So as you all know, now that I am – for better or for worse – “grown up”, I am a writer. A Technical Writer, to be sure, which is only half a writer (at best), but for whatever it’s worth, I’m a “writer” by profession.
I would not say this is the profession I really dreamt of when I was young. I mean, come on: How many people do you know who would say, “You know, I always wanted to be a technical writer; not an engineer, not a journalist nor a paperback writer, not a pilot nor a fireman, a doctor or a teacher; nope, I only ever wanted to be a technical writer.”
Well, if you find such a person, take my advice and stay away from him/her/it.
It’s true I’ve loved reading, ever since I learnt how (and, if you believe my mom, I learnt so late they thought I was dyslexic or a mental retard; and, come to think of it, maybe they were right about the latter). Even at a young age, I used to spot typos faster than they were typed. I think I even thought it would be fun to have a job that pays you just to read, read anything. Hmmm… maybe I did dream of being a technical writer, in a way. Anyway, shows how wrong you can be.
I do remember wanting at some point to be a stage performer. You know, Singer, Actor, something like that. But that was just a passing dream, inspired by the allure of fame, fans and the bright hot spot light, without paying much attention to the career itself.
Later on, I wanted to be a Violinist. Not a very famous violinist, just a small, insignificant violinist in a big, thundering orchestra; just another fiddle in a mass of sound. This is something I very seriously wanted for very many years. I considered dropping out of school after Tenth and going abroad to study. Unfortunately, reality and practicality – and finances – interfered. The dream never really shattered, though, just sort of faded away; even now it could easily be revived if only it were ever so slightly possible.
Then, when I was in Twelfth, thinking about college and the next plan of action, I wanted to be an Engineer. Oh, not a computer engineer; that was too mundane. I wanted to be a Pharmaceutical Engineer. I was in love with Organic Chemistry. Can you believe it? Balancing equations was something I would do in my free time, just for fun. I loved it almost as much as Math. (!!!)
Failing Pharma, I wanted to try for Mechanical engineering. Moving things are always interesting, I thought… that’s about all I knew of Mechanical engineering, back then. (Come to think of it, it’s all I know of it even now.)
Well, I went through the entrance exam torture – twice – and didn’t get anywhere. So I turned to English Honours, a totally “loser’s” choice as it was perceived to be in those days by people who mattered.
Somewhere along the way, I tried out Sales and Marketing and dreamt briefly about Architecture. Thankfully, neither of those dreams lasted long – I would have been totally unsuited to either.
Once I graduated, I sort of drifted into Journalism and stayed there – well, sort of.
Strangely enough, once I entered the field of writing/editing, howsoever humbly (and I don’t mind telling you that I was earning, at first a grand total of Rs 2,200 per month), I was quickly convinced that this was what I would always do; what I would be best suited to; what I would enjoy. And so it has been. Despite the ups and downs and sideways’ I have pretty much enjoyed my profession, in all its diversity.
Looking back, I’m happy about the way things turned out. Honestly, I can’t see myself as a Pharmaceutical engineer, wearing a long white coat and roaming around smelly labs in poky hospitals all day long. And many of the other options are also best laid to rest with a quiet amen.
But over the years, something has slowly become clear to me. Whatever field I had gone into, whatever I had studied and wherever I had worked, ultimately I would have turned to writing. If my profession didn’t lend itself to writing, I would have turned to writing outside my profession. Maybe I would even eventually have left my profession to get into writing. Writing, for me, is not something I have much choice about. I write because I must. I write because I am. And wherever I had ventured in life, or wherever life takes me next, for the writer in me all that happens in life, or doesn’t, all is grist to the mill.
