Writing has always appealed to be a career option. When I was young, I almost got bowled over the idea that writers just write and get paid for it. I mean, they just write! Along the way, I met many people who dreamt of being a writer. Who wouldn’t? I mean, they just write!
Thankfully, I love reading too. So, I read through whatever all famous writers published. I read the classics, the masterpieces, biographies, non-fiction and fiction. As I grew up waiting for my time to write, I realized it more strongly what I am reading is not that easy to write.
How do they know of Harry Potter’s longing for an ordinary life with his dead parents, how do they know the fear and despair of Afghans when Taliban ruled, how can be they so sure of the misfortunes of a girl who has been sold off at the age of nine. Suddenly, I was afraid of the easiest profession of the world. There were no Monday blues, no deadline pressure, no appeasing the superiors , no disappointments on not getting a coveted promotion, no envy of colleagues. Still, it gave me sleepless nights to figure out the art of going through where you feel so strongly that every written word sends a wave across reader’s heart.
Clearly, they have felt the life’s beauties and horrors. The scars have been much deeper. They have been blessed with a burden.