The turning point in my career as a novelist.

I've never considered a career as a writer since I was a young child. Despite my love of reading, the notion of pursuing a career as a writer never appealed to me. Indeed, the thought of someone dedicating their life to a career as a writer has always seemed far-fetched to me. Life, on the other hand, has a way of throwing a wrench into almost every part of our lives. I began keeping a journal at a young age, in which I used to document the most significant events of my life, from high school, home, the mall, essentially every moment that appealed to me; I would put it down in my journal. Interestingly enough, most of the entries came out in the form of essays and sometimes as articles. Nevertheless, I never shared my stories with anyone, and I would occasionally read them whenever I was alone.

About three years ago, after forwarding one of the entries, a tribute to an elderly friend of mine, it was published in our church magazine. I have to admit that at first, I was taken aback because I did not expect anything like that to happen. Nevertheless, it was a great gesture, and I was proud of the acclaim, though muted that came my way. However, that would have been the end of it, but several years down the road an unrelenting desire to pursue a career as a writer continue to stir in my heart even at this young age.

However, that dream almost came to a grinding halt two years ago when I was involved in a road accident that almost claimed the lives of two of my friends and I. I had never before been directly affected by such an event in my life and the aftermath of the accident; I was left devastated. That evening was supposed to be one of unbridled joy for my friends and me. It was one of my friend's birthday, and we had been making plans for this day for some time. We would head out for a movie first and later head out for a concert that was taking place in a nearby town. I neither remember the movie’s name nor getting into the car. For about four or five days, I was trapped in this dream that never seemed to end; I could not wake up. I do not know whether that was my subconscious pulling a fast one on me, but no matter how hard I tried, I just could not get myself to wake up. When I finally woke up, I was confused, but I came to the realization that a lot of time had passed and in the heat of the moment I let out a loud scream and almost immediately passed out. Upon waking up, a lady clad in all white was standing over me, and I recall uttering some words though I do not remember what I said to her. After some time, she explained to me that I had been in a road accident that I was badly hurt and I had been at the hospital for some time.

I again began uttering incomprehensible words, but the nurse still responded, never mind I could hardly understand what she was saying to me. After sometime, my father came in, and I recognized him. He asked me how I felt and it was then that I realized my whole body was aching and I could not feel my face. I asked him what was wrong, what was happening. I could not remember anything that had happened over the past few days. The last memory I had was of the moments before we boarded the car with Tim and John. There and then I asked my dad and the nurse where my friends were. “Don’t worry son, they are okay, just focus on getting better,” he said to me. I realized that he was dodging my question or at least he did not want to get into any details.

I kept silent fearing the worst. My dad and the nurse were concerned that I could not remember much and asked me, “Son don't you remember talking to us?" he enquired. The truth is I could not. He told me about the accident that we had been hit by a truck at an intersection of a hill. He again reiterated that my friends were okay and I was left wondering what was wrong with me. In my mind I felt fine, I was ready to get out of the hospital. It was then that my dad broke the sad, hard truth to me. He informed me I had just been moved from the ICU after suffering some pretty severe injuries. I had head trauma, which explains my memory loss, a fractured skull, and eye, a broken lower back, which explains why when I tried to move a sharp searing pain went through my back. I could not move. More was to come. I had punctured lungs which had to be inflated, and I had a broken jaw. When I was handed a mirror, I could not recognize my own face. It was swollen, and a huge stitch line made my lower jaw home. It was then I realized that I could not even open my mouth properly. I was taken aback.

Over the following days, the severity of my injuries hit me. Preparations were made for me to go home. A special brace was made for my back, and it would be my shell for the next few months. While in the hospital, Tim visited me, and it was then that the sad new of John's passing on was broken to me. The news hit me extremely hard, I had known John for the best part of my life, and we had become good friends. He was at the wheel during the fateful day. He died from injuries sustained in the accident. I cried for my friend and because of the realization of just how lucky I was to be alive. The healing process was the hardest with all the physiotherapy and the fact that I was essentially bed ridden for the better part of four months made it even harder. Most of my days were spent in front of the TV when not writing or going to the hospital for the physiotherapy sessions. During the first days, most of my friends used to visit and spend time with me, but with time, they disappeared.

I was subdued by the boredom and the fact that most of my friends never came to see me. As such, I sought refuge in writing. I filled my journal with a vivid description of the events since before the day Tim, John and I were making plans for Tim’s birthday all through to the events of that fateful evening as narrated to me and topped it off with my healing experience. I increasingly spent more time writing in the four months than I had done before in my life. I filled my journal and even bought another book which also filled out. My father was intrigued by what I was writing and requested that I five him the story to read after I finish which I did. After reading it, he was thoroughly impressed. I had an uncle who had a publishing firm, and when my father gave him the rough draft, he helped me edit and fine tune it and embarked on printing it. He packaged the story as a motivational book. After reading the final copy, I could not help but be impressed; it was excellent albeit with a few modifications.

Soon, the finished book was on the shelves in most bookstores, and I cannot even begin to explain how proud I am of that achievement. The book is a relative success and is popular among the young readers, a small segment to be honest. My tragic experience with the accident and the loss of my friend ultimately became the motivation to aspire for a career as a writer. Even though the decision to pursue a career as a writer came more by default rather than design, it is a path I aspire to follow and work towards being the best I can be.