I don’t like reading other people’s blogs, which is why I don’t. I don’t like reading Wattpad or people my age’s-or younger-stories/articles/blogs, because I always find myself challenged and I’m not confident enough to compete.
Reading other people’s blogs, especially people my age, makes me insecure because I always find other people’s writings so beautiful, and it makes me write less and less because how can I even?
Yesterday a friend asked me to read a chapter she wrote, and I found it almost as pretty as her. the positivity and wittiness of her writing were so meticulous; she’s so talented. It was obvious that she’s in love and that she’s in the state of content I aspire for. I think this is the strength of a skilled writer; when the reader knows details of the writer’s life without the writer implying anything.
He/she can write about the color of flowers and the reader would know that the writer is suicidal. That’s the beauty of writing, the reason why I think writers enjoy it, it’s because they can write nonsense and it still would make so much sense.
Writing for the961.com was so healing on so many levels. Not only did I enjoy writing about my country and being part of the intense journalistic world, I enjoyed working in something I actually consider myself good at (most of the time). I was the961’s most successful writer at that time, with the highest rate of reads. Tens and thousands of reads per article? That was unreal.
On a less known writing shenanigan, I have a story published somewhere on the internet. It’s 214 pages long and It has so many typos and grammar mistakes but it’s so close to my heart and I love it so much.
I started writing it during the summer of 2014 as a way to feel relevant. I’ve always written short stories and created dialogues in my head, and 2014 was the year I actually wrote a whole story with details and a hook and main characters that I had the privilege to live with.
Writing has always been my escape, the thing dearest to my heart, which is why people saying that I’m a good writer is honestly the best compliment I could ever get. You can spit in my face but tell me I write well, and I will love you forever.
My story was called Rape Me, inspired by Nirvana’s song of the same name. It went through so much with me. Even though I finished it around March 2015, the times I used to write and update the chapters were the times I felt most alive, relevant, and in control.
The story helped me overcome so much, including heartbreak and bereavement. It gave me a platform to express my views and reflect on many causes I’m most passionate about. It was more or less a fiction diary, with virtual people reading approving/disapproving. Setting up a goal to write a chapter every day gave me a reason to wake up in the morning.
I keep going back to it every now and then, revisit 16 years old nour. As I read through it, I can’t but wonder what would me at 16 think of me at 22. I think if somebody told me then that this is what I’ll do and what will happen and who I will become, I would never believe it.
I think 16 years old me would be happy. I think it would make her proud. The whole dazzlement of my life right now will blow her away, and I doubt she will notice the dark mental side of all of it. I wonder if she would believe me if I told her that growing up, I will stop listening to Bring Me The Horizon and start listening to Amy Winehouse.
She would probably laugh at the grandma I have become, and she would probably convince me to make Twitter the center of my life again. I can’t but feel happy knowing that 6 years ago, I never thought I would make it this far.
This is to you, for believing. Thank you.
Ps. I would never share the link to my story (I’m sorry). But here are some feedback I used to get (which still makes me ugly smile):
Thank you virtual people. I love that you exist.
