© Maya Abouelnasr

January 2018 (Grade 12)

Photo: From Pinterest

The Art of Writing

The art of mixing words to paint worlds;

Words that create worlds.

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 age of seven or eight.

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 7 –

“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. I’m going to write books one day.”

– Age 17 –
 “What do you want to be when you’re older?”

“A writer of some sort. I’d like to expose myself to other styles, such as

screenwriting and media writing, more.”

Some would say I’m a fool.

A writer waits.

A writer is lonely at times.

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 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; enraged tales; euphoric 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 and imagination (with reason) 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…

instead of simply perching 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 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.