The lost writer
By- Preeti Singh, Vol.II, Issue.XXII, November 2016
Introduction to the Author:
Preeti Singh, based in Mumbai-India is a freelance French Language Interpreter & Translator as well as a Media Professional, engaged in Writing and Acting work. She is currently a member of the Film Writers Association (FWA), an association for television and cine writers in India. She has equally assisted in film pre-production and script writing. Apart from it, she is also working as an Actor and has portrayed different character roles in Indian television series. She can communicate in English, French and Hindi Languages with adequate fluency.
So here I am sitting in front of my computer and attempting to scribble down some thoughts which are trying to make a haul through my racing mind. Writing is one of the best ways to express our sentiments, desires, hopes, wounds and bliss. We can write what we want and vent our feelings to strangers who won’t judge. It’s comforting and healing to share the load with someone. Some readers can relate and understand where the writer is coming from.
I want to share a story; a story about a girl who forgets her true identity. She was busy running around people, pleasing them and getting their approval. They were the people with whom she shared her life; her teachers, family, relatives, friends, lovers. She was a busy girl; busy playing the role of ‘a good girl’. The one who is supposed to be: a good daughter, a good sister, a good friend, a good girlfriend, who is expected to keep everyone’s needs before hers. In the whole affair of pleasing others she forgot to please herself, she forgot who she really was. She forgot that few years back she had zeal to write, there was a budding talent which was never acknowledged as it was never shared.
In my college days I used to write small stories, personal essays, news articles, scripts, reviews. As life moved forward, I was drifted along and forced to blend with the flow. I simply forgot that I had the desire to write. No matter good, bad, average, non-worthy of being noticed but at least I had an urge to write; and might be recognized for this someday. As time passed, life took a different turn and things changed for me. I was occupied in taking care of trivial things, my priorities changed with the passing years. I started serving others, I became busy living up to their expectations and thought that’s what I was supposed to do and be; be a good girl!
One evening I got a text from an old acquaintance who wanted to discuss a project with me. He contacted to enquire if I am still active as a writer. After receiving the text, I was startled for a moment and replied, ‘Yes, I am’ which was a lie. I was amazed and disturbed at the same time with this text message. I was amazed because people still remember me as a person with writing skills; and disturbed because I had completely forgotten that I had a special skill. How can I let slide something of that significance, where was I lost, what was I doing all these years, what kept me occupied or what kept me away? What was I busy with that I over looked the desire to be identified? I must be very busy indeed; yes, I was truly very busy. I was busy playing the good girl.
The ambitious girl was lost becoming the good girl, the goodness took over ambition, and the desire to be accepted took over the desire to be known. She was busy living for others, as per others, in sync with others. She has always been the giver, the one with a big heart and enormous patience to adjust with the unfairness of life. She was just giving and not receiving anything in return and what happens when you put the needs of others before yours? You make them your priority and in return all you are left with is a lost identity. They start to take you for granted and it becomes a pattern, it becomes a thankless job.
You make someone your whole world only to realize that you are just a small part of their selfish world. While you were busy serving others there was someone who was starving for your time and attention. It’s your own self; you have forgotten to make time for yourself. It’s time to gear up, get up and look into the mirror, whose reflection do you get to see? Is it a reflection of someone you were or someone you are? I request you; please don’t be the lost writer which I once became.