Short Story of Logophile

For the love of Words since 2003

I believed it was yesterday, when I wrote my first poem, called Oceanic Battle of Illusions. Today, it completes 4 years. I’m here, writing to whoever is reading this, thankful, for finding pieces of me in my own words; reading my story.

I loved reading since I was a kid. I was 6, when I fell in love with stories from my school books, that left me in awe, in an ephemeral oblivion as to where I was, who I was and where would I go? Without a book? nowhere. It was all those stories that sowed the seed of creativity in my tiny mind. My mother, who raised me in tiny libraries at home. Never had I ever read poetry before, yet when it came to my first ghazal, I began lurking elsewhere, to find such food for my growing mind. No matter the language, it was the art of literature that pulled me from childhood, to a world of understanding and embracing one’s self. It were those words of Wordsworth and Robert Frost and L.J Smith where I found my steps up the hill of simplicity in hidden feelings as words, known to men; and women, as poetry.

Where other teens made friends and hung out and would fall prey to recklessness, talk, talk and talk, I would be in my own corner, reading yet another novel. I kept reading until I could write. John Green, Najwa Zebian, Elif Shafak, Kiera Cass, Nicola Yoon, Colleen Hoover, Pierre Jeanty, Khaled Hosseni and so many more became my people for me. Teaching me and keeping me from falling apart.

I tried rhyming and writing a couple times before turning 15, yet it never occurred to me, as how would a tiny being as myself, could portrait emotion in language and modern literature. I began wandering about my mind for the sake of a mere thought as to what to write about. I auditioned for my first speech in 2017. I became a favourite speaker in school and my seniors, started getting to know me. Appreciation or money was never a reason to become a writer, it was in me. Some things, are inborn, such as passion.

My feelings for words of poetry was same as any newbie, “ Who would read me? My work is not worth it. There are people, well-educated, competitive and way more talented than I am. There are modern writers, updated and sincere social workers that get rebate for their material. How would I make a difference? I can’t… I’m just a girl in this fast world.” These questions roamed in my head, and being honest, they still do. In the farthest part of my mind, they are there. Soulless, undead and hovering above their gravestones. Perhaps, I never quite buried them in the first place. However, when they visit my happy gardens any time again, I often love to convey my overthinking anxiety into art of words.

From my first post on Instagram, till today, an experienced ghost writer, novelist and poetess. I’ve began to rethink my own vision. My writings, were worth it, because they healed me grow, and yes, outgrow. My poems, made me a woman; respect myself from different perspectives. My novel, in progress, made me pull out the stories within me. I could write, because I yearned to become and never remain still. I transformed, also, because of literature. I calmed my storms and faced my darkest of fears, with poetry. People who read me, have become parts of my life. For the love of words; I could and I can and I will.

Breathe.

-Logophile