I think in all works, there is an importance for honesty.
How can I prove myself as an authentic, genuine, real person, if I’m not honest about all matters? Honesty is something very delicate, because while one may claim they desire the truth, deep down, we all know that the truth can be painful. And it hurts. It hurts a lot.
Personally, I think it’s very brave. How many of us really want to expose our deepest thoughts, strongest desires and concerns for the world to see? It’s rare. It’s rare because we’re afraid. We’re afraid of rejection, we’re afraid to let people in, afraid of their possible disapproval.
Nevertheless, honesty is the key in all functions, so I shall present myself in the rawest way possible.
Like anyone, I have dreams. Big ones. Let’s be earnest, I don’t even call them ‘dreams’ nowadays I have them in a post-it sticky note mentally filed under, “SHIT I GOTTA DO SOMEDAY” (excuse my French)
They vary, they change, they dissolve, they bolden (is that even a word, “bolden”?) They’re inexplicably colourful. Sometimes I joke with myself that I have a new dream every other day!
I want to travel the world on a caravan, I want to bathe elephants in Malaysia, I want to meditate with monks in India, I want to swim with sea turtles (I almost put down ‘sharks’ but to be frank—I’m too chicken for that) I want to help teach people from all sorts of backgrounds how to speak a new language, I want to sit down in a café with Lana del Rey and talk about the how the universe was created (okay, that one might be a bit far out, but still! It’s definitely one of my fondest).
Like I said, they change. Sometimes I want to travel the world on a boat instead of a bus, sometimes I want to swim with dolphins instead of turtles (I still rep the sharks though) and sometimes my sticky note gets lost in translation among thousands of other notes piled in my head.
One dream never changes— writing.
Friend, I am in love with writing.
I remember when I was ten years old, I hand wrote my first novel. Calling it a full book would be a bit of exaggeration, but it had chapters, it had a title, a plot, and it even had a fore note! (Sadly, the title wasn’t too imaginative, I’m almost embarrassed to share it with you) But I was so proud of my little fictional work of art. My father told me it was silly and that I should focus on more important things, so my discouraged ten-year-old self chucked that book into my garage, where it was eventually lost in the sea of junk we keep in there. (It’s amazing how our parents can influence us with their encouragement/disapproval, huh?)
Writing has always been an outlet for myself. I started a journal (Unfortunately I can’t say “private journal” because my siblings would sneak into my room and read it, smh)
I haven’t had many friends in this life, but my pen has always shown me infinite patience and my paper has been the most discreet of listeners. I love to write, about ideas about places, about stories, about memories.
Friend, if you haven’t ever kept a journal, I recommend you to try it. I started out by filling out a few sentences about my day, which escalated to paragraphs, which lead to pages. It’s always beautiful going back to my journals from 2014 and seeing how different I am. It’s always interesting reading about my own past experiences and realizing how much they’ve inspired a change in myself. I want to remember everything, the good, the bad, the happiest moments, the ones that broke my heart. Every experience, every detail, has lead me to become the person I am today. Why wouldn’t I want to remember them?
One of my biggest, strongest, most chimerical dreams is to write a book, and have it published. I want to share my thoughts with the world, I want to create a new world for my readers, I want to channel all my energy into something that can be passed on to others. This world is so beautiful; why should I keep everything I have to myself? Why should good things be hidden?
I know, I know. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to have your book published.
J.K Rowling had her manuscript for Harry Potter turned down many times, Stephanie Meyer was rejected countless times. Hundreds of significant authors have faced dismissal. I know it won’t be easy. But that’s the fun part.
In the name of being honest, I don’t even know if it’ll happen soon. But isn’t that splendid? I have no idea, which is what makes it fun. How boring would it be if I knew what’s going to happen in the future? How boring and predictable.
Someday, you’ll be walking past a Barnes and Nobles, and you’ll see a book with my name at the top. Or at the bottom. I’m not picky. I’m just waiting for that day. It may be a year from now, it may be many years from now, but it’ll be beautiful and I hope you’ll be proud.
P.S – due to the importance of being earnest, the title of that book I wrote eight years ago was “The Story of a Girl” Where was my imagination? My future one will make up for this unoriginal title, I promise!