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Two-hundred and sixty-six days ago,

I expressed my irrevocable passion for books…

Today, I shall express my love for the art of writing;

for the art of mixing and painting words;

Words that create worlds.

Voltaire once said, “One great use of words is to hide our thoughts.”

That is indeed true.

Words are yours for as long as you wish them to be as such.

Words belong to all and none.

“Language is the dress of thoughts,”  quoth Samuel Johnson.

‘Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow,” quoth Oliver Wendell Holmes.

“Language is a city to the building of which every human being brought a stone,” quoth Ralph Waldo Emerson.

“Language is the armory of the human mind, and at once contains the trophies of its past and the weapons of its future conquests,” quoth Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Many before me have written about the power of language; of words – the building blocks and life source of writing.

I have aspired to be a writer – a professional writer of some sort, that is – since the tender age of six or seven.

Ten years later, that aspiration lives on and has matured.

The seeds were planted and watered,

and have blossomed since.

It grew both day and night till it bore an archive;

A vault of thoughts

– some of which I have shared

and some I may decide to keep to myself.

Locked away.

Many of my friends aspire to go into medicine and business.

– Age 6 –

“What do you want to be when you’re older?”

“A writer.”

– Age 12 –

“What do you want to be when you’re older?”

“A writer.”

– Age 17 –

“What do you want to be when you’re older?”

“A writer of some sort. A novelist or a screenwriter.”

Some would say I’m a fool.

A writer waits.

A writer is lonely at times.

A writer lives with uncertainty and has to wait for approval from others to proceed.

What’s so appealing about that?

How is writing beautiful then, if it brings with it anxiety and uncertainty?

“A person is a fool to become a writer. His/Her only compensation is absolute freedom. He/She has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it.”

  • Roald Dahl

Writing is an art.

A craft.

It’s like ceramics or cooking.

It has parts.

It has building blocks.

Words.

Characters.

Scenes.

Textual film.

Dialogue.

Background.

Backstories.

And much more.

There are a plethora of manners in which it can be done.

There’s no one right way to write a story and express your thoughts; your feelings technically-speaking.

Your soul is your master.

Your soul pieces together intricacies like a puzzle

from within your heart

and allows them to flow through your hands;

Like magic;

Like birds;

Like freedom.

Freedom begins with an open mind and heart;

Not with an external state of being.

Writing provides an outlet for venting;

For conversations with myself;

For tapping through feelings I never knew I had;

For teaching me more about myself;

For allowing me to descend into both the cold abyss of myself and to the side of myself that is content and ridiculously happy and sappy;

For letting me paint textual pictures

– static and ever-changing;

For pushing me to craft sentences and paragraphs that flow like water

and yet, have the ability to lodge themselves in the readers’ minds like memories;

For expressing what my voice does not allow me to as eloquently or as freely;

For allowing me to feel all emotions;

For helping me realize that my sight is stronger than my reality used to make me believe;

For allowing me to fight back against my demons;

For letting me live out scenes in dreams

and documenting pivotal moments in life;

For everything.

Writing is an art.

Like a paintbrush and its thistles transport color and thought onto a canvas,

Words flow from my mind,

Travel down all my veins,

and pour from my heart and soul

Till they burst at the tips of my fingers.

Writing keeps me sane,

Much like it did for Franz Kafka.

“A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.”

“I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.”

Some express and vent through paint and canvas;

Sketchbook and charcoal or pencil or whatever tool they desire;

Some turn to math and numbers and solving mysteries to distract and calm themselves.

Some turn to academia to quell their everlasting thirst for knowledge and to find explanations behind feelings to control them.

I let the my thoughts drift and wander till they choose to jump out of my mind and conjure up words that marry to form picturesque tales; depressing tales; furious tales; melancholy tales; euphoric tales; joyous tales; tales of emotion and of previously caged thoughts that allow me to learn and grow.

I turn to words. I turn to my thoughts to guide me through life.

I let my heart be my sole master.

I let the words of (far more famous) writers before me calm me and teleport me to the worlds they have painted and crafted ever-so-beautifully, whether it be fictitious or not.

Writing is a friend.

Writing is a lover.

Writing is more than just a penchant.

It’s what sets me free.

If I were a caged bird, writing is what makes me sing;

What lets me fly rather than simply perch myself atop of everything around me

and allow buried thoughts to overtake my being till I burst.

Writing keeps me from falling.

Life is lived on the edge,

but we all need something that keeps us from falling

and steadies us

besides our conscience and loved ones.

Words are letters pieced together.

Words upon words piece together intricate tales

And complete puzzles.

Stories, regardless of whether they are mine

Or another’s – complete puzzles;

Words create worlds.

Writing creates worlds.

Writing, even if not derived from your soul alone

or for an assignment,

is a body for thought.

And that, readers,

is just one reward behind the art of writing.

By: Maya Abouelnasr