7 January 2012


(c) photo by khulud kh

Writing – what does this word mean to me. The breath of life, not less than that. For two years now I’ve been living two parallel lives. One – in the “real” world, as real as it could get, though I can argue about the character and quality and very essence of real. The other life – that of my novel. When I sit down at my large writing table – with the notebooks, pencils, fountain pen, colorful markers, computer, thesaurus, a pack of cigarettes, a cup of coffee and of course the complete works of Emily Dickinson – I leave the “real” world and enter the world of the novel. Completely and wholly. I become unaware of even my physical body. I cross the line, step beyond, step inside.

I can spend four hours sitting at my writing desk. Usually into the night. I feel I am stealing time when everyone else sleeps. I feel productive. I write. When I get real lucky – I don’t write, but rather let the character come through and let her or him write her or his own story. One at a time. Usually it’s Majid that succeeds in surprising me. The poetry he writes is beautiful. I love it. I read his poems often. Yet I always know that the poetry is not mine. I can never claim authorship of it. My poetry never dances like his. Isn’t as colorful as his. Doesn't come close to intensity of emotions like his.

I often get possessed with fear. What if I run out of words ideas metaphors story-lines. What if I never finish this novel. What if it will resist. What if I do finish it and then that would be the end of it. Questions always questions. Doubts. What if I’m not a good enough writer what if I’m wasting time what if – stop it!

What is good about writing – the process itself. Writing itself is what gives me satisfaction. Forming one word – then putting another word after it. Seeing my thoughts become physical. Become visible.

The stupidity of it – after all, everything has already been said in so many words and so many ways and so many forms. So what’s so unique about my writing. Stop it!

What’s unique about my writing – is that this is my way of saying what has already been said in so many words so many ways so many forms. My own way in my own words in my own form with my own distinguished style.

Nothing unique about what I just wrote here – but nevertheless, it’s mine and it’s what I think and how I feel and so why not. Not every piece of writing has to be so smart to knock the socks out of its readers’ feet.

Because – really, to be honest in the deepest way – I can’t imagine my life without writing. It did become the air I breath. Without writing – I will lose my sense of myself. I will lose a large part of my very being.

Writing is the one single thing that I can never give up on. It is the one single thing I will always do in my life – no matter what where how.

Enough now and go back to the novel.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh (2012)


  1. why are you so defensive? why do you need to explain your writing need to the OTHER? why the need of recognition?
    it is beautiful and completely clear.
    הלטעמי מהקטע של אתמול
    וגם היום את קצת נותנת תחושה של רשימת מטלות או מצרכים. יותר מדי סטקטו. קצרים בעיקר בקטע של יום שישי וזה פחות דיבר אלי אבל זה נורא עינין אישי

  2. Something to share!


    by Julia de Burgos

    Already the people murmur that I am your enemy
    because they say that in verse I give the world your me.

    They lie, Julia de Burgos. They lie, Julia de Burgos.
    Who rises in my verses is not your voice. It is my voice
    because you are the dressing and the essence is me;
    and the most profound abyss is spread between us.

    You are the cold doll of social lies,
    and me, the virile starburst of the human truth.

    You, honey of courtesan hypocrisies; not me;
    in all my poems I undress my heart.

    You are like your world, selfish; not me
    who gambles everything betting on what I am.

    You are only the ponderous lady very lady;
    not me; I am life, strength, woman.

    You belong to your husband, your master; not me;
    I belong to nobody, or all, because to all, to all
    I give myself in my clean feeling and in my thought.

    You curl your hair and paint yourself; not me;
    the wind curls my hair, the sun paints me.

    You are a housewife, resigned, submissive,
    tied to the prejudices of men; not me;
    unbridled, I am a runaway Rocinante
    snorting horizons of God's justice.

    You in yourself have no say; everyone governs you;
    your husband, your parents, your family,
    the priest, the dressmaker, the theatre, the dance hall,
    the auto, the fine furnishings, the feast, champagne,
    heaven and hell, and the social, "what will they say."

    Not in me, in me only my heart governs,
    only my thought; who governs in me is me.
    You, flower of aristocracy; and me, flower of the people.
    You in you have everything and you owe it to everyone,
    while me, my nothing I owe to nobody.

    You nailed to the static ancestral dividend,
    and me, a one in the numerical social divider,
    we are the duel to death who fatally approaches.

    When the multitudes run rioting
    leaving behind ashes of burned injustices,
    and with the torch of the seven virtues,
    the multitudes run after the seven sins,
    against you and against everything unjust and inhuman,
    I will be in their midst with the torch in my hand.


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