The Lighter

I’ve sat here for nearly an hour, deliberating the best way to communicate just what writing is for me; how it enriches and fills an eternal void in both my mind and soul that no person, nor place or thing possibly could.

Each and every word acts as an inhalation—every comma a sigh, and each period, an exhalation. Everything you need to understand about my humanity lies in between the lines. The awkward pauses, the empty space, and crisp breaks, all of which are as much a part of my writing as are the words bold in print, but frail in thought and character.

I believe I write to serve a purpose on this Earth. I wrote to save my own life and now I write to save others. Maybe I’m vain and egotistical to believe I can change the world with a poem, or a book. We’re all diseased in one way or another—what I mean by that is that there is something that eats at all of us. Perhaps it’s evidently present, or perhaps it’s something only we as individuals can see or feel ourselves.

When it was decided I was indeed a so-called “victim” of what most people recognize as depression, I was only 12 years old. I was sheltered, and very well aware that I wasn’t able to live life the way that my peers did. This was somewhat due to cultural differences, and entirely due to my upbringing in a Muslim, Arab-American family. From the day I was born, I was not to be like “the other girls.”

Naturally, I became more depressed and I fell in love with the back-left corner in my room. Beyond that, I fell in love with blue ink and composition notebooks that I hid under piles of clothes in my bedroom. God forbid anyone see those pages.

While we’re talking about depression, let me make one thing clear: Depression is not an emotion. Depression is not a stage, nor a single cause-effect. Depression is a lifelong battle. But the common misconception is that it is beyond human understanding, unless you have it. That is wrong. I can make you feel my emptiness by feeding you the words that fill me.

Connecting Flights

When thinking of why to write, I first turn to an airport. An interesting environment one might say—a coffee shop seems to be where most literary minds traverse, with a cup of Joe in hand. Or even one might think nestled away in the nook of a private study or work desk. So why an airport?

When sitting in the waiting room of an airport, whether it be waiting to board a plane or to greet a loved one, you can’t help but notice the hundreds of people around you. A teenage girl with a book of Russian poetry in hand. A turbaned man quickly brushing past, talking in Aramaic on a Bluetooth set. A mother juggling three children, ranging from a toddler in a stroller to a little girl coloring in a book to a smug adolescent with arms crossed and earbuds plugged in. And the myriad of others that weave in and out of the terminal, taking flights that connect them to all ends of the earth.

For me as a writer, it is infinitesimally interesting to wonder about each of these person’s backstories. To where are they flying? What emotions are pulsing through their bodies? What thoughts are coursing through the channels of their minds? What is their purpose in life?

In a way, all of these people are different than I. The majority of them will not be on the plane that I will board. They all have differing combinations of social identities, varying in age, race, gender, sexuality, and religious background; yet together, we create a beautiful, kaleidoscopic tapestry in which each unique agenda of each airport patron is a fiber. Despite our differences, we all experience calamity and felicity in life. Whether that be joy, such as the mother embracing her homebound son after his being stationed in Kuwait. Perhaps it is anger, visibly pulsing through the veins of a man whose flight is delayed, resulting in the missing of an important business meeting. Or the immense feeling of loss, seen through the tears that stream down a man’s face as reality hits him—that his wife is actually leaving him.

Writers—I—continually explore these differences. I am continually exploring these similarities. I strive to be an astute observer of the world around myself. I am a documenter of what is happening in the world, yet also an advocate of change through my creations. Through the gift of storytelling and use of language compiled in prose and poetry, I am able to share this experience with the people around me. I not only have the charge of entertaining my readers, but also have the feat of challenging their thought and the world around them.

When faced with the question of why I write, there never seems to be an answer that is not, in some way, self-serving. I have a feeling that many writers such as myself find their beginnings in that strange sense of satisfaction that comes from penning, or the making real of an idea that came purely from their own head. Perhaps that is the more selfish side of my motives: creation. It must be an impulse imbedded in my head. I can remember back, so very far, to when my mother read me children’s stories from books with large pictures and sparse, simple text. It must have occurred to me that someone had made what was being shown to me and if they had done it, why couldn’t I? At some point I was compelled to make my own and I dug through an old, dusty closet, procuring some construction paper and markers. Out of this I made my first creation. It was a short tale about a Pokemon named Poliwag, a favorite of mine at the time, and his endeavor to gather all of his other friends so they could play in the park. That was it. I was only imitating the structure of the stories that had been placed before me. But despite how horribly I misspelled some of the words at the innocent age of six or seven, what I had made—a stapled together mess of colored paper—was my own. However borrowed its content was, I could still say with confidence that I had written a story. I even begged my mom to read it aloud to me just like all the others. She did, and in doing so made the work seem like it could, were it refined and illustrated properly, stand among any of the other children’s books and not be called out for being written by a child. Perhaps that innocent wonder and affirmation that bringing life to an idea was not, in fact, a form of sorcery, but attainable, by me, is what still compels me to keep doing it.

As I embark on my final year of my undergraduate career, I realize that there were two defining moments in my life that brought me to the realization of why I write.  The first was when I started playing music when I was young.  Before that, I had no experience with music other than the television or my video games.  However, when my parents sat me down at the piano at age 8, and later giving me an oboe at age 10, something felt right about it.  Something clicked, and the music flowed out.  I do not know where it came from or what exactly it was, but what flowed out connected me to the instrument, and I became one with both the music and instrument.  It just felt right.  

Fast forward seven years to my senior year of high school where I am holding a pencil and staring at a blank piece of paper at my desk.  My English assignment was to write a poem about anything.  Naturally, I thought this was a terrible idea for the teacher to do this, because I had no prior experience with poetry and needed some guidelines to give me a start.  This would be my first poem, and I ultimately decided to write about a something I enjoyed: astronomy.  It was a simple two stanza poem, written in iambic tetrameter with an AABB rhyme scheme, but as I wrote, I felt something interesting when the words I needed seemed to pop into my head to fill an iambic foot or create a rhyme, a feeling that I had not felt in quite some time.  I realize now that it was the same feeling from when I started playing music, except this time it was in a different form.  I was creating something in front of me with these words that flowed from my pencil, and it felt right.  I felt connected to these words that stared back at me, for they were my words, but at the same time they felt like a living being with whom I could work and interact.  At this moment, I realized I could write.

The Hunger

It was time to go to sleep. I distinctly remember the cotton pajamas my brother and I wore. He was only four, his drool creeped down his mouth as he sucked his thumb. My sister was just born. I was six. I knew what was going on. I hated this routine. Mom and Dad would shuffle us into our room, tell us to get into our beds, and turn the light off. Not this time. This time my Dad had a book with him.

My parents never read me to sleep ever. I hated reading. Sounding out the words from Dr. Seuss’ Cat in the Hat was terribly difficult. Nonetheless, my Dad insisted he read a chapter from this book. My mother held my sister, my brother and I sat up, and my Dad started reading.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.” (Rowling 1) Suddenly, this world of “Privet Drive” was opened up to me. The chapter contained details such as Mrs. Dursley’s disgusted lips, Mr. Dursley’s booming voice, and the chubby, screaming Dudley. The family annoyed me, until, a cat showed up.

How wonderful it was for me to imagine a cat reading a map! The six year old inside of me began to ask questions: Why is the cat reading a map? Why is the cat there? Not once did I ever question how a small, four legged animal could possibly read. Suddenly, these funny wizards with even funnier names turned up.

Never mind my brother picking his nose, and my sister fussing about. I had more important thoughts. Who were these people? What’s with this Vold—oh, I couldn’t say it. Who exactly was Harry Potter the Boy Who Lived? My Dad closed the book, smiled, kissed me good night and off they went. How could I possibly sleep? The words keep haunting me.

Harry Potter the Boy Who Lived. Again and again. It scared me. It fascinated me. I needed to know more. It was like I became hungry, and I wanted to consume all of the knowledge, images, words, humor, everything.

This hunger was the perfect gift for me. It has given me a hunger for everything, it’s as if my inner six year old never stopped asking questions. I hope to pass this gift on to the next generation. To be able to give to other children, other teenagers, and adults a world not only they can escape, but a world that teaches, loves, and nourishes mind and soul would be wonderful.

I would love to begin this essay in the way that my mind, influenced as it is by clichés, is telling me to begin it. That my writing is spawned by an urge in me that I am powerless to control. That when I spy a pen and a blank sheet of paper, my fingers tingle with an itch to pick up the pen and fill that page with words, words, words (!). No, it’s nothing quite as magical as that. More often than not it’s a chore that makes me bang my head against the nearest available surface.

That’s not to say there is none of that mystical element involved. There most definitely is. When I have the mind to write, I, quite simply, write. And once I start writing something that I believe in (or at least something that is coherent and of mild interest,) it’s hard for me to stop. The frequent head-banging tends to cloud my vision a bit, but I carry on nonetheless. I enjoy writing. Strangely enough, part of the reason I enjoy it is because it’s so exhausting.

Yes, there is a part of me that leans on writing for a variety of selfish reasons. I’ve always excelled in essay writing. I would smack on a sympathetic smile when my high school friends would bemoan their struggles with this or that paper, this or that research project. All the while I would hoard my own successful paper grades in the back of my mind, knowing that I possessed a talent for organizing paragraphs on a page that many lack. What I lack in social dazzling, I make up for in the sentences I string together in type. If I can’t express an opinion concisely, or even explain something as simple as making a PB&J for lunch, allow me to eloquently spell it out for you in writing.

I’ve never had to sit down and think about why I write. The question didn’t come up. There wasn’t a burning reason that needed to come out through my writing. It wasn’t because I had to let my feelings out or, it was the way I communicated with everyone. My reason for writing has never really come up until this moment. I suppose if I had to put a name to it, I write simply because it makes me happy.

It makes me happy when I can finish another page of a short story. I’m thrilled when I feel confident enough to show my friends my writing and get their feedback, good or bad. Even when life and everything else has bogged me down, I can sit down and write drivel and feel better just through the action of doing something. I can make up an entire world in a day through my writing, and that is the best stress reliever out their for me.

I have had times when I can’t write, or when I just don’t because I don’t feel inspired to write anything. It is not a particularly good feeling when the one thing that can make you happy in a day is unavailable due to circumstances beyond your control. It’s an even worse feeling when I don’t write simply because I don’t have the patience to sit down and get something going, even if it is a small paragraph of nothing because I need to get it done today.

I never want there to be a day when I decide to quit writing altogether. Because if I quit writing that means that I cannot find the same reasoning that I’ve had for most of my life. I can’t sit myself down and go back to that world that I have created anymore. If that day was to come, it would be a dark day in my life, and something I am not interested in visiting.

Outline in Color ​

For longer than I can remember, I’ve viewed the world in hues of gray. Some moments are brutally intense, and splash dark against the canvas of my life such as the deaths of loved ones or crippling illness in a family member. In other instances, soft and white-washed streaks pale in comparison. These experiences can be a fall morning walk or a cup of coffee with a book. I write to consistently change my life experience and keep record of these moments, and the moments I imagine strangers, or characters even, having.

Imagination threads to my core and causes me to itch for the pen as an artist itches to dunk his or her hands in tubs of paint: scarlet, canary yellow, blue. The colors remained trapped within the cage of my ribs, swirling to the beat of my pulse-a sandstorm of memories and stories and lives that need to be told. I write because a pen can become an extension of my arm, essentially tapping into a vein or my mind and effectively pours my thoughts, characters, and stories onto the pages in splashes of bright color.

When I write, I write in bright boldfaced colors that scream to be seen. Once I began to write in early high school, the colors poured from my throat and my pen with ease, staining the shadows of the world and capturing them with language for an audience to read. I could play with my surroundings like an artist dabbles in mixing breeds of paint. Before I had discovered the outlet of writing, my way of processing the world around me had always been too complicated to capture with words for such an idealistic dreamer like me. Verbally, I could never quite sink my teeth into the right word. The pen fixed that. It bred a line into the deep reservoir of my heart and provided me with an outlet of language that was sunset in color and ranged greatly from somber hues to the paled and white-washed. Writing enables me to fasten logic and character as well as emotion to a word, a sentence, a paragraph, and create multidimensional characters and worlds that burst with life.

The art of writing makes the surrounding world less bland, and limits the isolation. The reader is able to connect to characters and worlds via the author and the author is able to communicate with the reader these characters and worlds. The experience of writing and reading is a shared experience that connects minds and brings people together.

So I, personally morphed from feeling like a single being with a storm of sunburst colors flowing beneath my skin, unable to fully express the stories and experiences and characters that lived beneath my skin, to being able to communicate and to share. Writing allows us as both writers and readers to interlink with others.

Writing taught me how to paint characters with hearts both darker and lighter than mine. Their physical descriptions are full of color: corn silk hair, peppering freckles, pale blue eyes. However, I create their minds and their souls. These characters are made up of little pieces of my own life experience and are naturally based on both strangers I've never met and people I have, and their wants and dreams. My stories and characters take ahold of me and drag me into their world.

There is a beauty in nature that can only be described with words; words that mask the complex equations that explain the scientific process which create the colorful and sometimes frightening phenomenon. To only look at equations and not truly take in the wonderful and intense beauty would put everything I have spent years learning to waste. Filling my time purely studying science may make my logic and math skills stronger, but it does not always help my creative side flourish. To fill my brain with only equations sometimes makes the beauty fade. To only see the science and not be able to explain the pureness of it becomes a key reason as to why I write it down.

Hidden beneath the science is a path that not many see, a distinct frustration when your brain is full of too much of one thing, too much science, emotion, life. My life has been a rollercoaster since the day I was born; words help me escape the chaos. To escape the struggles of life, and make them clearer when I read over the ink and am not just trying to decipher invisible ideas that float through my brain. To have so much happen, with little understanding of why or how I am going to push through, I write to clear the cloudiness of life, and move through stronger then I was before.

One of the first moments I used writing to clear the cloudiness was when experiencing the sudden death of my grandfather; never had I experienced something so emotionally overwhelming. Every other death in my life had been when I was too young to fully understand the complicatedness of it; my Papa’s passing was different. I was old enough to know what happened, old enough to feel the same emotions as my parents, and to fully take in all of what was happening around me. I felt numb when my parents told me, I had no clue how to react, what to say, I was frozen with a rush of thoughts, and no way to decipher what was right and wrong.

I remember going into my room, and seeing my notebook sitting on my desk, a pen perfectly placed next to it, and immediately I was pulled towards it. I don’t remember how long it took me to write, but when I was finished I cried. Emotions escaped from me, spilling onto the paper, and suddenly everything that had been jumbled suddenly flew into a clear realization.

At first I wanted to keep the poem secret, it was mine, but I slipped it into my Papa’s casket, not expecting anyone to read it. My dad came up to me, moved by what I had written and asking a question I never expected. He wanted my poem shared at the funeral, so my words could be shared with the people who didn’t know what to say. I didn’t read it myself, but I remember the feelings as my word’s slipped by the Pastor’s lips.

That feeling is why I write.

The summer before I entered the fourth grade, my mom moved us to the grassy suburbs on a new side of Indianapolis. My sister and I loathed her for this because it meant a new school district away from our friends. The invisible label “new girl” left me without many acquaintances for the first few weeks of school.

But my teacher was the coolest. Her name was Mrs. Moll (pronounced “mall”) and she always started the weekdays off by telling us a funny story about her golden retriever, AniMOLL. I remember being intrigued by the combination of the word “animal” and Mrs. Moll’s last name. It was the cleverest play on words to ever happen, like, in the world.

One day, Mrs. Moll assigned the class to write a story about an animal, and remembering the play on words that enticed me, I decided to unravel a story of AniMoll running away from home and the journey of her finding her way back to the loving arms of Mr. and Mrs. Moll. I devised encounters with wild bunnies and squirrels, took time to pick just the right words to draw the scene, and I made sure my readers knew the sound of AniMoll’s metal name tag tapping against her metal water dish. Ting, ting, ting. After Mrs. Moll read through the classes’ stories, she pulled mine up onto the overhead projector and praised my story in front of the entire class. And I’ve got to say, she really helped to put my name on the map and get the kids to notice me, per say.  

I was hooked. The thrill of unburying the gems, jewels, and pearls of words turned into my new favorite hobby.   

A Thesaurus was like gold inside the treasure chest. The simple fact that there are multiple words that mean the same thing amazed me. I could use my slight Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to my advantage when I rearranged words in sentences to make them sound like myself, and looking at each word to determine if that was really the best word. My mom was always the biggest fan of my writing, and she asked to hear it aloud frequently, which gave me the chance to critique the way it sounded. I was never satisfied and I always thought there had to be a better word floating around out in the sea of words.

As I transitioned into those awkward teenage girl years, I learned that writing could also be an outlet. I learned how morph the voice and tone of my writing to fit to my emotions. It was fascinating to be able to transform my literary voice from a delicate, innocent voice to ferocious sentences.

And the passage into “adulthood,” has proven to me that whether it is pencil to paper or finger to keyboard, I write for myself. I write because I simply love it. My words on paper help me to untangle my thoughts and unwind.

Prepare for #cheesy

My writing makes me whole.

We hope to see you at our Selection Committee Meetings this week. Join us for pizza and drinks in the Lighter Office (2nd floor VUCA) as we discuss and select the works to be featured in the next issue of The Lighter!

POETRY Monday 8pm

PROSE Tuesday 8pm