Stories. Poetry.
Everyday musings.
Welcome to writer around the corner – where every word finds a place.
A pirate... eh.. I mean
A Writer's Journey...
The story of a writer is the story of a reader or, in my case, a listener. I remember coming home from kinder garden with tales from my friends about what they saw on “cable.” We didn’t have a television back then, and the stories of my toddler friends were scattered at best. I took their excitable recollections in pieces and conjured up the rest. Seeing my enthusiasm, my mother took to telling me bedtime stories: my favourite was about a boy who goes on an adventure singing a song of himself.
When I was eleven, my family took me to a bookstore, and the owner handed me Journey to the Center of the Earth by Jules Verne and Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. I looked at their covers and the names of the authors underneath and understood that it all came from the imagination of a single person, that someone took meticulous time constructing these things.
My English, at the time, was pedantic at best. I picked up the narration in bits and filled in the blanks with my imagination. And I started writing and stopped after two short stories. My words seemed like ramblings compared to the easy flow of my favourite writers.
It would be years later, when I came upon the words “learn to write,” and understood that writing was a craft; that great sentences didn’t just drop out of thin air. The idea was enough. And the rest, as they say, is history.
- Rohtash
Writer around the corner blogs
Letters from a Noisy Street
I’ve lived on a noisy street all my life and often envied the quiet neighbourhoods and the people free from the sounds of gurgling engines, the horns, and the scooters whooshing along, wishing to break the sound barrier. In those loud moments, an image of a cabin in the woods looms over my daydreams. Somewhere along the way I started writing. I came to this vocation from a need to be alone, a need for a sense of self.
But as I started writing, people that I have met along the way started pervading the page. The more I wrote, the more I began noticing their quirks—how children look at treats; grandparents hold their little ones; shop owners stand in the doorway looking for a passing gossip. Now, when I walk through the quiet neighbourhoods, the houses seem abandoned and eerie, and I crave the sounds of bustling roads. I’m where I’m needed, listening to the stories of the world. That is what writing is for.
