For a long time I wished to become a writer and to produce work that I could call my own. School papers didn't count because I dreamed of making something original; something that came from me; my words and my ideas. Needless to say, I came across that all-too-familiar bump of self-doubt when you think that you don't have any original ideas and nothing you have to say is of importance to anyone but yourself. But years later, I managed to cross over that bump. I'm still not sure if what I have to say is of importance to anyone but myself but I decided to make it heard anyway and people can judge for themselves.
At first I thought I would never, ever, be able to write fiction. Non-fiction, maybe. But fiction seemed like too high a peak to attempt to climb. Mind you, I was not thinking of writing a novel. Just the idea of writing fiction was too daunting. Maybe it was just a childhood fear or something. (Note to self: check with therapist about this)
Now that I am writing my first novel (I will leave it to you to judge if I can write fiction), I thought it might be a good idea to share with you the very first effort I made to write fiction. It was a short story titled The Winds of Change. Leave your comments below and let us know what were you're first attempts at writing. If you would like, you could also let me know if you want to read my novel. i might just send you a free copy.
The Winds of Change
Waking up suddenly in the middle of the
night, the young man was drenched in sweat, hyperventilating. He thought it was
just a bad dream, but there was this nagging feeling itching at the back of his
mind that something was wrong; something real was wrong. Not a dream.
Then he heard it. The winds. The low
distant whistle of the winds; those winds from the south that his father so
often told him about; so often warned him
about.
He ran out of his bed to his brother’s
room, not bothering to turn on the lights. His father was keen to train him to
roam these corridors in the dark, for when the winds of the south were to come;
they would take away the light.
He called out his brother’s name. His
brother was sound asleep, unaware of the impending danger, believing that the
distant whistles were no more than the trees whispering as they have always
done in the late hours of the night. No matter how many times he tried to
explain to his brother he never believed.
***
The young man sensing the winds closing in
rushed his sleepy, unsuspecting brother out of bed. Stumbling in the dark, the
brother insisted to take his time to turn on the lights, which he tried to do,
but The Winds of The South were now no longer whispering, they were howling,
ever so closely. And they had taken away the lights.
Realizing the danger was drawing closer,
the brother struggled to recall his father’s wisdom, but the howling of the
wind drowned out the voice of his father in his head. He took a second to
breathe and regain his thoughts and as he looked up, he could not help but
admire the steadiness of the young man's steps, the purpose by which he marched
forward and the skill by which he maneuvered through the darkened pathways of
the house. At that moment he realized his survival meant to follow the leader through
the screams of the wind. For the leader carried the wisdom of the father.
The howling turned into screams and the
weakest parts of the house’s outer frame began to tear away and as time passed;
the more the wind came closer, the more it took away from the house. The more
it gained speed, the more the inhabitants of the neighboring houses screamed
louder and the more the winds sounded as if they are laughing; claiming their
victims from among the unsuspecting inhabitants as, one by one, they became
victims of The Winds of The South.
***
Finally, they found the door. The door
their father had always told them about; the door to the bunker that was designed
to withstand the most powerful assault of The Winds of The South. Needless to
say, the young man who was leading the way had always known by heart what to
type in order to open the door to safety. It was his father’s golden rule: “Luck
favors those who are prepared”.
As the door opened and they entered into
safety, they could hear the laughter of the wind rising at their heels and they
could see that the frame of the house that was built by their great grandfather
still stood fast against the winds.
That’s when the laughter faded. That’s
when the wind retreated. And that’s when they knew that they are safe. Their
house was not lost. All it will take is to add some parts to the enduring strong
frame and their house will be as good as new.
So as they each imagined how they will rebuild
their house again, they pictured a vision of an even stronger house; a house
without the weaknesses of the past. That's when they looked at each other,
finally understanding, why in their father’s story, The Winds of The South were
always called…The Winds of Change.
Right now I am on a high. Try finding a book that you've never heard of, become hooked by the title and cover art, then run between bookshops hoping that the last copy hasn't been sold yet, seize that last copy, and then head to the airport to catch your plane back home. If that is not enough, let me know how it feels when you finish reading that book and it is great!
