On Writing

By Reem Abdou (Fort Lee, NJ)

Writing, I think, has ruined me. It used to be that I would write to escape the world I was living in. Now, I write to understand it. I wish I wouldn’t, though. One day, I’d like to put a pen to a piece of paper and not think about the genocide in Darfur, the overwhelming poverty in Africa, the indescribable conditions for the citizens of North Korea, or discrimination in America. I try to fix the heartache of the world, fix what has become of me, but I am already ruined. With my pen in my hand, I cannot flee these truths.

Writing, I feel, has hurt me. It used to be that I would write, and write, and write with such zeal that I would have no words left inside me, no breath remaining until I had exhausted everything I had wanted to say. Now, words are excess. There is just too much to say. One day, I’d like to put a pen to a piece of paper and write as if no one is watching, no one is looking, and no one will be reading. But someone will always be watching, always be looking, and will never stop reading. I am under the eyes of an eternal critic—my own head telling me that I have to be ever careful, I must be wary of every single word I illustrate on the page. I would try to reason with my mind and mend my wounded passion, but I am already hurt. With my pen in my hand, I cannot flee these thoughts.

Writing, I imagine, has broken me. It used to be that I would become stronger when I would write, I would become the person I was only in my dreams—the embodiment of vigor and heart. I’d have real heart. One day, I’d like to put a pen to a piece of paper and not feel helpless, almost as if my words had no impact, no real weight. I try to carry the world but I am just as broken. With my pen in my hand, I cannot flee these insecurities. 

Writing, I believe, has saved me. It used to be that I thought there was no end to hurt, sorrow, fear—but there is. It is me. It is my words. It is my writing. I write and I begin to see the truth of the world that surrounds me, the very pain that pushes me to write. I write and I begin to understand that which gives me pleasure and that which gives me sorrow, the very happiness and sadness that force me to cope, to get through. I write and I begin to appreciate all of the diction, the syntax, the tone, all of it that makes what I write mine, allowing me to grow, to learn as a writer. I write and I begin to feel stronger, empowered by the need to say what I want, to write what I feel. And then I just write. Not to accomplish anything or to understand anyone, but just to write, to tell the truth. And while my mind sprints from all that haunts me, my pen stays still, poised atop the piece of paper. Because I want to write, because I need to write, and because writing has saved me, has healed me, and has held on tight when all I wanted to do was run.