My Kind of Sunday: I wanted to write a good novel

When was the last time I opened the books that I collected? Was it months ago? Probably. How about you? Are you fond of reading novels?

I grabbed one of the books in one of the shelves at home. We have thousands of books at home ranging from novels, to history books, down to law books. I think my dad and I have a thing of hoarding books.

I smiled. It felt so nostalgic as I have read the titles of the books I have read and the books that I still need. Too many books, too little time. Can you also relate with me?

I love Patricia Cornwell. I also love Robert Ludlum. I think I love all of them, but I took Grisham's The Painted House. I always loved his books. I love the suspense, thrill, and the process of litigation that is being discussed. His books made me smile with glee and even cry. I do not like reading people being shamed and deprived of their rights. It hurts me a lot.

My mood was like a roller coaster ride. I smelled the pages, it was addicting. The thing about being engrossed in reading is that the characters seemed to live in my life. It has been embodied and when I view other people, I could see the characters of the novels in their lives.

I smiled again.

We were already heading to the church as our usual Sunday routine, so I needed to close my book. I had been reading books before in the dark and even in a moving vehicle that is why my eye grade reached to almost a grade of 400. For the love of reading, I ruined my lovely eyes. That is what my mom told me.

I was inside our car and my mom was driving. I looked around and felt the cold gush of win coming from the car's aircondition.

I was surrounded with green surroundings. I loved reading books and imagining things but I appreciated what I was seeing. Well, these are two different worlds but I love these two worlds.

The streets were empty. There were only few cars around. I wanted to write about this. I wanted to write about this and publish it. I wanted my flourishing thoughts be written in a book.

I wanted to share to the world, but I do not like the idea to be known. It feels so liberating to write. I imagine the moment when I start to write and finish it. But at the same it feels so scary. I do not want to be scrutinized. I do not want to be questioned.

I asked myself again, when was the first time I started to write?

I laughed at myself hard. I was only five years old when I started writing in my diary. That diary of mine was a notebook lined with blue and red colors. My hand writing at that time was crooked. The grammar was shameful too. I even showed it to my mom for multipe times and she was happy because as she was saying, I can see your progress.

I progressed then in writing essays. It allowed me to flourish my reasoning. I loved writing formal and informal themes regardless of how shameful my grammar structure.

Years later, I had became a freelance writer at the same time blogger in Tumblr. The number of my followers reached thousands so it enticed me. But I grew tired and weary. I was a university scholar and at the same time a student leader. I was so busy. I deleted my blog.

And years has passed...

Should I pursue this vision of mine? Will this be possible? Who knows. Everything starts with a vision and then taken to action.

My chain of thoughts ended when we reached our destination.

Photos taken by Samsung J7 Pro.