The Awkward Request

One very beautiful Sunday afternoon I talked to my little sister. She asked me if I could teach her something, which I had to force out of her. She was embarrassed by the sound of it. I did not reply in the negative and asked, "What did you do in school back then?" I could only assume that she was not really into learning except for the social aspect of it. Fair enough. Not everybody is cutout for school. Learning is a personal experience. Besides, who really needs school if you can Google? Yessir!

Our conversation continued about this and that, until she asked me, "Could you write a book?" I answered in the positive, but with a slight doubt. She said, I should. I could. I did... tried. But to get out of the 5000 word count boundary was very excruciating. Still, I told her I would. Then she asked me if I could write an essay. With a big smile in my face, I said, "Yes."

Essay. Assay. I believe it is my genre. See, I have a lot of would-be stories of here and there, only to lose my hold of the plot or character, or even setting and everything else. I don't even believe I can write as some people can say. My resume can prove otherwise, though. Yet, the list of work experience I have is just work. I am not a writer. I love words. That's all. I see colours and shapes in them. I can feel their texture in compositions. I smell how they sound as they define in both certainty and uncertainty. It is in such moments I can commune with life. My interpretation. My analysis. My version. My recreation. 

To be published is the ultimate goal. To get a bookseller title eventually supersedes that aim. To make a movie out of the book, well, it tops it all. Do I think of those things so to own the "I am a writer" status? Yes, at times when the practical move is to keep up with the world. Make money out of it. There it is. That word, "money." The one that kills the soul of my words.

I am not a writer but I will continue to write. Once, twice, thrice, I have disowned my art. Yet that Sunday, my sister has brought a wrecking ball, tearing down the thick wall shrouding the aesthetics I embrace all my life.