In the name of God... Bismillah.
I wrote prolifically once, filling notebooks with ramblings, author imitations, and the opening chapters of several novels. A shy teenager, I wrote poetry with my back to tree trunks and by the edge of streams.
Later, I turned to translation and editing as a way to develop my writing professionally and serve social causes I believed in. Less personal, translations, editing, and ghost writing allowed me to write without exposing any raw edges or vulnerability.
Then the chaos of motherhood shook my will to be a disciplined writer. Exhausted and over-stimulated, I slept through the creative hours of the morning and looked forward to the night for more time. Arriving in the dark, post-bedtime, my soul was deflated and creativity sapped. Tomorrow, I hoped, there will be time to write.
But the promise of a successful tomorrow is more musical than today's mediocre work. I am silent to all but my kids-to them, I am a stream of chatter, tsks, and calls. Mothering is a lonely, noisy march.
It's been several years since I've written anything. There have been emails, edited several pieces, some minor translating jobs, but I have not written in my voice for a long time. I've forgotten what it sounds like on paper, and whether I ever had one at all.
In all that time of not-writing, I still feel the writer's impulse, the slights and shrugs of nature still reach my ears and whisper to be captured. Ideas churn and I compose blog posts in my mind, save ideas in notebooks. Whether or not I am good at it, writing is part of my soul fabric and will always beg to be set free.
I know better than to promise a return. I do not know if there is a writer to be rediscovered, or if years of silence have dried up the well. This blog may be an act of courage. Or just a clearing of the throat.