A Reflection of Myself
The journey of finding stories and then finding myself through them
Sometimes there is more to life than we are led to believe. My journey through life has at least taught me that much. Of course, like every person, a lot of things influenced me in this world, and from there to here, where I know my niche and how I can contribute to the world, it has been a daunting but otherwise remarkable journey. Yes, over the years, I too have tried furnishing various many versions of myself — a dutiful daughter, a reliable friend, a not-so-adorable sister, and someone with a vision of future, and frankly, I have fallen short at some point or another with them; yet there remains this one thing that I have held on to now; this one anchor to my existence — Stories; and the magnificent magic of theirs. If I enjoyed the story, I wouldn’t stop raving about it till the cows come home and if I ended up loathing it, I knew what I’ll be avoiding the next time, and that has always kept me going. A little push when I feel stagnant, like water in a pond.
I was growing up to be a person, a woman from the stories I’d read, and unknowingly, I was envisioning a life for myself, quite contrary to what others defined as a comfortable, peaceful living. My future house had bookshelves touching ceilings, filled with books from authors across the world, of myths and lore, of worlds unknown. And I dived deeper into the endless ocean of literature and stories.
The more I grew as a reader, my tastes evolved too. I aspired to swim deeper and to never stop. The novels that were my introduction to the world couldn’t hold my attention anymore. I craved stories with more depth, characters with layers, in catastrophic or lively environments. Soon I forget where I’d started and a few days ago, I fancied retracing my path.
When I worked a little on the degree I’m currently pursuing, I was scared that I had to leave and let my passion for books become a past I could only reminisce. Something easy and light-hearted, the ones I used to read before, at least that would help me continue with the streak. That’s how I ended up reading 2 romance novels: Josh and Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating by Christina Lauren and Beach Read by Emily Henry. To my satisfaction, the former proved exactly what I wanted, and the latter took me by surprise.
In the past year, I’ve known and witnessed the life of a writer, a man who is working hard every second of his day to weave stories that could move his readers, that could particularly soften my heart. In the brief span of knowing him, my respect for any writer has increased manifolds and transfigured, remolded my life anew. When I first read the synopsis of Beach Read, he was the driving force for me to proceed with it.
Beach Read is about 2 published writers who are opposites but are stuck in a very similar adversity of writer’s block. The novel explores their way out of the obstruction and voicing a story despite the atrocities that their lives have thrown at them. Through all, it framed me as the picture of apprehension and fear when stringing the first sentence of a book that has the capability of grasping a reader’s attention. A shade of relief, the satisfaction when writing the last word; a tinge of grey and blue when explaining the breath-taking climax; and a shade of pink that showcases and elevates the delicacy and tenderness of love. The anticipation of the first manuscript and the first review. All of which a reader is mostly left unaware of.
I was surprised that it was more than just a romance novel; my present version was probably smirking at the younger, naïve self, thinking that she’s a lot way to cover, a lot more books to discover, learn from them, and aiming to become a woman as fierce and fearless as the protagonists she adores in her favourite novels.
There was a huge angle of her protagonist’s father, and it birthed the element of letters. For a girl who was born in the twilight of the year 2000, nobody expected me to be an ardent lover of letters. For the longest time, P.S. I Love You — a novel about a woman who was left with a stack of letters from her dead husband to help her move on — remained my favourite novel and I was adamant about it. (Now, I’m not so sure.) When I read the penultimate chapter of the book, I was stunned to find it to where I wanted to keep reading letters that I have of my own. So I did.
Past year, I was very humbly given a bunch of letters that I often read whenever I feel like. That night, I kept reading the letters till I fell asleep whilst reading one. It warmed my heart to the extent when I slept without having to toss and turn a dozen times on my bed, feel secure, and of all, grateful that I’ve had the chance to read some best books overtime to teach me the importance of language and literature in my life and to accumulate letters that were heartily written for me to realize people around me also enjoy the age-old ways of expressing themselves and cautious words always help them in strengthening the bonds between people; with the aforementioned novel, letters untied the knots that were formed because of unforeseeable consequences.
I loved the book, and the dreamless sleep that was followed. My heart at peace and head creating a soft depression on the pillow; the following morning I’d a book to discuss with a writer turned reader; and a lesson of not dreaming of ‘Happily Ever After’s’ but of living the fullest in a moment.
I don’t expect to see the bedrock of literature, neither do I wish to stop swimming. All I have learned from this episode is to inculcate books as an extended limb of my body and become even a moody reader if I please. Picking up a book that hasn’t been in my TBR, that appeared out of thin air but caught my attention. A read that renders me speechless or is ambitious to haunt my mind for the rest of the days to come. And for all those rides, I’m ready.
I am always searching for fellow bookworms. If you are one too, I’m more than happy to hear you rave about your favourite books. Find me on Goodreads here and let’s exchange some recommendations!
