Reading was a way of transporting myself to different worlds as a child. From the outside, you would think that – I was walking from one room to another with a book in my hand. When in fact I was travelling from my house to another land, experiencing another season, and another life.
I could be running with wolves, covered in snow, all the while it was summer in Ankara, where I grew up. That was the magic of reading.
Writing would also move me from one place to another, but in a more focused way. Music usually accompanied me in that journey. Music almost always attached itself to a story in my mind, and I would listen to each and every note to immerse myself in that story. Then, I would simply follow the order of my pen.
But one day I stopped. Out of duty and fear of failure in the adult world, I only read academic books and studies. That was also when the music stopped playing for me to discover the story in it.
I learned how to conduct research and how to report the results, flat and factual. And how I must review the studies in the scientific literature and properly cite them. I loved scientific research; it still excites me to this day.
Then, I got sick. I had to have a mini diagnostic operation to find out the reason why my bladder was bleeding. On the way to the hospital, I went to a bookstore. Eyeing books from a distance, one grabbed my attention. Coraline, written by Neil Gaimann. I thought that I would not be able to work for my studies anyways, so I let myself buy that book. A seemingly small decision at the time.
While waiting for the preparations, I started reading the book. I was really afraid of the surgery and even more afraid of its results. So was Coraline in the story. She had to save her parents, but to do so, she had to overcome many scary challenges. As I read, I learned that being brave did not mean not feeling afraid. It meant feeling afraid and still doing what needed to be done. And that dragons can be beaten.
My healing journey has not been a short one. But it brought fiction books back to my life. And with that, the itching started. I ignored it for a few years, and yet it fought back.
It became louder when we moved to Hoorn. The antique bookshop – where I could touch books from 1700s – along with the historic old town made that itch stronger.
After almost 20 years, I decided to go back to my childhood dream. Of bringing the untold stories to life. Hearing, truly hearing the music again.
Being me, I thought, maybe I need to take classes. So, these days, I am following the creative writing classes from BBC Maestro (no ads, I paid for the subscription). Therefore, I learned that I need to find my own voice.
Now, that is a challenge. My voice has been lost in the academic literature and objectivity for many years. Also, in which language will I hear my voice again? Turkish or English? Turkish is my native language, and I am naturally more proficient in it, but for 20 years, I have not read a book in Turkish. In shame, I admit, at this point, it does not feel natural to write in Turkish anymore. Maybe if I put effort in it? Maybe not…
The course advises exercise and consistency to find one’s own voice and I feel that my journey of doing so has already started. I wonder where it will take me:)