The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner. Harry’s hand was still raised in farewell.
“He’ll be all right,’ murmured Ginny.
As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absent-mindedly and touched the lightning scar on his forehead.
‘I know he will.’
The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well.
I shut the book and let it fall on the desk noisily as I surveyed my surroundings. It wasn’t much, just a small mauve coloured room with a big desk and a red laundry bag stuffed with books. My room.
A heavenly abode that turned not so heavenly at times when claustrophobia took over. It was in this room that I sat one night, pondering over the plight of my literary skills as the likes of J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown, C.S. Lewis and R.K Narayan sneered from the shelves strutting their genius.
Yes, you guessed it right. I want to write a story, a book. Probably a novel. I want a story that will make hearts thrum, tears fall and lightning bolts strike to the magic of my words. I want the celestial orbs to sway to the melody of my lines. I want the angels to shower rose petals from the azure skies in glory of my creations. I want the maidens to swoon as the hero emerges triumphant, riding through the victory arch with the enemy at his chariot wheels.
I want to write a story that will reach to the innermost of the reader’s insides and shake him up. I want to write a story that celebrates excruciating pain and unfettered joy. I want the reader to laugh and cry with every little celebration and sorrow of mine. I want the reader to toss and turn every night in anticipation of the character’s fate as the next chapter arrives. I want the reader to say as he turns over the last page,” That was one hell of a book.”
I want my story to come to life on a 70mm screen. I want the Oscar and the Golden Globe. I want to be featured in the Forbe’s list. I want the fame. I want the praise. I want the name.
I don’t know what I am going to be writing about. I don’t know who my characters are going to be. I don’t know whether it can move the reader, let anyone myself. I don’t even the story.
Yet, here I sit, pencil in hand, leaning over a book as I muse over another one of my random ideas. This idea is neither earth-shattering, nor is it deeply moving. It is neither a million dollar one nor is it worth being Freshly pressed. Nonetheless, it is a start.