Don’t call me a writer!

We were sitting in the living room, Prerna on the sofa, me on a chair, facing no one in particular. Our two French friends had occupied the other two chairs in the room. The living room was done minimally, there were two mirrors on adjacent walls, bringing in plenty of light. There were a two IKEA Billys on the entrance to the bedroom, filled with books and some collectibles: a Lego Starwars cruiser of some sort, the most prominent of these.

We had finished eating our Pizzas a little while back. Prerna and I were a little tired, we had hosted few friends the night before. Our hosts were tired too, having been out partying till five in the morning.

We were talking about books, and our reading habits. About how I read every morning on my way to and from work. About the libraries in Finland. And whether they had a similar system in France. Answer - they do. Even the villages have libraries in them.

It was then that Prerna told them, Sajal just published a book. She went to the hall to get the book from her bag. And I felt shame. Which is such a weird thing to feel at such a moment.

Me? A writer? No! I’m not a writer. I’m a nobody.

I know, I know what it says when you land on this website. But I feel weird whenever it is pointed out that I am a writer. I don’t like when the spotlight gets thrown on me.

It is one of the things I’m working on.

On Savya’s birthday, a few of my friends asked me about the book, and to recite a poem from it. I felt the same feeling I got then. I wanted to run away. Basically. And I did, sort of. Somebody called me somewhere. But I went back, opened the book on my phone and recited a poem. I was not comfortable with it. But by the time I was done, I was happy.

I need to get out into the world more. It’s ok to feel weird, but I need to not let that guide my actions.