Aristotle said that the most characteristically human activity is planning your life.
The plan, any plan, starts with a dream. A dream so strong that it seizes your mind and your heart. A dream so clear and sound that you have to strive to make it come true, somewhat, somehow, somewhere.
Ever since I was a little girl I had this dream. The dream of becoming a writer. It started even before I could read. It started when I fell in love with the writer, or rather the image of the writer, while my mom read me stories (which I later learned to do myself). After every story book I read I used to close my eyes and imagine this writer person sitting at a desk, fingers smudged with ink, writing. Sometimes it would be a woman, at other times a man. But it was always someone at a desk with smudged fingers writing his/her way through the wee hours of the night. I wanted to become that person so badly. That was the dream that kept me awake on some nights, as I read until dawn. To become that special person and create magic with my pen, and people would fall in love with my magic, with my written words, my stories and my books.
This is how my love affair started with writers, with their image and the books they wrote, and it continued throughout my school years and beyond. During class, I would hide a book inside my textbook and read. I did this for years without even being caught up, not even once. This was my way of keeping my dream alive until I got an education, until I was free and ready to focus on the work needed to make that dream a reality. Until I was able to put that dream in order, first in my head, and then on paper.
A writer, after all, is only a person who loves writing, and believes in it strongly enough to want to do it well. In the words of George Bernard Shaw:
“This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.”