A Life in Pieces

A life in pieces

Birth. Screaming. Washed. Suckling for the first time.

Tiny outfits. Small bathtub. Small bed. Small everything.

Colours. Sounds. Faces. Mum and Dad.

Tongue. Tastes. Hands grabbing. Legs kicking. All fours, crawling.

Standing up. Cheering. Falling down. Laughter. Hugs. Happiness. Safety.

Noises. Repeated. Repeated. Repeated.

Same noises. Copied, imitated. Mum happy. Dad proud.

Little plastic humans. Little plastic animals. Little plastic everything. A miniature life.

Stuffed cartoon people. Stuffed cartoon animals. Stuffed cartoon everything. A soft life.

“Stop!”, “Don’t!”, “Watch out!”. A safe life.

Uniforms. Desks. Boards.

Books. Pencils. Tests.

Education.

Parents. Teachers. Coaches.

Authority.

“Don’t!”, “Stop!”, “Watch out!”. A proper life.

Shouting. Crying. Sulking. Shouting. Banging. Screaming. Sulking. Talking, talking, talking.

Confusion.

Heart quickening. Stomach twisting. Life brightening.

Heart breaking. Stomach retching. Life over.

Love.

Choose. Decide. Produce.

Make money. Make a family. Make up your mind.

Responsibility.

Confusion.

Married. Single. Tied. Free. Job. No job. Career. No career.

Confusion. Envy. Not happy.

Birth. Screaming. Tired. Holding your baby the first time.

Happiness, hope, the future.

Family. Responsibility.

Safety. Security.

Anxiety.

Blood pressure. Cholesterol. No salt.

Adulthood.

Counting. Waiting. Looking back.

Tired. Weak. Exhausted.

Tongue, not tasting. Hands, twisted. Legs not moving.

People gathering. Blanket pulled up. Crying

Gently. Being respectful.

Silence. Blackness. Space.

Seeing? Hearing? Sensing?

Here, or not? Gone, or not?

What is this?

Facebook Can Give Writers Hypertension! A Writer's Side of The Story

     I found this post on one of my friend's Facebook wall. It's in Arabic, but the gist is simple:
"This is what I feel like doing to the person who has nothing to do but pick out spelling and grammar mistakes in my posts"

     Long story short, that guy, picking out the mistakes, probably shares the same sentiment towards you!

     I for one know that when I pick out such mistakes, it is usually done with great self restraint, which is why I fear that too much Facebook might give me high blood pressure. Facebook among other things of course!

What was the weirdest editing you had to make for someone on social media networks??

What Do Writers Have In Common?

     What do writers have in common? Well, they procrastinate. We covered that in a previous post. But what happens after arranging and rearranging their work spaces; sharpening all their pencils and cleaning all the buttons on their keyboards with an ear bud? After all the research is done and all the coffee is drunk and too many bathroom breaks have been taken that people will start to get suspicious, what all writers invariably do is that they sit down and write. And when they do, they change the world one small piece at a time.

     The fact is that no matter how frequent (or infrequent) a writers write, they always come back to their papers; keyboards; or typewriters. And that tells me that the most important thing writers have in common is that they are optimists.

     People are different, and so are writers (they are people too you know!). Some may be more optimistic than others. Some may be more PESSIMISTIC than others. However, even the most pessimistic writer still continues to write.

     It's true that most writers are prone to depression (who wouldn't be after getting a dozen or so rejections saying that the work dearest to your heart; the one you've been pouring over for the past two years, is "not publishable"). Yet despite the rejections, writers write. Despite the depression, writers write. Some may write happy endings and others write sad ones. Some create hopeful stories and others create dark ones. Some make up stories and others write about real life. No matter what it is they write, whether it's on paper or a keyboard, all writers wish that one day their words will be read and that they will make a difference. The journey of writing always has a scent of optimism clinging to it.

     So, there you have it. What do writers have in common?

     They hope, they dream and they write.

The Winds of Change

          For a long time I wished to become a writer and to produce work that I could call my own. School papers didn't count because I dreamed of making something original; something that came from me; my words and my ideas. Needless to say, I came across that all-too-familiar bump of self-doubt when you think that you don't have any original ideas and nothing you have to say is of importance to anyone but yourself. But years later, I managed to cross over that bump. I'm still not sure if what I have to say is of importance to anyone but myself but I decided to make it heard anyway and people can judge for themselves.

      At first I thought I would never, ever, be able to write fiction. Non-fiction, maybe. But fiction seemed like too high a peak to attempt to climb. Mind you, I was not thinking of writing a novel. Just the idea of writing fiction was too daunting. Maybe it was just a childhood fear or something. (Note to self: check with therapist about this)

     Now that I am writing my first novel (I will leave it to you to judge if I can write fiction), I thought it might be a good idea to share with you the very first effort I made to write fiction. It was a short story titled The Winds of Change. Leave your comments below and let us know what were you're first attempts at writing. If you would like, you could also let me know if you want to read my novel. i might just send you a free copy.

The Winds of Change

     Waking up suddenly in the middle of the night, the young man was drenched in sweat, hyperventilating. He thought it was just a bad dream, but there was this nagging feeling itching at the back of his mind that something was wrong; something real was wrong. Not a dream.

     Then he heard it. The winds. The low distant whistle of the winds; those winds from the south that his father so often told him about; so often warned him about.

     He ran out of his bed to his brother’s room, not bothering to turn on the lights. His father was keen to train him to roam these corridors in the dark, for when the winds of the south were to come; they would take away the light.

     He called out his brother’s name. His brother was sound asleep, unaware of the impending danger, believing that the distant whistles were no more than the trees whispering as they have always done in the late hours of the night. No matter how many times he tried to explain to his brother he never believed.

***

     The young man sensing the winds closing in rushed his sleepy, unsuspecting brother out of bed. Stumbling in the dark, the brother insisted to take his time to turn on the lights, which he tried to do, but The Winds of The South were now no longer whispering, they were howling, ever so closely. And they had taken away the lights.

     Realizing the danger was drawing closer, the brother struggled to recall his father’s wisdom, but the howling of the wind drowned out the voice of his father in his head. He took a second to breathe and regain his thoughts and as he looked up, he could not help but admire the steadiness of the young man's steps, the purpose by which he marched forward and the skill by which he maneuvered through the darkened pathways of the house. At that moment he realized his survival meant to follow the leader through the screams of the wind. For the leader carried the wisdom of the father.

     The howling turned into screams and the weakest parts of the house’s outer frame began to tear away and as time passed; the more the wind came closer, the more it took away from the house. The more it gained speed, the more the inhabitants of the neighboring houses screamed louder and the more the winds sounded as if they are laughing; claiming their victims from among the unsuspecting inhabitants as, one by one, they became victims of The Winds of The South.

***

     Finally, they found the door. The door their father had always told them about; the door to the bunker that was designed to withstand the most powerful assault of The Winds of The South. Needless to say, the young man who was leading the way had always known by heart what to type in order to open the door to safety. It was his father’s golden rule: “Luck favors those who are prepared”.

     As the door opened and they entered into safety, they could hear the laughter of the wind rising at their heels and they could see that the frame of the house that was built by their great grandfather still stood fast against the winds.

     That’s when the laughter faded. That’s when the wind retreated. And that’s when they knew that they are safe. Their house was not lost. All it will take is to add some parts to the enduring strong frame and their house will be as good as new.

     So as they each imagined how they will rebuild their house again, they pictured a vision of an even stronger house; a house without the weaknesses of the past. That's when they looked at each other, finally understanding, why in their father’s story, The Winds of The South were always called…The Winds of Change.