Books have been a part of my life since I can remember. My grandmother, who did not receive any formal education after the fourth grade, was an avid reader. I remember how she would sit by the window and read while the rest of the household would enjoy an afternoon nap. My mother would try to make me nap, but as soon as I was sure she was asleep, I would slip away to the veranda where I knew my grandmother would be with one of her books. I would play with my toys, and she would read. This became our afternoon routine.
When I was seven, we moved to the United States from India, and things changed. Gone were afternoon naps and sneaking away from my dozing mom. Instead, afternoons were spent walking home from school, having a snack, and then doing my homework. All under the watchful eye of my grandmother. The one thing that did not change was my grandmother’s habit of reading. Now, she read in the evenings, after my parents got home from work because this meant that she no longer had to worry about what me or my little brother were up to. Watching her read gave me comfort. It was a little piece of India that she brought with her to a country where I did not know the language or have any friends.
Seeing my grandmother read made my want to read. So we got library cards and every few weeks my dad would drive us to the library. Walking inside, I would always take a deep breath. The scent of the books always made me happy. I would spend my time browsing the children’s section, taking out any book with an intriguing title and reading the first few pages. The saddest part of those days were at the end of the trip — I was limited to a certain number of books and difficult choices needed to be made.
This love of reading stirred a surprising talent: that of writing. I co-authored my first story with my best friend in fourth grade. Our story didn’t win but I still remember how good it felt while we wrote it. That feeling of being able to write my own story stayed with me throughout the years. I have countless number of notebooks and Word docs with stories.
The current work in progress, and the first one that I will finish, has been swimming inside my head for more than a decade. Since it’s birth, it has gone through many iterations. Why? Because I have always gotten stuck in the middle. My characters would start their journey, take me to the midpoint, and then, like Stephen King, I would have no idea how to take them to the finish line. And, this is the reason that this story has seen the light of day, and the reason that it has been stuffed back into darkness more times than I would like yo admit. But things changed this year.
For Mother’s Day my husband, Luis, gifted me the 100 Book course from The Write Practice. I was pleasantly surprised but also hesitant. What he made me realize was that the reason that the story had been written and rewritten, but never finished, was because I was afraid. I feared that I would fail. It was nice to daydream about becoming a writer growing up and into my adult life, but doing this program meant that I would actually be writing with the intention of one day putting my work out into the world. It was a frightening thought.
Luis, however, being a Capricorn, is stubborn to the core. He pushed until I agreed to take the plunge. So, here I am on day fifty-six of my writing adventure. Do I think my writing is perfect? Absolutely not. Are there parts of the story that even as I write, I know will need to get chucked during the second draft ? You better believe it. But do I regret taking on the hundred day challenge? Not even for a second. Why? Because every day I am forced to write, even when I don’t feel like it. And with each writing session I am just that much closer to doing something that I have never done — I am going to finish writing a novel.