The word of the writer

When I was a child, I made sure to write down all my concerns, wishes, and aspirations, which were not always childish, or perhaps even so childish, that would occur only to a child who was naive enough of his peers, and then I burned this paper, believing that this would make my words merge with the whole universe so that it, in turn, could react to them as it sees fit.

Since then, I have lived a life that may not be successful to the standards of many people today, but it is very exceptional, and the difference between success and exception is a thorny dilemma, with a slight difference. Every exception is a success, but not every success is an exception, at least this is how I see things from my own perspective. And the problem with exceptional people is, that many people are not to see success behind their exceptions.

If we wanted to group people according to their academic success, every few million of them would be grouped into one group, and for me, my goal in this life was not to be in a crowded group.

In my opinion, the real success lies in the memoirs. If you ever decide to write your own memoirs, do you think that it will be exceptional from the rest of the memoirs of millions and millions of people crowding into your group? You own the answer.

When someone asked me how long did it take to write this novel?! My answer was clear and stern and there was no room for discussion in it. It took me forty years, and it will take every other thing I will ever do in this life, from the way I smoke a cigarette, to my fateful decisions.

The thorny question remains,

who wrote it?

All I remember was my decision to write something, my hand, my fingers, and even my mind, were just tools of writing and expression, like the computer I used. As for the writer, it was something or someone I did not know, sitting inside my body fighting me to get out of its prison, forcing me to bargain it for a few words that express it. I was like a lost visual artist whose empty painting was in front of him and his brush was in his hand but his thoughts were scattered, he did not know how to connect them or how to begin, but his senses began to weave the fabric of the thoughts of that deep thing inside, as they translate them, to create the most meaningful paintings.

Every line I wrote I knew nothing of what was to come. I was even surprised by some of the chapters and reacted to them, just as you would react. They were as new to me as they are to you, and sometimes I was standing astonished to realize what I had written, or to understand the connection I had just discovered between the characters.

This novel, inevitably, was already accomplished in me, as it was written in one go. It already existed. As for transcribing it on paper, it took me some time. It is a novel that expresses a part of an exception that I think I have had in my life.

I cannot confirm or deny its events, even though they may have happened, in every detail, what is certain is the perspective of your understanding of the truth, they may be completely true, and from another perspective, they may be just delusions or dreamy fantasies, this depends on what truth means to you, or what it will be…

I appreciate your valuable time. Believe me, I am the best to know. That is why I was careful that this was not just a classic, casual novel for fun while you are drinking your morning cup of coffee.

Perhaps by it, I want to stir up that madness within you, who you have always been told, would be the cause of your ostracism, and your expulsion, out of the herd.

Finally, while writing the writer’s word, I wasn’t carrying my computer, so I used my ‘s and turned to her and said, this is my first attempt at expressing something that I have lived and learned. If you felt pleasure, pride, exception, one day, that the writer’s word was written on your computer, that would be an important indicator to continue translating what that pariah and the madman in me, wanted to say into novels.

Ahmad I. AlKhalel