Mona Hassanzadeh
I am a writer. And I hate when people call me that.
All my life, I have been surrounded by people who have had a natural talent in something, something that is now their favorite hobby. I never had that. I loved art, but even with the few classes I took, it was clear I didn’t have it in me. You might read that and say I’m a quitter – on some days I will disagree, I won’t on other days. The point is, when you are surrounded by such people, consciously or subconsciously, you feel pressure. No one needs to say outright that you don’t have hobbies, that you don’t know how to cook, draw, knit – whatever it may be – to make you feel inadequate, we as human beings handle that all on our own. So when one night, in a state of total despair, I wrote a piece that was my best attempt at putting to words my emotions, I discovered writing. At that time, I really loved what came out onto paper, so much so, that after working up the courage for a few weeks, I read it to my sister. I told her it was a piece I’d found on the internet, that it was by an anonymous writer. I was scared. That piece of prose was a piece of me I wasn’t ready to share; until my sister started to praise the writing. Her validation gave me courage, and soon I was writing more and more – and sharing the few pieces I thought were the best with my parents.
That’s when it all came to a pause.
My dad, being so proud of a piece I had written about the role of a father in a family, had shared the piece with a few people. I wasn’t exactly pleased, but I wasn't hating the pride he took in how much others had loved it – until, at a gathering, he asked me to read it. The gathering was small, just my family and a close family friend, whom I was very close and comfortable with. But when they asked me to read it aloud to them, because they thought it had a more powerful effect being read by its writer, I couldn’t. The entire time they encouraged me, all I could think of was now they know. Now they know I write. Now the little peace, the little haven I’d built myself with this new promising talent, was being shattered by the weight of their expectations.
That day passed, and I didn’t stop writing. I started journaling, writing poetry and prose, dealing with the ups and downs of my life with a pen in hand, writing promising poems and words into my trusted notes app, and, eventually, changed majors to English. But ever since that day, whenever someone I know calls me a writer, tells me I will become published one day, I dismiss their words quickly. When a stranger says it, I end up thinking about it all day with a smile, because a stranger has no expectations of me, no bias when commenting. But someone who knows me… well, that scares me. Because the last thing I want is to fail. To not succeed in something they believed I had in me.
I am a writer, but for now, it’s just for me.
Comentarios