|
||||||||||
|
Subscribe to the Absolute Write Newsletter and get the Agents! Agents! Agents! report free! Click here.
|
Win a 1-year subscription to Writer's Digest by subscribing to Absolute Markets-- all paying markets for your writing. Click here. |
|
| |||||||||||||
|
|
I'm
Proud of What Goes on Inside My Head My story begins in the much the same way as that of other
writers. After all, most of us have known we wanted to write since we
learned to string together words into sentences. As a child, if I couldn't
think of anything original to write I would take my elder sister's textbooks and
copy out passages from it. The high I got from filling a clean, white
sheet of paper with so many words (most of which I could barely pronounce!) is
something I still recall with great fondness. If only words came that
easily when you didn't have a copy to write out from! As I grew older I did all the things that other budding
writers do. I wrote essays and composed poems and talked to myself… a lot.
Every thing was hunky-dory until I stumbled into the fifteenth year of my life. My writing spirit has always been based on the intensity of
my emotions. At 12, I was experiencing feelings that I knew my friends had
no idea existed. I had tried speaking of them a few times and the odd
looks I received convinced me that it was better to keep silent. I could always
write them down instead, and I did. My journal entries spanned pages and
pages every day. I would put down the date neatly on the top right-hand
corner of a fresh page and then the moment my pen formed the first letter on the
first line, the world around me would fade away and only words existed. I
can remember countless instances when I would finally stop, wondering why I was
so tired, and then realize that I had been writing for hours. By the time I turned 15, I was established as a quiet,
conservative and generally "nice girl." Only my diary ever saw
the other side(s) of me. Then I showed an entry to a friend. To this day,
I'm not sure why I did it. Maybe it was because I needed someone to accept me
and say it was okay that I felt the way I did. Maybe it was because I
wanted to be told I wrote well or maybe I was yearning for the most basic of a
writer's needs-- to be read. Like I said, I still don't know, but her
comment set the foundation for the next nine years of my life. She looked
up from the pages and told me, "Well! So this is what goes on in that head
of yours!" Such a simple statement. Such terrible timing.
For some reason, her words-- as innocent as they were-- cut me deeply. I
began to feel ashamed of my thoughts and ideas. I knew from that moment
that people around me would judge my character based on my writing and I just
didn't have the courage to face it. After all, how is a 15-year-old
supposed to understand the true meaning of pain, grief, ecstasy, joy or rage
unless she's been up to some funny business? Maybe not all 15-year-olds
can, but then writers grow by different rules. We are a species unto
ourselves. I stopped writing in my journal. It was as simple as that. I wrote in school, but my pieces became calculated masterpieces of well-arranged phrases with no depth. Teachers would say, "You have a flair for writing," and I would silently ask, "Writing what?" Why was it okay to write about the Effects of Technology on
the Kenyan Society but not about the Force that Constantly Called to My Soul?
When I left school, I stopped writing altogether. Factual essays had never
satisfied me, so I saw no need to continue creating them. It happened slowly. Every time I experienced a
feeling or dreamed a dream, saw a fascinating scene or was obsessed by a new
character in my head, I would put together the words to describe them and then
let my thoughts float away. This was my diary. One that no one, not
even I, could read. A truly secret journal. But thoughts, once thought, do not just fade away and
disappear. They come back to haunt you, needing to be expressed, insisting
on being written. I never gave in. Cowardice can be as strong and
sometimes even stronger than bravery is. There was only one option I had
to get rid of the ideas that kept me awake at night and filled every waking
moment of my day-- I had to stop having them. You might think that it's hard to stop feeling or thinking.
Not really. I just stopped looking around and asking questions. I
kept myself busy and immersed myself in practical tasks. Pretty soon I was
existing, but not living. I might still have been doing so now if it
wasn't for another chance comment. I think I must have been waiting for it-- too scared to
initiate it myself but hoping someone would do it for me and my sister was my
savior. She happened to come across an advertisement for a writing course
in the newspaper and looked at me across the table. "You used to write when
you were young," she said. "Why not try out this course?" It was like holding out a whole gallon of cool, sweet water
to a dry, parched throat. I grabbed it with both hands. Of course
the battle truly began after I had already paid for the course and received my
first assignment. A part of me had actually believed that when I got that
first exercise, it would write itself and the words would flow as of old. How many are laughing and saying, "You wish!"
after reading the above sentence? All of you, I'll bet. It's been a hard journey so far and by all standards it's
still only the beginning. Two years, plenty of overdue assignments and
lots of excuses later, I have started healing. I still find every reason I
can not to write. I can be sitting at the computer, have the familiar Word
screen open, and then discover I have to wipe that stain off the desk or clean
my keyboard or organize my folders. Being the chicken I am, I've started safe. I'm
writing book reviews and doing the occasional feature for a local weekend
magazine. I do lots of editing and although I don't express many of my personal
opinions in this kind of work, it is a start. I also know I will only be
satisfied after I write all the stories that have been clamoring for my
attention in the past few months. Fiction is the castle of my dreams but I
have enough sense to know that every castle needs a solid foundation and my
current "safe" pieces are laying this down. In this battle, I
know I'll be the winner. I'm writing, aren't I? People will read my work and every time they do, I will
hear a faint echo say, "Well! So this is what goes on in that head of
yours!" But this time, I'll have a reply ready for them. I'll proudly say, "Yes. Don't you envy me?" As an Indian Muslim whose family has lived in East
Africa for generations, I find myself with a unique three-in-one culture.
When I am not being delighted by surprising ideas that are "going on in my
head," I try to work on exploring this perspective and revealing it to
the world through my writing. Contact me at alijaffer786@hotmail.com. |
Sponsored links 
Make a Real Living as a Freelance Writer! How to find a book publisher |
Text on this site Copyright © 1998-2007
Absolute Write, all rights reserved.
|
