The Old Dream

Today I was over the moon, simply because I got my first published article in a newsletter. This happened before, but this time I got paid for this. I was very ecstatic and thought that maybe I will find my way in the editing field especially because translation, which is my real passion, is a profession that is not so prosperous in Egypt.

I love writing and have passion for it since college. I have always got high grades in writing classes and topped my class several times. I grew up with no gtalent or a certain hobby and when I started writing, I felt alive. I thought that there is a room for my voice in this stifling world. I even felt more delighted and surprised when I posted my first so-called artistic piece on Facebook and casual friends who did not have to read or comment, read it and encouraged me to write more.

I started acting like Virginia Woolf or Anton Chekhov and writing abundantly once an idea pops into my mind. To my surprise, people read more and provided me with feedback. Some other cool friends helped me publish some stuff in local magazines and newsletters, but with friends fleeing away, so did my chances with getting anything published. I did not care at that point if I got paid or not, if people thought of me as artist or not. All I wanted was visibility and seeing my name published on paper and imagining that there is someone somewhere reading what I call a work of art. Egoistic as it may sound, but this is simply how I felt.

So when my chances were out of having anything published not just virtually, when I got busy with work and other stuff and maybe when I get frustrated every now and then, I guess I lost my interest in writing anything except for writing such posts on that blog where I let out all of my anger and other feelings that might seem trivial and insignificant to many people. But the point is, whenever the world gets lame, I know that there is always a litlle space for me where I can say anything without caring if someone hates it or not.

However, whenever I hear of an opportunity of working as an editor or a writer, my heart leaps up with joy and the old dream becomes vivid. "Maybe, things will come along and I will be a great writer," I keep on telling myself.

The thing is I have not known that making compromises and going with the flow aiming that one day I might get back to the old passion and make the dream come true, is just the biggest mistake ever. I should have known very well that making many compromises and taking so many chances that would get me closer to the big goal, is changing me. By time, I have stopped writing poems and short stories. By time, I have even stopped being so enthusiastic about writing my first novel. I get amazed every time I remember those many ideas I had once upon a time of a short story or an interesting piece of prose. I am not passionate anymore.

I was lying to myself when I got the check full of joy thinking that this would get me somewhere I want. I was wrong when I thought that in such a way of being alienated from the original me would do me any good. I knew that I was lying to myself but I kept on avoiding of the mere thought of such a horrific fate.

So, what bombed the shell? My lovely dear mom. When I gave her the article to read, I was thinking that she would be so proud of her little girl who seems like a supergirl for many people. She was like that for a while, but the poor woman thought that she was going to read another piece of my original work not some clumsy geeky article on a topic she has never heard of. Frank as she always is, she spilled everything out. Every single lie I was telling myself, she said it. I could not hide my anger or sorrow, but she has a point, as usual.

Making a living would do for a while and obviously there is nothing wrong with making compromises once in a while, but I have realized that once you let dream fade away before your eyes, it will slip off your hands whether you like it or not.