Autobiography

I began writing when I was a child. I wrote what I did during the day in long, lined pages. I wrote the secret names of boys I liked (one mumin and one not) in my diary. I wrote poems with blue ink pens in neat handwriting.

My poetry never won any prizes until I was 18, but I was happy with my writing. It is like music: calming, when it is poetry. I tried and failed at writing short stories. I started and never finished a couple of novels.

So I wrote, in my journal mostly, my topics varying more over time: food, friends, parents, religion and money.

Then I found my husband, Huzefa, and I slowed down. My language changed. Reality itself changed. I am older and more confused. I used to be able to put my feelings into words. I used to be able and capable.

Now, I have to fool my mind into English by reading English library books. I borrow this language temporarily.

Now, I have a daughter: almost 4 months old. I write, thinking maybe one day she will read this. I have an audience. A hope of an audience. I write to you and for you, my darling, my brilliant girl.