I Write For Many Reasons But Mostly

When I look back at my life I realize that with everything that has happened to me, from having to live and experience the horrific days of civil war to losing friends and loved ones and then leaving the country, all I can say is that it hasn’t been that tragic after all. I say this because no matter where I found myself to be I was always okay if I could put words on paper and write. With my recent loss (the death of my better half, my husband), however, I thought I had lost that too.

Here I was with all these feelings of pain and anger and sorrow bundled up inside me wanting to get out. I wanted to write about my love, my loss, my feelings of despair. Yet every time I tried to put words on paper this little voice inside would tell me to stop. It would tell me to stop whining, that people do not care about my pain or sorrow. Why should they? Everyone has his/her own pain and sorrow to deal with, so the least they are interested in is what I have to say. And because as Stephen King put it:

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.” 

With all this together with my tragic loss I found myself plunged into an abyss so deep in despair and depression that I thought my life had come to an end. Maya Angelou writes:

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”


So for the past weeks and months I did what I always do when depressed, I read. I lost myself in books. At nights when sleep wouldn’t come, which is on most nights, I reached out for my book kept under my pillow. Strange how books unlike people and friends never disappoint you. Until early one morning at around 3:00am I sat at my desk and started writing again. In the words of Sylvia Plath:

“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”

So now I like to think that I have finally come to terms with my self doubts. I just go into my room and sit at my desk or on my bed and write. I try to put my feelings on paper in my own style and my own way, the way I put them before. I write for many reasons but mostly:

“I write to give myself strength. I write to be the characters that I am not. I write to explore all the things I’m afraid of.” Joss Whedon


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5 Responses to I Write For Many Reasons But Mostly

  1. adelnehmeh says:

    Do you write on paper first and then type? by that I intend to ask whether you keep a hard copy of all your writings?

  2. The flow of words from a pen (or a keyboard) is much like the flow of a river, which shares its travels with those who float upon it, shares its strength with those who drink from it, and gives life to those that live in it. Words can take a reader on a journey, nourish one’s soul and create a special world to live in, if only for the length of time it takes to read the story. I am glad your pen is flowing freely again. 🙂

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