129: 31.1 Writing

Maybe I inherited my love of writing from my late Grandfather. He was a man of few vocal words but he loved to write. He would write old school style - only by putting ink to paper or even cooler, by spending hours on end at his black typewriter. I still remember the loud and peculiar clicks and whirls the machine made when he would type frantically in the corner of the library. The same floor lamp would shine from above him, aiding his passionate literary exercise.

He would also send us typed letters when we were abroad. I still keep them safe to this day. On days when his absence is particularly palpable, I take them out and read them. The texture of the imprinted words on paper feel soft in between my fingers. Back then, he would often be with his yellow writing pad, like those lawyers like to use, drafting speeches, letters or even passages for his memoir. In his writing, he was descriptive but precise. Somehow, he knew just what to say, especially when it came to cheering me up. Like when I didn't get into the medical school I dreamt of, he sent me a letter (together with a parcel of treats) that urged me not to give up hope. He reminded me that he himself was not deemed "Malay enough" to be accepted to a prestigious boarding school, but he persevered and in the end, thrived. At that moment in time, his words was just what I needed to hear. And there was never a doubt that he had the most magical play on words.

It is no surprise that I find so much solace in words in general. Since I was a child, my thoughts were clearer in writing than it was in speech. In primary school, I would describe myself as very shy and quiet. So to entertain myself, I had countless unfinished diaries documenting my day to day life. And as I became older, my writing style manifested itself through writing to other people and writing on by old blog. In high school, A and I used to have a notebook that we shared. It was like a book of letters we sent one another. I would write in it one day and leave it in his locker to read, then it was his turn to write in it, and he would leave it in my locker. That was our routine for many months. So much so, our original notebook ran out of paper and we had to get a new book!

Then there was also the time when I was actually paid to write. For 5 months during my gap year, I landed my first ever job to write articles for several magazines under a publishing house. The initial interview consisted of writing 2 articles on the spot. I didn't think that I was in anyway good enough to be a paid writer - I had no degree or experience, or to my mind, any special talent. But I loved writing so somehow rather I guess that showed in my 2 articles because I was called to work the next day. The company itself was awful, overbearing bosses and office politics just overshadowed the team's creative energy, but writing there was a dream. As a mere wide-eyed college graduate, I was given the opportunity to interview CEOs, celebrities, designers and ambassadors, and even review dishes at different restaurants. And on top of all that adrenaline, people were actually positively responding to the articles that I wrote, and the salary wasn't too shabby either. Slowly, I managed to build enough of my editors' trust for them to allow me to take charge of cover stories. Some articles spanned almost a quarter of the whole magazine. Overall, it was a really fun and humbling experience. I am really thankful for my job there, because through it I gained more confidence putting my thoughts into words.

Then quickly came medical school and working life. I started this new blog, and updated it whenever I felt like it. Unfortunately, in 2017, that meant barely ever. I wrote about 5 entries last year because I spent my time experimenting with writing on paper. Maybe I thought that the privacy of writing in the non-virtual world would allow me to be more candid and honest. But that energy fizzled out. I needed structure and accountability. Writing is like a muscle, if its not put under constant practice and strain, it will not get any better. In fact, it might get worse to the point that you can no longer find words naturally to express your thoughts.

So when 2018 came, I challenged myself to write one blog entry every day for at least a month. I was hopeful but cynical. I knew a lot of my past resolutions ended up being buried deep into soil. But as I approached the 2-week mark, I found my groove and I was actually looking forward to these little entries every day. And here I am on the last day of January, having penned 31 entries, I can officially say that I did it!

I have purposely kept this mini project a secret from practically everyone except for close family members because for me, these entries are for me. I am happy even if the only one who reads them is my husband (who actually wakes up in another city across the ocean and reads them religiously everyday). Through this, I just hope to find my voice. Not for likes nor followers nor fame. Just like Embahyah did a long time ago, I write just for the love of writing. And I can't tell you how liberating it feels.