About Me — Shankar Sapram
I breathe to live; I live to write
The age between 37 and 43 years is considered unique, a kind of rebirth, as one stands a chance to find their true purpose in life. And so, during these defining years, I set out to find mine.
For over fifteen years, I stood at the helm of classrooms, an English trainer by profession, watching young minds grasp language, structure, and meaning. It was a fulfilling job, but deep inside, an unshakable voice whispered — this was not my destiny. Destiny, I believe, is not something one should chase through parallel paths. If one must arrive at their true calling, they must walk directly toward it, unencumbered by detours of compromise.
So, I made the hardest decision of my life. I walked away from the comfort of a paycheck, away from the security of experience, and into the wilderness of a writer’s world — a world where every word is a step forward and every rejection a shadow looming over the path. But the decision was mine, and I stood by it with unwavering resolve.
Luck is a fickle thing, but in one aspect of my life, I have been the luckiest. My wife — my pillar, my unwavering faith when my own hands tremble. With no safety net, no financial cushion to fall back on, she stood by me and said, ‘Reach for your dreams.’ There is a kind of courage that comes from within, but there is another, more profound kind — the kind that comes when someone you love believes in you more than you believe in yourself. And that, I hold dearer than anything else.
In four years, I have poured my soul onto pages. Two novels — one a romance, a labor of love that I have self-published, and the other, a coming-of-age mystical thriller so vast, so intricate, that I know it deserves a grand stage. I have knocked on doors, written proposals, and faced the cold reality of the publishing world. A few showed interest, but their demands for money were a stain on their credibility. I turned away. Some things cannot be bought. Integrity, for one.
Through the hardest of days, when the weight of uncertainty presses heavy on my chest, I remind myself why I write. Three reasons anchor me to this path. One, I am profoundly creative — stories bloom within me, demanding to be told. Two, language is my tool, my art — I wield it with precision, with grace. And three, I am guided by an unwavering moral compass — I write not just for myself but for the world I wish to leave behind, where words shape minds and integrity is never for sale.
And so, I write. Not for fame, not for fortune, but because it is who I am. Because I cannot be anything else. Because, in this rebirth, I have found the only life I was ever meant to live.
