Posts Tagged ‘Writing’

Why Do I Write?

I slept 12 hours. I wanted to meditate but that would send me back to sleep. So I washed my face with cold water, I looked at the mirror. I hardly remembered where I left myself yesterday, who I was planning to become, what did I become when I last stared at the mirror but I heard the same command over and over again.


“I nodded and opened my curtains.

“Oh God! SUN!  How beautiful, how sublime!” I exclaimed, standing in the balcony.

“WRITE!” exclaimed back sun. Write about me, write about my beauty!” said she.

I nodded once more and a big white bird sang in the sky and the little ones followed her chanting, craze of spring in the wings.

“Don’t forget to include us in your stories!” they begged.

I nodded once more and was about to walk back in. Three big mountains called me back.

“Hey, wait!” they yelled. I looked at them.

“We know how much you love us. It is not only you who look at us with grace and admiration in your eyes every morning , tell everyone how much we love them, tell them to look and see everything with love,” they said with no word.

I nodded again and was going to walk back in.


“Hey, you! Can I be the best looking homeless dog in your story?” asked a dog, standing by the big black gate with no one but a freedom with no boundary. Yes, humans’ love for animals was not yet commercialized in this land with lots of minarets.

“I love you doggy, you are the most aristocratic dog of the streets,” I said when the cat joined us and exclaimed while jumping from one roof to another.

“Meow!” said she naturally of course but I knew what she meant.

woman writing


“I know what you mean you, the freest bitch!” I said and smiled. And I finally walked in. Someone knocked on the door.

“I brought you tea and some pastries,” said my old womanizer neighbour. I knew what he meant, too, but I smiled. Though not so wide because he could easily twist my smile. He looked at me and expected me to invite him for breakfast. He was full of love but in trouble with his cock. I looked at him. He found it hard to control his cock and put his hand in his side pocket. And I knew what he did that for.

“I know what you mean, it is hard for men to have a pure love for women but I think yours is different…yours is some kind of disease…what did you do here on earth for all those years… how did you spend your life so carelessly…” I said in silence.

“WRITE!” commanded silence once again in his stare.

“Are you going to write today, too?” asked he, my hand on the red hot tea.

“Yes,” said I.

“I will go climbing today…you should join me one day…animals might inspire you, too,” suggested he, but I knew what he meant.

“Maybe,” I said and smiled but not so wide. That would drive his cock wild.

“Okay then,” said he and stepped back, still hoping to see me smiling like a child whom he could deceive with a candy.

“Enjoy your adventure with animals,” said I and I laughed but not so loud and not so apparent only inside. That would drive his cock wild.

I closed the door as he walked to his flat, already trying to console his crying cock.

“WRITE!” said the red hot tea and fresh pastries. I agreed without knowing what. I don’t think I was completely awake yet. I should have never slept that long. Maybe I should play some Arabic music; that might help, I thought to myself as I held the glass of tea by my upper lip.

“Oh no…what if he put something in it to make all his fantasies come true…no no I should no drink this,” I said to myself and poured it into the sink.

“Shame,” I said and smiled as I fed the birds with the fresh pastries in the balcony.

“Stop fooling around! Birds know how to hunt foods! Just WRITE!” whispered the trees; the dark green, light green, orangey green and yellowish green.

“You write to be immortal, don’t you?” asked the shadow of the lady, still standing in the balcony on my left.

“Fuck you woman! Why would I care whether I live in your fucking mind when I die or not…I am in an endless agony, which leaves me only when I write…it might kill me…I might die if I don’t write,” I said to her shadow.

“You write to get back to someone, don’t you?” said the old editor with big belly and little talent to write but insatiable appetite to criticize those who do, turning the possibly poisonous pastries into a TED stage. But none of the birds felt dizzy or fell on the ground yet. Maybe it was just me and my broken trust in my womanizer neighbour. Maybe they were really fresh pastries after all.

“Go fuck your big belly and your distorted mind, you idiot!” I shouted at the old editor and walked back in. I felt so good when I saw my next door whore in the opposite apartment as I closed the curtain. She tried to drive me insane but pathetically failed with her idiot fucker. She had to move to the other apartment where both of her next doors are policeman. Yes, she cannot fuck with them. Now she knows how to fuck quietly but sadly her coward fucker left her. She could have asked me how to fuck quietly before all that though.

“ARE YOU GOING TO WRITE or NOT?” asked dead authors in my shelf.

“Yes, I will but there is something in my head, it is like it is no longer my head …maybe first I should shout aimlessly…loud and with no aim just to pour out my never ending craze…or maybe stretch myself to the point where I could reach the mountains…or maybe I should have a shower with a very cold water until I scream…I don’t know my head does not feel like mine anymore…I know I am here to write…this is why I was sent to this earth no matter what any fucker thinks why I write…oh God! What shall I do to break this egg?”

I found it, I will play Arabic music and dance like a mad until I sweat …until I sweat like I used to when I was a cheap worker…no I am not trying to get back to anyone…but to myself… how did I blindly give away my power in those years…how did I ignore this divine voice when it was little…

Shaking belly is good, better than trying to understand nonsensical creatures around you…Try it but don’t try writing until you hear this constant command everywhere…






Writing is Joyfully Painful

Write…you should write about that girl…isn’t that such a touching scene…how could he do that to me…Oh God! That hurt…still hurts…fuck him…fuck that and everything…cry…cry until your heart stops aching because your head takes it over… close your curtain write about that too…sit there until your but feels like a stone…write how many killed…how many wounded…how many orphaned in your heart’s battlefield…rescue the good…punish the bad…show the truth…kill the devil…let the love win…let the justice prevail…let the one who had faith from the very beginning smile and walk away…yes it is dark…but who cares…what goes on outside should be corrected here inside…whatever went on, too…open the curtain for a while…see the Sun saying goodbye in colors…feel blessed…you are calm but not quite right…not completely…

Call someone…hear a human voice to heal your soul…o how beautiful…how miraculous they are…hear them swear…hear them smile…hear them cry…that is the life…that is how we know God…that is how we love…and close your eyes…let the stars whisper in your ears…let them come to your dreams…let them plant your next move in your heart…let them bring storms, snows into your life…let them make things fall apart…let them whisper you in the middle of the war that you are fine…you will always be fine…let the angels wake you up in the middle of the night…or before the dawn…be quiet and listen…they want to tell you something…something to mix with your ink…listen…and then you can go back to sleep again…


Wake up…feel guilty if you miss the sunrise…feel blessed if you don’t… say hi…hi our beautiful sun…I love you so much and leave her for a short while…close your curtain and write…yes you have lost your appetite ever since that scene got stuck in your mind…hurt your heart and made you cry…you did not even know why…why you cried…but when you sat at your desk and began to type…you realized…why you cried in the dark that night…laugh out loud in the middle of the fight…life is not that cruel…you should not be either to your readers…they love, they long for a small sweet surprise…smile at them between your lines…just like how God does to us in between day and night…

And the last chapter…you struggle…not because you don’t know what to write…but you don’t want say goodbye…you don’t want to leave your characters…you don’t want to leave your readers…you don’t sit at your desk for a day and another day…but you don’t enjoy anything when you are away…so you eventually come back…sit at your desk…and say goodbye…o how hard it is to put the last full stop of the last page…you look at the page; you are excited…upset…happy and sad…but you do put the last full stop…”are you sure you don’t want to put a comma,” asks your heart…you smile and feel amazed…you remember the last mad two months you spent at your desk…and you smile again…

A day goes by…you are in pain again…you are restless again…you miss your desk and new characters are already writing themselves up there at your desk…you stop walking by the beach unexpectedly and come back to them…That is how joyfully painful writing is…That is how joyfully painful writing is only if you are a true author…

Here are two books I have written joyfully and painfully. You might have already read “The Little Virgin Whore” and discovered who you truly are by conquering another woman’s life. If you have not then this is the time because you will get “The Bloody Foreigner” for free when you buy “The Little Virgin Whore.”

They are available on Amazon,Apple, Barnes&Nobles.Grab them now!