I used to write love stories when I was small where I would set myself as one of the protagonists, of course ;) and then hid the notebook in a secret place that would quickly be discovered by a very avid reader of my prose… my younger sister.

I knew she was doing it… rummaging through my drawers and devouring the stories in seconds. I knew that sometimes she was mocking me a little… I knew that there were times when she found my writing all too cheesy and emotional but still… she was reading it… and I felt privileged by her interest in them.

I think I understand now why I felt like that. You see… the moment she giggled or rolled her eyes while reading: “I waited a second and he kissed me gently”, she ratified my work.

The moment her mind travelled out of our country when the story said: “We went together to meet them in Ireland”, she endorsed it.

The moment she found consolation in reading that: “There is always a new beginning… and a better end.”, she validated my work.

The laugh, the mind wandering and the sigh of relief – here’s how the work of writers comes to life. The reader doesn’t need to like it to respond to it.