Writing about oneself can be one of the toughest things as a writer, I believe. Here I am, sitting for already 10 minutes figuring out how to tackle this. This is because as a writer, especially one that focuses on creative writing, you never thought of viewing yourself in the same lens as your subjects.
Even more so when you have to convert your writing into academic writing, it becomes even more of a challenge.
For example, do I have to make a thesis about myself? What will be my references? My parents? The National Registration Department of Malaysia? This whole process is both equally amusing and aggravating.
But the show must go on.
To test the waters, I’ll only write about two things, my name and my age.
A name does not merely carry a tag or a meaning, but also hopes, aspirations and dreams. A mother might project those hopes and dream onto his or her child through their name. A beautiful name for a beautiful child to grow into, or something of the sort.
My own parents probably has a lot of aspirations of their own when they named me. Aspirations that until now I could not say for certain.
18 Years Old (Soon to be 19 is February).
An exciting age. An age where someone is in the limbo between their teenage years and adulthood. It’s like a little sip of what’s to come. Symbolically, being 18 years old is like giving a recovering alcoholic a sip of life’s finest wine.
An intoxicating taste of promised fun times, of newer horizons and better pastures. A taste of a new kind of liberation and freedom.
Of course, as the years go on, these things tend to be less significant. However, to look back on these years with satisfaction and fondness would be one of life’s greatest gifts.
And to do such a thing would be the happiest thing I would have accomplished.