'Summertime'

"A book should be an axe to chop open the frozen sea inside us. What else should it be?"

"A gesture of refusal in the face of time. A bid for immortality."

This exchange between two characters in J.M. Coetzee's 'Summertime' has left an indent in my psyche, an indelible footprint from which my mind cannot stop fixating itself on.

I think it has stirred in me that part of myself that so desperately, so earnestly, wants to do nothing but write.

All this time I have been pondering a career in graphic design, in magazines, in media, when in actual fact all my heart desires is that I may spend the rest of my days writing away my existence, and hopefully making some kind of success out of this too. A published novel would not hurt; a novella would not be bad either.

In short, I feel as if my soul has seen its reflection in something and suddenly attached itself to a notion it feels defines it, defines me, and should, in essence, define my existence.

I am terrified of opening myself up to the possibilities that this opens up for me, simply because it is sometimes easier to ignore your heart's desire and hope they will go away, fade into the wallpaper, disappear.

But now that I have opened this Pandora's Box there is no way that I can ignore the burning desire in me to write.

I only hope that I can survive on baked beans and tinned spagbol long enough to write a novel.