Inspiration Knocks while Reality Calls

Sometimes I hate it that I'm a writer. When I tell people I write, they automatically assume that I'm going to be like Harriet the Spy.

If it only that was the case at school. They loved my newfound 'creativity' - even featured an article in the school newspaper on it 'Saiyu- our very own Poet Laureate'. Of course, back then I did not know the identity of our poet laureate, much less what one actually was. If I had, I would have backed out pretty quickly, as by admitting my passion for writing, I had signed an obscure kind of contract. A contract that entailed me being emotionally blackmailed into producing a poem every time something remotely important happened.

I hated it. Hated the fact that everyone referred to me as 'poetesse', hated that whenever we went on day trips someone would tell the guides I wrote. Hated the fact that I was drawn into a false sense of resentment for the thing that had done the least wrong.

I do not hate my writing now - only that it strikes me when I am unaware and incapable of acting. Many of my best poems were written while I was in the middle of important pieces of work - a gamble that paid off immensely in the end, as instead of a single piece of work, I finished with two. I hate debating in my mind whether my ideas belong to me or the book I just finished reading, only to give up wondering and pick it up again - at the end of the day it's worth it though, to give a piece of work to a stranger and have them compliment me on my originality, rather than how I remind them of Author Number 1.

I love being a writer.