When I was nine years old I used to daydream about what it would be like to become an adult. I relished the idea of being able to go to bed whenever I wanted, eating ice cream for breakfast and earning money to buy lots of “stuff” that I wanted. Like video games, comic books and KFC fried chicken. I never thought about what it all would entail to be an adult. Working a nine-to-five job, paying taxes, having monthly bills and many responsibilities. Instead I had a naive, romantic view of adulthood which made me feel (over)confident that it was something I would master effortlessly after turning eighteen.
Fast forward to the present day, as a forty-something “adult” I find myself still trying to figure it all out. Life hasn’t quite turned out how I had expected it would when I was a bright-eyed, unwordly eight year old. As I reflect on my journey I realize that the choices I made along the way have a huge impact on my trajectory in both positive and negative ways. Education and vocation-wise I have achieved a lot of what I had hoped to accomplish. Yet in my private life I have not enjoyed commensurate success. At the same time I observe, by examining the journeys of friends, acquantiances and even strangers (who live in seemingly different worlds), that they are more or less no right or wrong answers in life. When you place your focus on what aspect of life, another will suffer and vice versa.
What strikes me even more profoundly, is that even if I had made other choices along the way, I’m not sure they would have led me towards fulfilment and a happier existence (not that hapiness is a destination). This insight makes me take pause. I wonder, if I had the chance to do it all over again would I make different choices? Would I have chosen to be married and have kids at an early? Would I have not done a PhD and instead ended with master’s? What if I had stayed in the US after I graduated? What if I had never discovered writing? Somehow this later what if, of all seems the most improbable. Although my life might have turned out very differently, I do firmly believe that the need to express myself through writing is fundamental to who I am as a person.
When I was nine years old I started writing my first novel. I remember it was actually during a trip to Edmonton, Canada to visit my ailing aunt. I wrote a chapter of a novel, which I also illustrated by drawing a few sketches. It was the first manifestation of my calling as writer. The next sign did not come until sixteen years later. Although I did dabble in writing poetry as a teenager. Yet it was very sporadic. I guess, this is all to say that who knows how life will turn out in the end? Perhaps in an alternate universe my life would be radically different. One thing is sure my life most likely would be involved some way, some how with writing!
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