Conviction

 The scent of ink and freshly printed paper swirled invitingly as I followed my parents into the bookshop. I looked up at the wooden shelves dominating the walls, trying to read the names of authors stuck on the racks while not breaking my pace. I tried to fit in the innumerable books to my small weekly reading schedules; I would decide on titles by instinct, pick up covers that would interest any 11 year old. 

A rude shove to my shoulder alerted me to the real world, and I looked around to find Achan standing nearby, checking out a big book with a font so small you'd need an extra pair of eyes just to distinguish commas and full stops. I walked over to him and tugged his sleeve while inspecting the store to catch a glimpse of Amma. 

There she was! My pragmatic mother had already reached the sales aisle and was consulting the piece of paper where she'd written down the title I'd been griping about the entire week. 

Filled with a sudden panic that the stocks would run out, I dashed, startling my father and leaving him to rub his arms and follow. 

Joining my mother in the book hunt, I scanned entire tables to spot the Malory Towers collection, momentarily forgetting my surroundings and letting out a small yell of victory. Dashing across the table, I reached the books and looked up at my parents, whose faces were a picture of a weird mix of indulgence and consternation. 

Once through with my search, I tried to channel some maturity and wait patiently as my father scanned more shelves, weighing the intellectual thrill of discovering new concepts and ideas against the paternal thrill of buying his daughter another book set and ice cream- he could always find the book at the public library. 

Oblivious to his mental gymnastics, I tried to tug at his sleeve again, hard channelled maturity having evaporated in the heat of the stuffy store. He looked up from the book, I saw a flash of irritation immediately replaced by something benign and we walked together to find Amma. 

We found her talking to a woman at a small desk. Both talked animatedly, the energy and smiles similar to those fuelled by strong sentiments of nostalgia. As we walked over, Amma introduced her friend. 

Aunty was an author, who had undertaken a rather bold pursuit and dropped her cushy software job to take up the uncertainties of a creative career. I smiled up at her and she offered me a copy of her book- it was a book on the technological developments around the world, told as a story from a grandmother to the grandchild, tailored smoothly, engaging the imaginations of a child by tracing the story behind the facts.

I took my time examining the book, examining the text and the accompanying pictures while the adults kept the conversation going to indulge me. My parents ended up buying the book for me and the day was stocked away as a pleasant memory I fed on on tougher days, reminding myself to look for curious faces among the books, those willing to soak up stories and set the world in their poignant perspective. 

As I sit here today, behind my small desk at a local bookstore, my face hidden behind stacks of my own work, doubting people's interest in another small-time author, the memory gives me strength- strength to endure, strength to conquer the quaking fear of failing as an author. 

Perception walled behind doubt, I seek out strangers walking along the store, beseeching them to give me a chance to try out my prose.

My looks of despair meet a pair of brown eyes on a round face, her hand around her mother's, looking expectantly at the colourful bind of my book. I smile at the child as mother and daughter walk towards me, breathing easy upon tracing another eleven year old eyes in hers.