Some people are naturally drawn to writing – scribbling notes in the margins, jotting poems and little stories, mostly for themselves, sometimes to entertain others. I’ve always been one of them. Every Christmas, I asked for a new journal.

At first, they came with cute illustrations, questionnaires and only a few blank pages. Later, as my writing grew more “sophisticated”, the journals became simpler: a beautifully decorated cover, sometimes leather-bound, and clean, unlined pages that invited experiments – haiku (always about heartbreak), song lyrics, fragments of short stories, scattered observations about life.

I also wrote poems for every family member’s birthday – rhymed, handwritten, slightly chaotic but earnest. They still live in my parents’ home, a testament to both the passing of time and the slow evolution of the author.

When I started learning English at the age of 10, some of those scribbles began to take on a foreign accent. It felt exciting – almost literary – to write in another language. I had a pen pal in the US; we described our very different lives to each other. I used to carry a heavy, leather backpack to school and didn’t step into a McDonald’s........

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