Humeira came to the USA in 2003 with her husband.  She lives in Memphis, Tennessee and has a lovely three year old daughter who is just as much an inspiration for her writing, Humeira says, as she is a terror to her home office.  But life is beautiful and she blesses the day she decided to stay at home for her family and give her writing skills a chance.  Both have worked out wonderfully. 

 

 

I WRITE BECAUSE I CAN

by Humeira Kazmi 

 

 

            “I’m sorry I can’t attend the party,” I told my husband.

             “Why?” My husband sounded puzzled.

             “Because I have a story to write,” I replied calmly.

            For the first time in the three years since our wedding, I had taken an assignment submission deadline seriously. And, for the first time in many years I had not insulted the writer in me.

            It was after such a party as the one I had refused to attend, that I realized what a monster I was to my writing skills. There I was in a room full of people of whom not even one could write half as skillfully as I could and yet, I envied them. I sighed at every mention of their steady employments, their concrete money-making paths that took them outdoors, and doubted myself for the career I had so fondly chosen but never really honored.

            I came home sad and desperate for a career change, and after an hour of aggressive self-hatred, I began to cry. I was a failure, not a writer. I was a useless stay-at-home mom who had taken refuge under the writing career banner because it was the easiest thing to do.

            And that’s when I checked myself.

            Writing was not the easiest thing to do. It demanded time and patience and skill just as much as any other profession, maybe more. And what I had failed at was fulfilling the demands of my profession, unlike all those people at the party. I realized I always had a huge menu of excuses handy to choose from every time a good idea popped up in my head.

            I’m busy cooking…I can’t write now.

            Now I’m cleaning…can’t write now.

            I’m busy with the kids…I’ll write later.

            This is my favorite show…the writing can wait.

            Oh, honey you’re home…ok I’ll write tomorrow.

            And tomorrow…the idea isn’t original at all...I think I have writers’ block…maybe I never had that flair.

            I never wrote down that good idea and chopped off a part of my writer’s heart. And each time I did so I secretly made a pact with my non-creative mind that I better give up this foolish dream and get a real job before it gets too late. And so fault after fault, I landed on my couch that winter evening after the party, repentant and resolved.

            I promised myself to truly honor the writing call that had been brewing within me for years. And for that I made a few resolutions.

 

RECOGNIZING THE WRITER

            It was time to respectfully carve out a schedule for the writer of the house within the twenty- four-seven demands of the homemaker. I realized it was all a mind game, like switching personalities within me. I told the housewife that the writer must be left alone to work for certain hours, and after I won the battle inside my head, making an argument for it outside was as smooth as melted chocolate, just as delicious too!

 

PAMPERING THE WRITER

            For three months straight I listened to nobody but the writer. I cherished every thought that came to me and noted down all ideas with great determination to transform them into wholesome pieces the next time I sat down to work.

            I asked my husband to share my chores in and out of the house. The idea was to strike a balance between house and book without neglecting either of the two. For this, I let him pick out the tasks he thought were easy and comfortable for him to perform.  For instance, he opted to do the groceries…and take the kids with him to keep him company.  This was a godsend! 

            Next, I avoided all such people and places that had interfered with my schedule in the past. For instance, I avoided gatherings where I felt bad about my career choice because I wasn’t published or paid for my work yet or because it didn’t sound like a real job, like that of a doctor or a teacher. I didn’t need that negative energy until the writer inside me was strong enough to fight it.

 

RESPECTING THE WRITER

            Competitions, magazines, ezines, I sent my pieces everywhere. I wrote and I sent…regardless of publication or payment possibilities. If I got a rejection slip it was a sure certificate that somebody had read my work, and if I didn’t – well there were plenty other fish in the sea and I had just set sail.

            I joined a writers’ chat room and made friends, swapped stories and critiques. Yes, I was making progress and it felt great.

            Today, three months later, my writing routine has fallen in sync with my non-writing life. Now my husband and I both go to work: he at the hospital and I at my computer. I am still not published and I am still striving to make my mark in the writing field, even a small one at that. But one thing that I am not doing is to ever turn my back on my promising career. I don’t avoid people or parties anymore and I even do the groceries fifty percent of the time.

            And I write…because I love to…because I can.

 

 And Humeira has been paid for her work, and will be paid for it regularly in the future, I am sure! 

 

                        ---Mary Rosenblum, LR Web Editor