I haven’t always wanted to become a writer. I don’t quite recall when I did. But J.J. Sila Kurippugal certainly had something to do with it. I must have been about 20 when I read it.
My first short story, the one that I half wrote and then tore up in a fit of impotent rage, was about the suicide of a 20-year-old, who resorts to the extreme step after his sister , who really loves him, half-conspires with her newly-married husband to cheat him out of his property. I wrote three pages and when I read it six months later my own handwriting was not legible to me. I could not make head or tail of my own plot and so I tore that one up.
Next one was about a kid who sees his father for the first time when that latter returns from war. Turned out to be a dud too. Deleted that file from my comp.
Then years later, I wrote this one.
You might presume I that would be happy to finish that story. Far from it. I don’t think that it’s very good.
I keep dreaming even if do nothing about it. I rather enjoy the dream these days. It is quite dangerous to wallow in your dream if you don’t do anything about them. Dangerous. I better remember that. If I ever want to write, that I is.