Someone once told me
My mother once told me, ‘I’m waiting for you to write your book. I know you have a story inside you.’
But how does anyone write, really. How do you pay for the roof over your head and the coffee in your cup and the electricity to power your laptop, without the-job-that-pays-the-bills. Maybe people work their entire lives, saving all of their pennies in a special savings account marked: ‘For When I Write My Book’. Maybe they are born into wealth, or marry into it. Maybe they win a substantial amount on a scratch card. Maybe they work all day and write all night and work all day, willing their body to agree with this concept, this way of life – and to keep going, one more day.
I remember a friend once told me, ‘You can’t be a writer. You don’t have any books in your house.’
(But then that same friend once told me, ‘If we never speak again, that means that we were never friends in the first place’, which I believe to be utter rubbish. Sometimes you just need someone in a certain time, in a certain place and just because you lose touch doesn’t discredit that time and that place and that moment – because of course you were friends.)
And what he said wasn’t exactly true. I did have a few books. It was a temporary accomodation – a house which I lived in for less than one year, during my final year at University – and so I only had a select few books with me. Only the essentials. But it did get me thinking; do you need to read books to be a writer? Sure, I find words inspiring. And when the right words grip me, they are hard to put down or shake off. I may not remember pages or even paragraphs, but I will carry around the essence and the notion and the sentences that struck me. I will travel with the characters in my shadow for days.
One day I will write that story. And I’ll dedicate it to my mother.