She stared at the faces. The faces full of life,
vitality, vigour and of determination. They all had the same things in common.
The passion for what they wanted. The determination and hunger to achieve their
goals and the perseverance to strive and struggle in order to achieve their
aims. They knew what they wanted. She looked at her face in the mirror,
desperately trying to search for that same passion, that same vigour and
determination in her face. But her face looked empty and hollow, devoid of any
emotion. She did not know what she wanted. The only thing she felt was this
sense of aimlessness, isolation and the sense of not being understood by those
around her. The only things that could ease this pain and this ache were pen
and paper. Writing was a channel through which she could speak out to the world
and try to make it understand what she wanted, what she strived to achieve…what
she wanted from life. It was the only means through which she could actually
find herself and understand herself. It was the friend that she longed for, the
friend that provided her comfort in times of sorrow, the friend that enabled
her to pour out her feelings and all her anger. She wrote
angrily…passionately…she did not know what she was trying to say, the words
just flowed out effortlessly…almost magically…as if the pen in her hand had a
power of its own…it just magically made her hand move and made it produce words
that she did not even know she was capable of producing….the ink flowed and
flowed on the paper...it represented the outflow of all her emotions, of all
her feelings. As she looked at what she had written, she tried to scrutinize
and fathom the meaning of her words. They seemed dull, prosaic and insipid to
her. But when she read them again, a feeling of comfort and imperturbable calm
enveloped her serene soul. In her own darkened gloom of thought, she had
finally found the answer. The search for what she was looking for was over. The
answer was in front of her and suddenly her life was full of meaning and full
of hope. She looked at her pen and paper and smiled. This was what she wanted.
It was not only a channel of communication with the outside world. It was also something
that she loved. It was something that made her feel content and satisfied. She
had finally found herself.
Henry R. Luce, an American Publisher and Editor once said, “I became a journalist to come as close as possible to the heart of the world.”
When I read this quotation, I immediately felt that Luce was trying to define exactly what I felt and what I wanted and that immediately told me that journalism was indeed the right career for me. The above italicized extract is not a story taken from any magazine or newspaper. It is written by me and the lost girl in the story represents me. I realized when I began writing this essay that no particular work of art inspired me to study journalism. Writing has always been a passion for me ever since I was a child and I used to write all the time. The hunger to write was always inside me and it used to gnaw at my insides until I finally grabbed a pen and paper and wrote passionately. With the passage of time, I realized the power of the written word and how sharp it was; the wound of it could hurt a person more than the wound from a sharp sword.
I still remember the day when I was eleven years old and my home computer was out of order. It was the computer on which I constantly used to type and send articles to local magazines in Pakistan. The excruciating pain I felt during those days because I wasn't able to write or express myself is hard to put into words. It was perhaps at that moment that I felt that I wanted to become a journalist. Not being able to type on the computer made me feel cut off from myself and from the outside world. I felt lost and isolated.
I remember the first poem and short story that I wrote when I was ten years old. I sent it to a local magazine and it was rejected. I felt so discouraged that I vowed never to write again. However, the separation from writing lasted for only a few days. It was something that was a part of me, something that I was born with and the gnawing hunger to write soon encompassed me again until I was incapable of feeling or thinking and the only comfort from the pain was to vent out all my feelings on paper. When I was twelve years old, my first article was published in a local magazine. The uncontrollable joy, enthusiasm, exuberance and vivid effervescence that I felt upon seeing my name in print is indescribable. I felt as if I was floating in the sky and I felt that I had won the Nobel Prize. From that day on-wards, I wrote about everything and anything that I came across. I searched for some sort of inspiration in the white empty walls of my room, in the cloudy sky outside, among the birds that ate the leftover food lying in the garden, in the faces of the people around me and in the destruction and havoc that the outside world was going through. I wrote and wrote and I constantly looked at the world from a completely different perspective. When people saw a tree outside the window, I saw something else entirely. I noticed the hunched reverence of the branches. I saw the tiny lines on the soft, brown leaves. I noticed the sparrows that were nesting in the tree and I saw how beautiful the tree was. It wasn't a tree. It was home to some living creatures. It was a symbol of comfort and beauty. I wrote and almost all my work was published in the local magazines. I even expanded my horizons and I started writing to a magazine in the United Arab Emirates. Seeing my name in print was a constant source of pleasure to me.
When I turned sixteen, I noticed the attitude people had towards journalists in Pakistan. They were viewed as good for nothing people who only made a living out of writing worthless material on scraps of paper. Everywhere around me, all people wanted to become were doctors, engineers, lawyers, architects and businessmen. No one seemed to appreciate the art and beauty of the written word. I thus changed my mind and decided that I wanted to study business. However, when I turned eighteen I realized that I would never be happy or content unless I became what I wanted to become and unless I pursued a career that I was passionate about. And despite criticism from my family members, I decided that I would pursue journalism as a career. I knew that it was something that I had always wanted. I still strive to go to a university in a world where there would be like-minded people like me who can understand my hunger and passion for writing, and who may have gone through a similar experience as I did, and so that I can study in an environment where people do not have a condescending and narrow minded view about journalism. It is a channel through which I hope to reach out to the outside world and make them understand the power of the written word.
It would have been wrong if I had written about how a specific work of journalism inspired me because no particular work of journalism inspired me to study journalism. I believe it was a feeling that I was born with. The desire and passion to write came effortlessly and magically. It was something I loved, and something I believe that I was born with. Henry Anatole Grunwald once said:
Henry R. Luce, an American Publisher and Editor once said, “I became a journalist to come as close as possible to the heart of the world.”
When I read this quotation, I immediately felt that Luce was trying to define exactly what I felt and what I wanted and that immediately told me that journalism was indeed the right career for me. The above italicized extract is not a story taken from any magazine or newspaper. It is written by me and the lost girl in the story represents me. I realized when I began writing this essay that no particular work of art inspired me to study journalism. Writing has always been a passion for me ever since I was a child and I used to write all the time. The hunger to write was always inside me and it used to gnaw at my insides until I finally grabbed a pen and paper and wrote passionately. With the passage of time, I realized the power of the written word and how sharp it was; the wound of it could hurt a person more than the wound from a sharp sword.
I still remember the day when I was eleven years old and my home computer was out of order. It was the computer on which I constantly used to type and send articles to local magazines in Pakistan. The excruciating pain I felt during those days because I wasn't able to write or express myself is hard to put into words. It was perhaps at that moment that I felt that I wanted to become a journalist. Not being able to type on the computer made me feel cut off from myself and from the outside world. I felt lost and isolated.
I remember the first poem and short story that I wrote when I was ten years old. I sent it to a local magazine and it was rejected. I felt so discouraged that I vowed never to write again. However, the separation from writing lasted for only a few days. It was something that was a part of me, something that I was born with and the gnawing hunger to write soon encompassed me again until I was incapable of feeling or thinking and the only comfort from the pain was to vent out all my feelings on paper. When I was twelve years old, my first article was published in a local magazine. The uncontrollable joy, enthusiasm, exuberance and vivid effervescence that I felt upon seeing my name in print is indescribable. I felt as if I was floating in the sky and I felt that I had won the Nobel Prize. From that day on-wards, I wrote about everything and anything that I came across. I searched for some sort of inspiration in the white empty walls of my room, in the cloudy sky outside, among the birds that ate the leftover food lying in the garden, in the faces of the people around me and in the destruction and havoc that the outside world was going through. I wrote and wrote and I constantly looked at the world from a completely different perspective. When people saw a tree outside the window, I saw something else entirely. I noticed the hunched reverence of the branches. I saw the tiny lines on the soft, brown leaves. I noticed the sparrows that were nesting in the tree and I saw how beautiful the tree was. It wasn't a tree. It was home to some living creatures. It was a symbol of comfort and beauty. I wrote and almost all my work was published in the local magazines. I even expanded my horizons and I started writing to a magazine in the United Arab Emirates. Seeing my name in print was a constant source of pleasure to me.
When I turned sixteen, I noticed the attitude people had towards journalists in Pakistan. They were viewed as good for nothing people who only made a living out of writing worthless material on scraps of paper. Everywhere around me, all people wanted to become were doctors, engineers, lawyers, architects and businessmen. No one seemed to appreciate the art and beauty of the written word. I thus changed my mind and decided that I wanted to study business. However, when I turned eighteen I realized that I would never be happy or content unless I became what I wanted to become and unless I pursued a career that I was passionate about. And despite criticism from my family members, I decided that I would pursue journalism as a career. I knew that it was something that I had always wanted. I still strive to go to a university in a world where there would be like-minded people like me who can understand my hunger and passion for writing, and who may have gone through a similar experience as I did, and so that I can study in an environment where people do not have a condescending and narrow minded view about journalism. It is a channel through which I hope to reach out to the outside world and make them understand the power of the written word.
It would have been wrong if I had written about how a specific work of journalism inspired me because no particular work of journalism inspired me to study journalism. I believe it was a feeling that I was born with. The desire and passion to write came effortlessly and magically. It was something I loved, and something I believe that I was born with. Henry Anatole Grunwald once said:
“Journalism can never be silent: that is its greatest virtue
and its greatest fault. It must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes
of wonder, the claims of triumph and the signs of horror are still in the air.”
No comments:
Post a Comment