Tonight, as I write with the sound of rain in the background, a wave of happiness overwhelms me. I think I have finally found my way. Very few people around me know about it, even though it is no longer a well-kept secret.
Writing. This is the path I’ve chosen. I talked about it eight months ago when I wrote about my love for words and my new job as a writer, and I know today that I will never go back.
I will fight, no matter what, to keep writing and myself connected for as long as possible. I will fight so that writing will be with me throughout my personal and professional life. The journey will not be an easy one, but I know that it will be one of the forces that will keep my head above water.
Sometimes I wonder how I got this irresistible urge to write. When my parents were young, they were artists. My father was an engineering draughtsman and my mother was a jewelry designer for great creators. They surely passed on to me their sensitivity and their taste for creative things.
For my birthdays, my parents often wrote me pretty cards. I rarely received a gift from them without a little note full of tenderness. And I know that my father liked to write. You could feel it in his pen, it was flowing, and his words carefully chosen. I don’t see it as much today because these little habits have been lost over the years. But maybe I got that from him.
Sometimes I think about writing a book. There’s no shortage of ideas, it’s more a matter of time. So while thinking about it, I write freely, without constraint, and when the words come to me. Luckily, they often come to me. They understood how much I need them to make me feel good.
This obsession with words is not only reflected in my desire to write, but also in my vital need to read. Lately, I have been discovering or rediscovering some of the classics of French literature, such as Albert Camus, Jules Verne, and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. As the pages go by, I am transported into worlds that I never want to leave.
What is more powerful and more beautiful than literature?
Tonight, as I write with the sound of rain in the background, I tell myself that the world of words is made for me, forever.