The Writer's Manifesto

Enclosing myself in what I have come to call my den, among the plethora of books, soothing Sufi music in the background, and tantalizing aroma of hibiscus whirling up from my tea, I write. I have begun to muse on this virus that has grasped my soul with vigor; yet, strangely, I have come to embrace its addiction. Pursuing this passion has allowed me to discover facets of this world that I once deemed unfathomable. A passion that has come to be as natural as breathing, as essential as observing, and as elating as nirvana. It is the passion of the simplistic activity of writing that I speak of.

The need to write puts me on a journey where I find myself frantically racing against time to record my thoughts before my flow has elapsed. Similar to my passion for reading, writing is a complementary activity that allows me to fully absorb, through reflection, my readings so as to fully comprehend and conceptualize the ideas of what I read. Writing, for me, transcends reason. When starting, I find myself unable to stop in my endeavor to explore every single notion that may be hidden in the depths of my mind. It is like my desire to examine every single artifact in a museum, read its description, ponder upon what use the ancients may have put it to, paint its every curve and edge in my mind's eye, and envision it in its original world and time. It is in this spirit that I examine my thoughts thoroughly and attempt to reflect them with sincerity on paper.

Every night, I rush to pen my reflects upon the events, observations, reflections, and ideas of the day. The activity of recording a mere wrinkle in time doesn't suffice in allowing me to explore my inner self. Writing allows me to introspectively divulge into issues, thoughts, and ideas that allow me to paint a world with mere ink inscriptions on paper. The plethora of stimuli that I have previously mentioned allow me to explore the deepest and darkest corners of my mind to conjure emotions and impressions, with complete spontaneity, to spill on paper. It is the nocturnal spirit of the night that brings about a flow of concentration and a mood of melancholy and loneliness that inspires me to reflect into the bottomless abyss of my imagination.

Subsequent to writing a page or two of my diary, I look down at my words to see a reflection of myself, that is my inner self. The words one writes at night mirror the observations of the world that one's eyes skimmed during the day; the words one writes on paper mirror the emotions that one experiences in the heart. Peering into the abyss of one's water well, one discovers a holistic reflection of himself. The true challenge of writing is to bring this inner self to life, viz. to allow your writing to endow you with life. It through writing that you discover your inner self and paint the world where this inner spirit runs free. Each word plants a seed that ultimately bears the fruits of the Garden of Eden, where my imagination stems up and wraps around this fictitious world like evergreen branches of ivy. Just like the vines of ivy crawl into every void of a deserted house, so does the imagination that creeps into every dimension of my mind to flood such impressions on paper.

Similar to those who find a passion in building things, as close acquaintance of mine (i.e. Omar) does, writing is an activity that witnesses words put on top of one another like building blocks to construct a masterpiece. At times, these blocks collapse altogether and I find myself tearing, crumbling, and shooting draft after draft in the bin until I discover a product that appeases my perfectionist spirit. Similar to "building things," it is not the result, be it a masterpiece or rubbish, that pleases the writer, but the struggle, the means, and the way. To carry out such a significant endeavor as to express the impressions and emotions endowed to you from a supernatural power is a feat that requires perseverance. To a very large extent, the discipline and rigor that engineering has instilled in me is what fuels this patience and steadfastness to produce the perfect work, at least that which is complete in my eyes. For isn't beauty in the eyes of the beholder?

This brings me to another point, which is that of the manifestation of one's writing in the art of literature. The novel, play, poem, etc... is a mere reflection of one's experiences. Recently, I have been reading a lot of Alaa El Aswany's works and have realized that his niche has come about from the fact that he draws upon his experiences to produce his writing. Wasn't it his clinic in the actual Yacoubian Building in Downtown Cairo that inspired his magnum opus? Or his study at the University of Illinois in Chicago that resulted in his latest novel, Chicago. Aren't the characters of his works mere manifestations of the various dimensions of the writer's complex personality? Similarly, I aim to portray writing as an outlet that reflects the internal stirrings, dilemmas, and indecisiveness that preoccupies my mind. Although I am not a novelist, or not just yet, I am to assert my viewpoints and stances in a manner that may take the form of different competing perspectives so that the most worthy contender may manifest itself in my writing as the victor.

Despite these feelings and aspirations, I worry that coming out as a writer will lead me to be shunned. It is unfortunate that being an intellectual in this age has come to be looked upon as being snobbish and arrogant. Will my dreams lead me to be alienated from others, whereby I will fail to relate to others because of our different levels of understanding? I as myself. Especially as a native of the Arab World, where the chances of success as a literary figure are slim to none, this dilemma demotivates me tremendously. It is truly saddening that my culture, which once embraced authorship as the source of its Golden Era, during which the likes of Rumi and Omar El Khayam were exalted, has come to look down upon the practice of writing and embrace backward ideologies. Prophet Mohamed was once quoted for saying, "The ink of a scholar is more valuable than the blood of a martyr." It is a true shame how we have fallen into the epoch of the modern dark ages. Despite the external constraints of becoming a writer, what intimidates me the most is my personal incompetence, viz. the fact that my work may not be worthy of others to lay their eyes upon. This turmoil leads me to feel vulnerable. It is for this reason I would never imagine of revealing these thoughts to those who expect the most from me. But here I sit revealing these emotions to those who are understanding of my intentions and share similar aspirations.

What truly inspired me to come out with these emotions of my dreams of becoming a writer was when C*, a dear friend of mine, bestowed me with advice on becoming a "good story teller." Suddenly, I was able to make the connection between my passion for books, as mentioned in my entry My Library, and my intense desire to write. It is in solitude that I have come to love life the most. Charlottesville was a blessing in disguise, where I have come to savor the experience of escaping to cafes and bookstores to read and write. It is this escapist mentality that craves for my solitude to discover different worlds that I can later divulge about. The downside to escapism, be it daydreaming, reading, or writing, is that it entails a very anti-social flavor to it. This seclusion from society is what gives the bitter taste of melancholy from losing touch with reality, but also gives the elation of being among his books and thoughts. Life's a balance and the challenge is to offset the risks, a dear friend once told me. I choose to live on the edge, to detach myself from reality, and discover the goldmines I have come to call my books.

It is with these books that I can confabulate by writing responses and reviews in my writings during which a dialogue with the writers allows me to relate with them and truly sympathize with their plight. My partners in pens are those who are both from the Orient and the West, whereby I call upon the former to vitalize my soul with the mystical works and call upon the latter to enlighten me with knowledge. Both genres of books share one similarity, i.e. they are of a classical nature. Why do I engulf myself in classics, when they are archaic and irrelevant in these modern times? It is because they speak words of authenticity from a time when knowledge was merely awakening. This is the phase of my writing. Gradually, as my writing matures, so will my taste for reading, but as of now, I aim to cover the landmark classics that have laid the groundwork for subsequent works to come about. As a finish Robinson Crusoe, a mere children's tale, I read a work that encompasses philosophies that the likes of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Rousseau, and Marx have drawn upon to revolutionize the way humankind thinks.

To augment the thoughts of my favorite writers and poets, I write my observations to capture each moment in my life as if it were a photograph. Here I sit in China, where I can pull out my diary to flip through my memories of Turkey, Egypt, or America. It is this sense that I can access the archives of my thoughts that exhilarates me and motivates me to write more and more. Page after page in my diary reminds me of blissful times that I can reference during desolate times.

The more I read, the more I learn to express the inexpressible. As I mentioned in a prior entry titled Goethe & Impressions, "impressions are what I consider to be supernaturally inspired emotions or feelings. The nature of such emotions is that they may be sensual, romantic, daunting, and any other avenue that explores the multifaceted dimensions of human nature." Only one who is adept at understanding human nature is capable to penning such impressions; in my eyes, he who can ascend to this level of understanding may rightly be crowned with the title of a writer. To speak on behalf of humankind is the true challenge, but is also the true accomplishment of the writer. Similar to the anguish of Che Guevara in his Motorcycle Diaries, coming in touch with pain, poverty, and depression of society is one way to write on behalf of those incapable of expressing their emotions. It is through his actions and philosophical writings that Che truly lived and died on behalf of the oppressed, those treated with injustice, and those with no voice to express their plight. These emotions could be extrapolated from the impoverished of the Andes to the suffering of Palestine. Since all men feel the same emotions, truthfully an accurately capturing this emotions on paper is the true obligation of the writer. It is in this spirit that we must understand that the writer cannot completely shut himself out of reality, but rather interact with society. Khalil Gibran perfectly summarizes this notion in a nutshell when stating,"The receiving and giving of pleasure is a need and ecstasy."

I conclude by circumnavigating my thoughts to return to where I started. Why do I write? I write because it is a passion, a need, and a source of delight. I write because I endeavor to voice the hopes of the hopeless. Similar to the knight of knowledge or the warrior of light who puts his sword to the service of justice, I put my pen to paper for the sake of expressing the inexpressible, for the sake of voicing the the emotions for those with no voice. For picking up the pen, I understand the burden of the writer. For "to hold a pen is to be at war" as the esteemed Voltaire would remark. I write because I love life, because I want to record every single minuscule detail about this treasure that God has bestowed us with. I write because I wish to carry on the tradition that my forerunners have so perfectly carried out. I write because I wish to give others the elation that I have experienced by reading the works of others. I write because my writing is the solace of my loneliness. I write because I am a revolutionary and, as Che puts it, the most important quality for a revolutionary to possess is love, love of humanity, of justice and truth. I write to love. I write to be loved. I write to remember my importance, my dignity, and the due respect I owe to others. I write to transcend the mundane, to get closer to the source, to God. I write because it is my passion.