I had always thought of myself as a mature-in-mind kind of person. I have this dreamy side to me that likes to ponder the ‘why?’ in everything. It’s not something I prefer to show others. And I never did. I preferred to appear as a silly girl rather than lay bare that side of me that liked to dissect and analyse everything just so I could learn something new. Maybe save the world. I think I didn’t display this side because I would’ve become vulnerable. I hated being vulnerable. This was me, the real me. Not the fake person who just wanted a laugh out of everything. And I had always fancied myself as someone who enjoyed and would enjoy only the finer things in life. No materialism for me.
I had fashioned myself after characters in books, tweaking what appeared to be flaws, incorrectly assuming that these characters were the epitome of perfection, and that we, the readers had to reach their levels of perfection. So I gradually transformed parts of me to resemble those of my heroines.
I gathered inspiration from many admirable yet fictitious women ranging from Elizabeth Bennett, Amelia Sedley, Jane Eyre and Nora Helmer among many others. They became a part of me. Or I became a part of them. I blended into them and they into me.