Before you continue reading I have two things to say:
- I unfortunately didn’t take this epic picture of nonchalantly placed macaroons and spilled coffee (but I wish that I did)
- And also kindly excuse this first post being about my ostensibly successful novels
Okay, now you can continue.
These stories probably make me the most proud of my ability to commit (since I usually vacillate indecisively) but that goes without saying that faults and frailties do linger within them. I have found a serenity in vicariously living through my characters that I wish I had returned to sooner.
My first year of university was hard, living away from home and family. And I had kept fleeting journals but like I said, my commitment to them was too infrequent. After another irking sociology class, I returned to my dorm room one night, opened up a word document and just let my fingers tap away. It started off as a rant, really. But I later decided to turn my experiences into a story. Eighty-two pages later and I was telling everyone that the alias Sarah wasn’t actually a representation of me, but who was I kidding? Every scene in that book was an event that I encountered in that first semester of university, and I am so grateful to have documented it in that form. It was a strange form of learning, but I termed ‘the thinking disease’ and definitions of fatuous melancholy for the Sarah character and it was she (with the will of God) that aided in my actual mental recovery.
A year later, my mother and siblings moved with me and a new writing journey began with me. I had wanted to write something longer than my previous piece of work, and I was determined to turn it into a complex piece of art that involved more convoluted characters and a deeper plot-line. What I learned was how impossible it was to perform so formidable a task with no outline or outside help — but the year ended and I completed a jumble that I somehow figured out how to piece together.
I sit here now, tapping on the keys of my laptop reminding myself of the two journeys that taught me things about myself. Besides me joking about this post’s potential meretricious value, I decided to write about this as almost a mark of inking the feather pen — so it starts with an accomplishment and continues on from there.
Now, this blog wont certainly only contain things I deem as accomplishments. I definitely plan on posting about failures, stops, bumps and fatigues. And I don’t intend on setting the bar up too high with the quality or content, although I hope it doesn’t decline too drastically.
When I was a swimmer in elementary school, my mother always whispered into my ear before I started a heat, “If you start your race strong, by the time you get tired, you would have already beat everyone.”
So I guess this is what I’m pretentiously deeming as starting off my relatively cliché exploration with a sprint.
Titles and links to my novels in case anyone is interested:
Visit this link to read all my stories from my wattpad page.
Her Blatant Contentment by Fatimah Badawy
Half by Fatimah Badawy
[Never really noticed the running theme of starting my titles with the letter ‘H’. Maybe it’s something subliminal? Psychology takes over my life; it’s also almost midnight, I need sleep.]