How I Became a Writer

Writing, to me, has always felt like a journey. A quest not for fame, but for something deeper. It's like a river carving its path through the stone of existence, sometimes meandering, other times rushing toward a distant, shimmering sea. In the beginning, I believed the destination was what mattered most: success, recognition, applause. But over the years, I have learned a crucial truth: the essence of writing does not lie in the outcome, but in the journey itself. It lies in the curiosity that stirs within me, the wonder that leads me to each new word.

When I was a child, English was a foreign land. Vast and intimidating. I remember, as if it were yesterday, climbing to the roof of my house in the dead of night, the world below wrapped in silence. Beneath the pale gaze of the moon, I stood against the stone wall of the parapet, trying to speak words that felt like strange, distant stars. There was no teacher to guide me. Only the wind and the wide sky, vast and forgiving. My tools were dictionaries and the well-worn pages of Word Power Made Easy by Norman Lewis. Each scrap of a newspaper I collected seemed like a clue, a fragment of a puzzle that would one day lead me to the language that would unlock my dreams.

In my town of RS Pura, the small library was my temple. Yet, like many temples untouched by time, it was not a place of great enlightenment. Its walls stood like those of a forgotten monument, holding shelves heavy with the dust of decades. Hardly any new books were added to its collection, leaving the same old tomes to gather dust while the world outside moved on. The readers who gathered there were not seekers of new knowledge, but casual visitors, flipping through the pages of newspapers or glancing over the glossy images of film and sports magazines. Complaints were rare. This, after all, was the prevailing order. No one questioned what had always been, for the routine of it all had long since been accepted as normal. It was a library in name, but more often than not, it was a place to pass the time rather than to find something truly new.

There were no shortcuts in those days. The internet, with all its endless resources, was a world I couldn't yet access. Books, still rare, were often out of reach. But I was relentless. Every penny I earned went toward ordering books from distant places, and I wrote feverishly in notebooks, my words looping and twirling in the margins, searching for meaning. My teenage years were spent in the company of Pearl S. Buck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Franz Kafka whose words lit a fire within me, making me believe that I, too, could create my own stories.

But becoming a writer is never a straight path. The world of words can be cruel, and rejection came swiftly, like a harsh winter wind. My early attempts to write for local newspapers and magazines were met with cold indifference. Rejection is always painful whether you are receiving it or giving it. Each rejection was a wound, but also a teacher. It reminded me that failure was not the end, but a step forward. Still, I longed for the approval of editors, the recognition that would validate my efforts. And when success finally arrived, it brought with it an unexpected shift. A subtle change that began to erode the very thing that had first drawn me to writing: my curiosity.

At first, the change was nearly imperceptible. I wrote because I felt I had to. Writing had become a transaction, a way to earn praise or attention. What had once been an act of joyful discovery became a race toward an ever-elusive finish line. The thrill of exploration, of finding new ideas and uncovering hidden truths, was replaced by a heavy weight: the burden of expectation. I stopped writing to satisfy my own curiosity and began to write for others. I crafted stories and articles in the hope of impressing editors or fitting into what I believed was the “literary” mold. The joy of writing turned into an obligation. What was once an act of wonder became a struggle.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but in my pursuit of recognition, I had lost touch with the very spark that had once fueled me. Writing became something I should do, rather than something I wanted to do. Each word felt like a small sacrifice, offered up in exchange for validation. And with this shift came a growing resistance. A quiet reluctance to write at all. I felt as though I had lost a part of myself. The very act that had once brought me peace and fulfillment now felt strange, distant—like a memory of something I had once loved.

Nearly two decades passed before I began to understand the root of my discontent. During that time, I completed my studies in engineering and delved into human psychology. I learned to think differently about consciousness, language, and creativity. I encountered the idea that curiosity and wonder are not passive traits, but practices to be nurtured and cultivated. Slowly, the pieces of my inner struggle began to fall into place. I realized that the more I focused on the end result, on getting published, receiving approval, the less I listened to the voice that had originally guided me: my own curiosity.

I had written to impress, to craft something “worthy” of recognition. I had forgotten the simple joy of writing for its own sake, of turning thoughts into words, of weaving sentences that spark with life. I had stopped asking the question that had once driven me: What if?

Through years of struggle and self-reflection, I came to learn two essential truths. First, curiosity and happiness are inextricably linked. When I allow myself to follow my curiosity, when I explore the unknown, I rediscover the joy that makes writing feel effortless. Second, curiosity is not something that happens to you; it is a practice, a choice that must be nurtured. As a writer, I must choose curiosity over expectation, wonder over judgment, and the journey over the destination.

As I rediscovered my love for writing, I realized that I was not alone in this struggle. Many writers, in their search for success, have lost sight of the passion that first led them to the page. This is a common story, though often unspoken. But once I understood this, I found my way back to what I loved most: the act of writing itself. I poured my heart into a novel, exploring desires, consequences, and the judgments that shape our lives, hoping to give voice to the suffocations of my own soul through fiction.

Now, I write not for recognition, but because I am following the path of wonder once again. The words flow as they once did, not because I seek approval, but because I am driven by the curiosity that first led me to the page. And in this space, I have found the true magic of writing. A magic that was always there, waiting for me to return.

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BS Dara is the author of the famous psychological thriller "The Insatiable – A Sinister Tale of an Elusive Mastermind."