"There is no money in writing!" my father once said.
Instead, he asked me to take up Architecture in place of my first love, Journalism.
How my life and fortunes changed because of all that.
Ever been that way?
Where you are asked to make a decision not inherent in you?
Where you veer away from your first love?
Where you let your passion take the back seat?
Where you sacrifice something for others just to keep the peace?
Sure changes our lives, doesn't it?
And so I labored throughout my life, taking odd jobs here and there.
Over three dozen jobs.
Nothing quite fit.
Either the pay was low or the boss kept running after me.
What a culture shock for a young lady then.
But I'm stronger now.
Wiser.
More worldly.
And yet I still love to write.
That daemon could never be taken away from me.
In fact, it raged and roared as it was set aside too often.
But that daemon was my life.
It was me.
It was who I was -- a writer.
A very quiet and private writer who merely wrote what came to mind.
Everything was pure spontaniety.
It was sheer delight!
The pen, the typewriter, and finally the computer took on a life of its own.
I got paid by newspapers, magazines, journals, and online as a ghost writer.
Imagine the shock to the daemon inside me.
How could I write as a ghost?!
It bellowed from within the core of its being, wanting out.
The daemon was spirit, my very life, my very existence!
How could I deny its long-suffering existence.
You know why lots of people end up in asylums, right?
They denied their gifts.
Rather, others denied them their gifts.
Thus, the daemon raged.
He was furious and he was inconsolable.
But that will be for another story, I promise.
For now, let me talk about writing and how I finally got real.
You see, the daemon would wake me up or prompt me with ideas.
And I'd end up writing on every piece of paper I could find.
Until my room was littered with lots of tiny pieces of paper.
Loads of ideas.
Non-stop ideas.
Thoughts.
Germinated all the time.
Nothing was sacred.
I would write on backs of receipts for they had a lovely white surface.
I'd come up with ideas in the bathroom.
I'd be writing notes as I'd commute.
Please don't ask me to drive.
My mind's often elsewhere.
I'm possessed, you see.
The daemon wanted to extract revenge.
For all the neglect.
He was not about to go without showing me what we both could do.
So I just kept taking down dictation.
On and on he went.
Daemons are maniacs of the spirit world.
But you know what?
He wrote about lovely things.
He wrote about love, peace, joy, spirit, even God.
He haunted me in my dreams, showed his face everywhere.
And kept my mind so very fertile until I feared a tree would grow there.
His anger and persistence had taken root.
I was now writing like never before.
Like, give me one word and he'd speak volumes.
Just one word, one keyword, was all it took and the guy would be flying.
And I just let him.
The guy's nuts, you see.
But gosh, the volume of work he could do!
That's how spirit works in each one of us, especially unimpeded.
Prepare for sweet revenge.
So, I let the guy do his craft.
We've become so productive, we keep getting questioned if we were robots.
It's almost mechanical in precision, that's why.
People at internet shops would look at me strangely.
Especially when I'd start typing furiously.
As if the words just spilled out and wouldn't stop.
It's like that all the time when I start writing.
No let up.
Furious to a "t".
And now he's happy.
I've acknowledged his gift and presence in my life.
He harps no more.
This time, he leaves me alone.
Says I "got the hang of it now".
Braggart.
I often see him lying on a hammock, chewing a blade of grass.
Like a contented goat.
Humming happily to himself.
I may just make my first million if I kept at it, he coached one day.
Eager to accomplish that, I keep at it.
And I finally find the dude asleep.
He's at peace now.
It was not all for nothing.
And the it became a he.
I realized that just now.
I'm glad my daemon never gave up on me.
He deserved the rest.
