Dad always said ‘What’s you gonna do if you become a writer? A writer has nothing to feed himself, nothing but his ego.” Of course as a wise business man, he had his own stand and point. And he had the same point about me becoming an artist, a screen writer, a comedian and a TV host.
I love my dad endlessly but as a stubborn child I am, I needed to be proved wrong or else your point is invalid.
My mom loves my painting, my writing, my music, all the little stand up comedy shows I put on. And she loves me becoming a public figure as she once was. So as everyone else in her family. “An MC, yes, that must be you honeyboo. She talks so dang much!” I heard them telling me times to times.
With a pure heart being pulled toward literature and art, I fell into it as natural as it’s my second nature.
I wrote about the most outrageous adventure of this comical but phenomenal boy and his journey from east to west. I wrote about the ways raindrop broke on my front yard’s concrete floor in summer. When I was 9, I promised to my heart I will have a film or a book published. No exception!
I wrote when I was a teenager. But those pages are for the love I did not have, the cute boy in my class, the girls and their cruel plays. I wrote for my broken shaken most lively heart.
I kept on writing in my late teens. I wrote for the night tears blurred my eyes and smudged the pages, of me missing the familiar. I wrote for my heart which was controlled by the the mind of a girl who was trying so hard to grow up.
I have not had any professional training on writing and I believe it’s not necessary as it should be something you’re born with; or without. The only class that considered “professional training” was a creative writing class I took as an elective back in uni. (Which you can read about here). I remember it all vividly. I don’t know if I remember all that because that was the last semester before I could be done with uni madness or is it because it’s the most captivating class I have ever had. I don’t know if I remember my professor ‘s name because his name is the wrong spelling version of my best friend’s name or is it because he has given me so much hope and validation.
But then after all that, it’s gone quiet…
I have not written for so long. Trust me I tried! I did. I sneaked in a bit of writing between flights. I wrote on trains between trips. At times I wrote to hide the fact that I had nothing else better to do.
I remember the last conversation I had with my colleague, one the the very rare occasion I mentioned my writing. he asked “Oh I didn’t know it was your thing! You write in Vietnamese?”. “I used to long ago but mainly English.” He gave me this look which I can’t describe. It’s a look of a native speaker giving a girl who just, with an accent, said she composed some forms of literature in English.
But none of that, the lack of time, those sorts of common reactions, none of that will diminish the promise I made to myself when I was 9. More than ever I know this is important to me. More than ever I know there’re no better timing than now.