I like writing, but I am not a writer. I can’t say my self a writer at least the professional one, because only three of my writing were published officially. When I was at Junior High School, my first short story was published in the local newspaper. It was 1988. I forgot its title, but remember the paying amount I got. It’s 7500 rupiahs, almost equal with 4 times parking cost here in Denpasar, Bali this day. Another two writings were published in Femina, a major magazine publisher in Indonesia. I was the first winner in their writing competition for novelette category in 2004. The other one was a short story for weekly edition. Actually, the short story was intended to participate a writing competition also from the same magazine. As I said. It was published as a weekly edition, means I didn’t win the competition. It was in 2009. See. The span of my existence in writing. Years. Like hundreds?
Frankly speaking, in my past, an expectation of being published could be frightening. Held me back as I was too afraid of being rejected and incompetently created something brilliant or…not published. Partly from the now and then being published. I like writing. In writing, I always have the time in this world to think of words I want to use in expressing my feeling. Choosing every vocabulary I have deposited in my brain cell carefully and putting them into something sensible. Besides, the click-clack sound of my father’s typewriter when I was a kid, has inspired me to be like him. My father was a judge, but I can say, he was a writer, too. Writing article on Law until 3 in the morning with his knowledge and experience he had, with coffee and packs of cigarettes. And it were published. Now, after he has retired for 13 years, my father still writes, religious matters, as he becomes a Pedanda, Hindu priest. When I said, writes, he literally writes down all the idea and thought he has on big note-book. Everyday, after he has his breakfast and not conduct any religious ceremony he will sit on his desk and writes. Many note-books are piled already. I realize one thing. Being published or not, my father still holds his passion in writing. Whether it is Law or other matters.
Without a word, he has told me one thing. Embrace your passion in your heart. Writing is like weaving. Weaving needs threads whereas writing requires words. Smooth-silky, comfortable-cottony or one with warmhearted woolen element. It is all up to you which one suits you. I will weave words into something my heart can wear. Comfortably. As long as I like it, I will keep writing. Brilliantly or not.
(Written for Weekly Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections)