I am a self-taught man of words. And therefore, I am also a self-acclaimed writer.
Let me be honest: no university taught me how to string sentences together. No professor sat me down and explained the difference between a metaphor and a simile. I learned by reading, by imitating, by failing, and by trying again. My classroom was whatever book I could borrow, and my only degree is the stack of old exercise books gathering dust in my cupboard.
My world exists somewhere between fantasies and the real me. I am not entirely sure where one ends and the other begins. And honestly? I like it that way.
I have been trying to write for as long as I can remember. But mostly, I write for my own satisfaction. There is a peculiar kind of joy—a quiet, private fireworks display—that happens when I complete a little idea and see it sitting there on paper, finished. Done. Born.
That satisfaction is my reward. No paycheck. No fame. Just the small, warm glow of having shaped something out of nothing.
I have been maintaining my creations since Class VIII. That makes it nearly two decades of scribbling, scratching out, and starting over. As of today, I have seven or eight exercise books filled with stories, poems, letters, songs, and things I cannot easily categorize. They have been my solace. My true friend. The one that listens without interrupting and never judges—well, until I judge myself later.
Some of those early writings are quite shameful to read now.
They are tender in the worst way. Substandard. Shoddy. The ideas falter like a newborn deer learning to walk. The language wobbles. The grammar weeps. Everything is immature—infants dressed up as adults.
I flip through those pages sometimes, and I cringe. I laugh. I groan. I want to reach back through time and whisper to my younger self: Slow down. Read more. And please, for the love of all that is holy, learn what a comma does.
But then I stop myself. Because those awkward, clumsy pages were necessary. They were the practice swings before the real hit. The ugly first drafts of a writer who hadn't yet learned to walk.
And truth be told? I am no better now. Just older. Perhaps a little wiser. But still learning. Still failing. Still trying.
Despite my fears, I gathered some courage and sent a few of those articles to our newspapers. To my astonishment and lasting gratitude, they were kind enough to publish them.
Kind enough—those are the right words. Editors looked past my rough edges and gave me space. They printed my name. They made me real.
I was also awarded several times for my creations. Those small trophies and certificates meant more to me than any gold. They were proof that someone out there—someone other than my mother—thought I had something worth saying. That encouragement lit a fire under my timid writer's soul.
I also wrote many anonymous articles. Most of them were complaint letters—the kind you write when frustration boils over and you cannot keep quiet any longer. A few were other things I cannot quite remember now. There is something liberating about writing without a name. You can be braver. Sharper. More honest. Sometimes too honest.
I have photographed a few of those published articles and placed them on this blog. Many articles, unfortunately, were misplaced over the years. Lost to shifting houses, careless hands, and the general chaos of a life not well organized.
The photographs themselves are dark. Unforgivably dark. I shot them recently in a room with poor light—no flash, no patience, no proper setup. The shadows hide half the words. The images look like crime scene evidence from a very minor literary crime.
But they are mine. And I am keeping them anyway.
So here I stand: a self-taught, self-acclaimed, semi-embarrassed, perpetually learning man of words. My exercise books are my biography. My published clippings are my medals. My dark photographs are my confession.
I write because I must. Because the words pile up inside me like unsent letters. Because when I finish a piece—even a bad one—I feel, for a moment, whole.
Thank you for reading this far. And if you write too, keep your old exercise books. Keep your shameful poems. Keep your blurry photographs. One day, they will be the truest map of who you used to be.
From my dark room to your light—
A self-taught man of words
Let me be honest: no university taught me how to string sentences together. No professor sat me down and explained the difference between a metaphor and a simile. I learned by reading, by imitating, by failing, and by trying again. My classroom was whatever book I could borrow, and my only degree is the stack of old exercise books gathering dust in my cupboard.
My world exists somewhere between fantasies and the real me. I am not entirely sure where one ends and the other begins. And honestly? I like it that way.
I have been trying to write for as long as I can remember. But mostly, I write for my own satisfaction. There is a peculiar kind of joy—a quiet, private fireworks display—that happens when I complete a little idea and see it sitting there on paper, finished. Done. Born.
That satisfaction is my reward. No paycheck. No fame. Just the small, warm glow of having shaped something out of nothing.
I have been maintaining my creations since Class VIII. That makes it nearly two decades of scribbling, scratching out, and starting over. As of today, I have seven or eight exercise books filled with stories, poems, letters, songs, and things I cannot easily categorize. They have been my solace. My true friend. The one that listens without interrupting and never judges—well, until I judge myself later.
Some of those early writings are quite shameful to read now.
They are tender in the worst way. Substandard. Shoddy. The ideas falter like a newborn deer learning to walk. The language wobbles. The grammar weeps. Everything is immature—infants dressed up as adults.
I flip through those pages sometimes, and I cringe. I laugh. I groan. I want to reach back through time and whisper to my younger self: Slow down. Read more. And please, for the love of all that is holy, learn what a comma does.
But then I stop myself. Because those awkward, clumsy pages were necessary. They were the practice swings before the real hit. The ugly first drafts of a writer who hadn't yet learned to walk.
And truth be told? I am no better now. Just older. Perhaps a little wiser. But still learning. Still failing. Still trying.
Despite my fears, I gathered some courage and sent a few of those articles to our newspapers. To my astonishment and lasting gratitude, they were kind enough to publish them.
Kind enough—those are the right words. Editors looked past my rough edges and gave me space. They printed my name. They made me real.
I was also awarded several times for my creations. Those small trophies and certificates meant more to me than any gold. They were proof that someone out there—someone other than my mother—thought I had something worth saying. That encouragement lit a fire under my timid writer's soul.
I also wrote many anonymous articles. Most of them were complaint letters—the kind you write when frustration boils over and you cannot keep quiet any longer. A few were other things I cannot quite remember now. There is something liberating about writing without a name. You can be braver. Sharper. More honest. Sometimes too honest.
I have photographed a few of those published articles and placed them on this blog. Many articles, unfortunately, were misplaced over the years. Lost to shifting houses, careless hands, and the general chaos of a life not well organized.
The photographs themselves are dark. Unforgivably dark. I shot them recently in a room with poor light—no flash, no patience, no proper setup. The shadows hide half the words. The images look like crime scene evidence from a very minor literary crime.
But they are mine. And I am keeping them anyway.
So here I stand: a self-taught, self-acclaimed, semi-embarrassed, perpetually learning man of words. My exercise books are my biography. My published clippings are my medals. My dark photographs are my confession.
I write because I must. Because the words pile up inside me like unsent letters. Because when I finish a piece—even a bad one—I feel, for a moment, whole.
Thank you for reading this far. And if you write too, keep your old exercise books. Keep your shameful poems. Keep your blurry photographs. One day, they will be the truest map of who you used to be.
From my dark room to your light—
A self-taught man of words
