By Israa Alshalabi
I have loved writing ever since I could write.
Writing has always been as easy and natural to me as breathing.
Fine. I won’t blemish or mythologize. I’ll tell the truth. This is how it went:
15
I’m sitting at my assigned seat at the very back of the classroom. I usually toy play around with my Ipad, but right now I’m currently leaning forward in my desk, my ears attuned to every word coming from my English teacher’s mouth. There’s a little telltale bulge in her belly, which means that in a couple of months she will be substituted replaced by that other teacher who gestures gesticulates wildly and smells of smoke, but that doesn’t matter now. Nothing much matters now, really, because my current English teacher is introducing a new writing assignment, and it’s one of those few rare occasions where we are given a semblance modicum of freedom. We have to write an essay about Beowulf, she says. Anything about Beowulf, she assures us. It sounds like a parting gift.
I like writing I’m not one of those fanatic, passionate writers. I wish I could be I’ve never been, and I probably will never be. Writing in Arabic is always hard challenging and a bit slightly confusing, but in the best way possible. However On the other hand, writing in English is easy and enjoyable, and so English writing assignments are always a welcome break reprieve from other, more boring assignments. That’s why I start working on this assignment instead of my soon due Biology portfolio or my Math homework the minute I’m home. I’m not really sure how I arrive at the idea, but I decide on a compare and contrast essay where I compare Beowulf with Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum.
When I reach my home, I immediately head to the dining table and open up the family laptop. I remain seated there, not even glancing elsewhere, until I’m done with the piece. I write something purely fun and almost entirely non-educational, and I’m not ashamed unashamed by the fact that it’s probably stupid. The next day, I submit my assignment with a dopey smile on my face.
17
Just as I’m about to submit my second essay for my Writing 101 course, I start to reconsider my decision. I’m staring at the submission button of the Cause & Effect essay assignment while rocking in my squeaky office chair, wondering if I can find a loophole through which I can submit my essay tomorrow instead of in 13 minutes. An empty bowl sits to the left of my laptop after I finished my second cereal-with-milk snack over two hours ago, and 2 abused Kinder Country wrappers are balanced precariously on the edge of my desk. I’ve already finished writing the essay, but now that the fog of indignation and righteousness that has clouded my brain while writing has worn off, I’m wondering whether my topic could will get me in any trouble. I notice that I’ve already chewed up all the good bits of my left thumbnail, so I move on to the right one while I continue my mental pacing.
I have been trying to be bolder and more vocal in my writing since the start of university. I know think I’m writing something meaningful and worth reading, but I’m not sure if I should bother it’s the right decision. Am I not risking my flawless grades for a risky paper that is only going to be read by my professor? Am I even qualified to write on the topics I’m writing about? I almost hate writing now, because of all the negative feelings that come with it.
This is not a problem I ever faced with Arabic writing. I want to think that it’s because most of my Arabic writing has been mostly creative writing rather than academic writing, but I think know better: the difference between having a global audience versus a regional audience is weighing on me. That’s why If I have the audacity to introspect even further, I can even notice my longtime enemy lurking in the shadows of my mind: Anglocentrism. I’m not whitewashed The standardized use of English in my university, which is the most academically advanced setting I have ever been in, has perhaps internalized some misplaced reverence for English: it’s the language of the future; it’s the best language to communicate in because of globalization;
it’s the language of scientific achievement. Therefore, a written piece may only be impactful if it’s in English.
As my focus sharpens back on my laptop screen, I realize that only 5 minutes are left until the deadline. I reverse my previous pessimistic approach to prevent my impending anxiety attack: I’ve already veered into political territory in my previous essay, and yet my professor sort of encouraged me didn’t seem to mind at all. The essay is definitely arguably one of my best
works, with unusual yet reasonable arguments that are supported by ample evidence. Most importantly, even if it’s not necessarily impactful, it attempts to be, and that is has to be enough for now.
As I’m clicking on the submission button, one last thought fleets through my mind, and eases the last of my panic: if you’re afraid of what you’ve written, doesn’t that mean you’ve written something worth reading?
18
It’s 2:04AM, and I’m touching up on my Critique-Analysis essay for my Writing 102 course. I’m sitting cross-legged on the sofa of the living room with all the lights off. I have been in this position for about 4 hours now, and only once have I gotten up to bring my laptop charger. The looming darkness makes it seem like the world has been reduced to me and my glowing laptop. Maybe that explains why I’m surprisingly calm in spite of the 3 finals I have next week. I finish touching up on my conclusion, and then I stare at my screen for a couple of seconds after I upload the document and submit it. There is a bittersweet finality to this assignment, which is perhaps why I postponed it more than I usually do. The wave of nostalgia washing over me is the only explanation as to why I open my first Writing 101 essay, despite the fact that I
have an 8AM class tomorrow and I should get as much sleep as I can.
I am casually reading the piece without much thought until I slow down a bit. I only have vague memories about my Writing 101 essays even though I wrote them last semester. But as I’m staring at my first university essay once again, I am a little taken aback. My writing is not half as formal and polished as it is now, and the number of references used is almost half one- third of my current standard. Most noticeably, my tone is slightly deriding and sarcastic, almost as I’m defensive of my own thoughts, or as if I’m trying to prove myself.
It’s slightly baffling how I didn’t find anything wrong with my style back then. I hadn’t really realized I improved so much.
But then I remember who I was as a writer in my first semester: an insecure person who wanted to write something meaningful, but wasn’t sure she was allowed or even qualified to do so. Then I think about who I am as a writer now: still someone who aims to write meaningful pieces, but without any worries beyond when to use whom and when to use who. The thought makes me slightly giddy.
My thoughts drift back to the Arabic essay I was polishing last weekend. It was somewhat disheartening to notice that I am slightly clumsier in my mother tongue now, as if the neural links in that part of my brain have grown a little lethargic from idleness. I find myself occasionally pricked with guilt over my looser grip on Arabic now, which is swiftly followed by an automatic, defensive affirmation of I am trying my best, despite everything. It is easy for me to find comfort in this slightly pathetic attempt at self-placation because I have been trying my best; I have been reading more Arabic works, and I have been reading more about the historical impact of Arabic writing and scholarship in general. My efforts at de-colonizing my perception of Arabic produce results at a sluggishly slow rate, but I do not fault myself for this; after all, tackling the pervasive and mighty worldly forces of Western globalization is no easy feat. Progress, no matter how miniscule, is still progress.
I never thought I would have such a tumultuous relationship with writing. I guess it does make sense, though. Growing up, everyone always introduced writing as a tool or a means to an end. No one really told me that writing could also be a weapon of sorts. I ambush and disassemble ideas I disagree with, and I arm anyone who has shared my beliefs but never been able to express them eloquently. No wonder I was so terrified at the earlier stages of my journey; no one ever told me what to do with a weapon.
The encouraging and constructive feedback provided by my writing professors has undoubtedly contributed to my growth as a writer. But since I’m not interested in discrediting myself, I would like to give myself some credit as well: I swallowed my fears and pushed my limits. I worked very hard to become the best writer I can be, because I wanted owed myself the ability
to be able to communicate my thoughts coherently. I wrote and read in Arabic as much as in English and gradually worked on de-colonizing my perceptions of Arabic, because I refused to abandon or dismiss even a shred of my identity, and because I wanted to have a wider reach as a writer. I tried, and tried, and tried, until I was rewarded. Maybe I’m not a passionate writer,
but I’m a passionate person, and consequently, my writing is passionate too.
My expanding yawn snaps me out of my train of thought. I really shouldn’t be narrating my life lessons at 2-something AM. I shut my laptop, and I groggily get up from the sofa and head towards my bed. I can keep trying tomorrow.