This is a horribly-overdue assignment for the excellent online course “The Future of Storytelling.”
I hate writing. I hate how it takes me such a long time to get my words out of my brain and onto a blank page. I hate my awkward sentences. I hate it when my inner critic picks apart, shreds, and tosses into the trashcan paragraphs that took hours to materialize. I hate going on and on with thoughts that can never end. Working without an end in mind induces insanity. Wondering how many pages more to go until the piece is done is aggravating.
Still, I love writing. I love creating, making my words leap out of my mind and onto a blank page. I love the way my words can sound and look. I love how much they can change a blank page. I love writing because I’m simply terrible at talking. Relaying aloud the words I feel need to come out is not my forte. I cannot tell even the ones closest to me the things I need to say. This is why I love writing. It’s hope for me. It’s a way of knowing what I know and knowing it again. It’s a way of getting out feelings and thoughts. And the best part of writing is making words and sentences my very own. My words. My thoughts. My emotions.
I am actually very vain.
I have now spewed some of my thoughts on this page. I hope you do not find them putrid.
She [Nabila] was accompanied by her father, a teacher, and her 13-year-old brother, Zubair ur-Rehman, who said that he preferred cloudy days when bad weather grounded the drone fleet.
“When the sky brightens and becomes blue, the drones return, and so does the fear,” he said.
Source: The New York Times