Writer’s Diary – Note 1: Why am I a writer?

  I did not become a writer because I loved words.

  I became one because silence was tearing me apart.

  Of all the roles in this world, I finally decided to become a writer.

  Can you tell why?

  Make a guess.

  Why does someone become a writer?

  Of course, there are many reasons.

  Some believe it is a respectable profession.

  Some think it is profitable.

  Some see it as a symbol of social acceptance — a mark of being acknowledged.

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  But none of those were good enough reasons for me.

  My only reason was this:

  I was breaking into pieces inside.

  My imagination was going astray, and my thoughts were turning into havoc. I could not find a single reason strong enough to hold on to this world.

  Creativity?

  What’s that?

  Go to hell with it.

  My mind was running wild — not creating beauty, but chaos.

  And just because I no longer had a reason left to exist quietly, I decided to write something.

  So yes.

  It is final.

  I will become a writer.

  And here I am — sitting on a roadside concrete beam, staring at my phone, writing something.

  First step done.

  Decision made.

  Become a member

  Next step: decide what to write.

  Think… oh think, you stupid brain.

  Other times you weave endless strings of imagination without permission. And now, when I ask for one single suggestion, you give me nothing but blankness.

  I raise my head from the screen, searching for something — anything — to inspire me. One strand. One image. One thought that could begin the web.

  Nothing.

  Nothing around me holds my gaze long enough to spark an idea. The usually restless mind stays painfully calm, trampling my plan of becoming a great writer before it even learns to breathe.

  While my thoughts wander, a whiff of hot coffee reaches my nostrils, carried by the winter breeze.

  Forget it for today.

  Life is not built in a single day. I will write something great tomorrow. I postpone my achievement by one more day.

  Right now, what matters is not the dream.

  It is the coffee.

  I walk to the roadside stall, pay one and a half dirhams, and receive the cup with reverence. Ah — the bliss of hot coffee on a winter evening.

  I take a sip, letting the warmth travel through my chest.

  Have you ever started something not because you believed in it — but because you had nothing else left?

  My dear readers, wait for me.

  I will write tomorrow — to fulfil your desires.

  I will bring something beautiful.

  Let the night come and refresh your author’s tired mind.