The years passed, and I continued to unravel new songs, devouring the various feelings poured out onto the page. The authors must have chosen their words with such care, for how else could they hold so much meaning?

One day, I begged my father for an expensive-looking notebook—hardcover and a dark color. I began to write small things about my daily life. Call it a grade school diary, with handwriting so messy it's embarrassing to read now.

But it was then that I found a connection to words. It was as if every time I wrote, I was releasing something heavy from my shoulders and mind. There was a sense of relief and peace that came with every entry, whether it was just a scribble of frustration, the silly ramblings of a child, or even a heartfelt confession from little Suci about a forbidden haircut. 

I began to write short stories that were for my eyes only. I would read them myself, enjoy them myself, and hide them from the world. The realities I couldn't find in real life became real within the pages of my writing. I hoped that one day I might find my own way through the narratives I was creating.

Letting go of my unfulfilled desires through writing was a genuine relief. When I was so consumed with longing for someone, the feeling seemed to find its release on the page, once again, even if only for me. 

“Suci,” he said, “your writing is useless if you keep it to yourself. Every writer has a reader. Whether it’s good or bad isn’t our business. Writing is healing, but it will bring you even more peace if you have the courage to publish it.”

His words struck a chord. I began gathering my scattered writing—notes on my phone, scribbles in the journal I always carried, voice memos, social media captions. My hope was to collect everything, put it in order, and present it neatly.

That’s how my Instagram account, @puisi.lingkaran, was born. It started as a spontaneous act of "bravely publishing" my writing for others.

When I received a good response, I became addicted. From then on, I fell madly in love again with words, lyrics, poems, and stories. I was crazy for feeling every kind of emotion, and then crazy for writing about it. I was crazy for observing other people’s feelings, and then crazy for writing about them. Crazy to write something, and crazy to be read by so many eyes. 

That was when the first draft of my story was born. I tried to write it by "walking in someone else's shoes," and it resulted in hundreds of pages of Calibri, 1.5 spacing. After it sat for months, forgotten, I bravely sent the draft to a few friends who were avid readers. When they gave me a good response, they pushed me to send the manuscript to a major publisher.

In early 2018, an email arrived on an impossibly long and tiring afternoon. "The manuscript 'A Story on a Piece of Wood' has been pre-selected for publication, etc., etc." I read that email again and again, my mind struggling to recall that I had even sent the manuscript. I couldn't do anything but feel overwhelmed with gratitude, for one of my hundreds of dreams had finally come true.

Month after month passed until today. The story I wrote to quiet my restlessness was finally published with the title, Is This What Love Itself Is?, by Grasindo. A story about growing and the restlessness of falling in love is poured into this book, my debut novel.