All my life, I have been a voracious reader. I remember staying up late, trying to finish the last few pages of the newest unputdownable novel. I always dreamed, hoped, that I would someday find within myself a bit of the talent possessed by the authors who created masterpieces, and gave me whole new worlds to dream about.
My forays into writing at the time however, were strictly limited to a few random pieces that got published in school magazines or community newspapers. Although I was frequently praised by my teachers and urged to indulge more in the art and craft of writing, I never did find the time and energy to devote to it - until a few years ago. It was about this time that a certain series geared towards children and young adults captured my imagination. I loved everything about the series - the elaborate plotlines, the true to life and diverse characters, the vibrant and fluid storytelling. Then came the heartbreaking ending.
I call it heartbreaking because it really did break my heart. I thought it denied the series a loftier, more perfect ending that it clearly deserved. The final character and plot arcs left me feeling betrayed. I felt resentment, I felt anger. After boycotting the final installments, I spent a few weeks in misery at having been denied the perfect world of my imagination. Then I realized something. I realized that while I had the right to be dismayed, the author had the right to end his story in whichever way he pleased. If I really wanted to have a world created in a way that I found perfect, I would have to create it myself, and not seek it in works of others.
The following day, during my lunch break, I wrote four paragraphs where my two central characters meet for the first time. By that night I had completed a chapter, and by the end of the week I had a detailed plotline for the whole story. I had embarked on an epic journey, a science fiction book series of five parts - it was going to be long and hard, but I vowed to endure.
- Rupa Basu
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