When I graduated from Junior College at 18, I decided that I wanted be a writer – or a journalist, because in Singapore there is no such degree for writing. So a journalist I studied for four years to become. I conducted interviews and wrote articles for the school newsletter. In my internship, I wrote for the company newsletter. And in my current job, I write emails and letters to the media which I secretly think no one cares about. (Don’t ask why I never did end up as a journalist.)
But that’s not why I write.
I write to make sense of all the madness in my head. Sometimes the things I think and dream about make me question my sanity. I write because there is a voice inside me that is screaming to be heard. I write because it is the only way I can find myself as I navigate my way into adulthood, which I was and still am not prepared for. I write because these are things close to my heart. My fears, joys, regrets. The first time I fell in love (or thought I did), actually falling in love, and in recent years, my struggle with chronic back pain and the reality of slowly losing my father to Parkinson’s Disease.
I write to remember. I write to be a better person. I write because I enjoy it, and life is to be enjoyed, not just endured.
I write because it is my story, and no one else can tell it.