Beginnings

 Books. That's where everything started. A book can start in a lot of ways. It can start with a flashback, a prologue, or even the ending itself. But a book can start something else once it is consumed, and I believe something started just as I finished a page of my very first kids' book. I can't even remember when that was, just that it did happen, or else I wouldn't be here writing all this stuff for you to read. 


How does one start writing like this, I wondered. I pondered on that quite long enough that I was filled with the dread that I wouldn't do it right. 


But there isn't anything that's supposed to be right or wrong in this. So, maybe that's it, I thought. Since it's the very first, I would just start with the very beginning. 




I was a reader. I still am. 


When you're a reader, you would never fancy yourself to be a writer within your first read. No. You would think of yourself as a reader, nothing more and nothing less. You look up to the authors who gave life to the pages you hold. You would think about it, like once, but then you'll brush that thought because how could you even? How could you live up to the bar set by the creators you know could never be matched to you. So you scrap the thought and live on the dreamless path, a road without a concrete goal, throughout your childhood. 


And slowly, you grow up. 


Growing up is painful. Growing up is hard. It's not just the morphing of your body into this bigger, taller shell. It's not just the way you sounded bigger, louder, but somehow your voice getting a little softer as you figured out that growing up robs you of that childish feeling of being free to say what you mean. That you would never have the strength to speak what you have in mind ever again. 


And you figured, that was growing up. 


But even as you grew, the books were still there. The writers might have died, but the books were still there. The dreams of your youth may have gone from your mind, but the books were still there, rearing the fantasies of yesterday. 


There, you see things from a different view. No longer do books just be a source of smiles, but a source of comfort as well. No longer were they just mere milestones of learning, but milestones for imagination as well. 


That's when you figured, 'Right. I've been in here. In this very room where this passage speaks of. It has pulled me in. It has spoken to me. It has a voice.' And that's when you thought. 'I once had a voice. I still have a voice. Can my voice pull people too?'


Let me just end you here with that question. Maybe a little rhyming poem too. 


" And little raindrops pitter-patter 

  A start of shower coming to say

  The clouds are to cause a splatter 

  The water is here, come join and play. "







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