Just when I thought my birthday had come and gone like every other yesterday, my good friend Zoe dedicated this thoroughly engaging reflection on the art of writing, to me.
“We write every day, we fight every day, we think and scheme and dream a little dream every day. manuscripts pile up in the kitchen sink, run-on sentences dangle around our necks. we plant purple prose in our gardens and snip the adverbs only to thread them in our hair. we write with no guarantees, no certainties, no promises of what might come and we do it anyway. This is who we are.”
― Tahereh Mafi
I feel so honoured.
Thank you Zoe, for all that you are. ♡♡
I dedicate this piece to my very dear friend Damore, who, with the twinkle of her words and the music of her prose, awakened my long-lost passion for writing. Reading your words, what you wrote, how you were humorous, sometimes witty and othertimes sad, but always true; the way you saw the world, its colors and textures and sounds, I could feel the way you thought, hoped, felt, dreamt. Thank you for healing me with your words. Happy birthday.
About 15 years ago, I got my very first book from my father.
One year later, I wrote my first short story.
Writing thus officially established a presence in my life–a light and airy presence, like the mellow hues of spring.
And behold! It dived under my bed and whispered to me at night; slid through my drawers and contemplated my careless scribbles; It flickered in the stars I gazed at, slumbered in…
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