his daughter reads.
Maybe that is when it all started. May be that is when my passion for words started. My intense love affair with creating and dreaming up stories. I wrote one novel in Primary school. A child’s take on the world. High school, I wrote another – my friends were writing and I also wanted to be associated with writing. Senior High, I wrote the only book I was intensely proud of – it got lost!
My brain’s capacity to create stories out of thin air still amazes me. My HCI class assures me that this is a common trait with most humans. We like to see things where they are not. We dream of princes and happily ever afters. Of stories greater than our own.
I love words. They speak to me. They are my language. They break me and they build me. I am in love with words.