the writers fault

The white page

"O foolish mind, can you not lend me a little Help or something !?"

It's not as if this is the first time I've stared at a blank page on the surface of the Word program, where I've always penned my fantastical tales of wondrous kingdoms in a forgotten time.

I'm trying to write the final chapter of the novel with all sincerity, but nothing is flowing from my mind. Before I even begin to write, my mother calls out to me, severing the thread of my thoughts, insisting that I check the washing machine and the state of the laundry. I left the blank page as it is and hurriedly went to see the washing machine, which I left unattended for several minutes, singing with its loud, annoying voice that separates me from the world I was trying to build. I entered our bathroom, where the washing machine is located, for we are not wealthy enough to build a whole room just for the washing machine and its equipment. We do not spoil our washing machine as we should!

Anyway, I reached out and pressed down on its crimson lid, eyeing the electrical plug dangling from its socket. My brother had promised to reconnect it several months ago, but it seems he made yet another Eurqub* promise. Then, I glanced at the washing machine's timer; it would take some time to finish washing. I wandered my gaze over the walls of our bathroom, adorned with tiles sporting peculiar and mismatched patterns. If you looked closely, you'd see a crocodile wearing a hat and a coat, as if it were a detective off to solve some mystery. Of course, this was something only a few would notice, those who could shape clouds into forms or catch a glimpse of the moon's smiling face.

After a few minutes, I returned to gaze at the blank page, but the incessant clucking of the chickens seemed to pierce my ears. My dear brother owned a number of chickens that seemed to take pleasure in tormenting me with their delightful cacophony. And to top it all off, there he sat, my brother, close by, as I struggled to write.

I managed to jot down a couple of lines when he glanced over, attempting to read what I was writing from a distance amidst the loud sounds emanating from his mobile phone. I gritted my teeth and muttered:

"Could you not peer over? You know full well I dislike being watched while I write!"

He responded with a dismissive wave and a sardonic smile.

"I wasn't looking at you, just got a little distracted," he said.

My eyes rolled with anger, and I snatched my laptop and stormed off to another room. It's safe to say I was struggling with confidence in what I was writing!

Not long ago, I had been subjected to scathing criticism about how my writing wasn't worthy of being published, and it left a lingering insecurity that no amount of praise could erase. Despite having participated in several competitions, my writing had never garnered any praise or reached any significant heights. It seemed like those around me were encouraging me to the point where I felt they might just be indulging me.

I sat on the floor of the room, my laptop beside me, because unfortunately we dont have alot of furniture, when the sound of a message alert on my phone startled me. I picked up my worn-out phone, a relic of nearly seven years, unable to gather enough funds for a new one. Yet, this phone had become a steadfast companion, and if its lifespan extended, it might well be my companion for another year. Its longevity mattered little as long as it served its purpose.

Then, my gaze shifted to my dress, adorned with artistic holes left by the mischievous moth, now serving as a signature of its presence in my wardrobe. A laugh escaped me as I beheld my splendid state. Who would believe I'm a writer?!

Because , I don't engage in the camaraderie shared by many writers over coffee or tea; I'm a friend of chocolate milk produced by a local company in our area. But I know there are writers like me around the world who feel like failures even in the place where they're supposed to belong.

The clock chimed the time for dishwashing, a chore I despised, yet I yearned to distance myself from my laptop. There wasn't a shred of imagination left in my mind. I reluctantly washed the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, engaging in conversation with that stubborn stain that refused to budge.

"Oh, what a stain you are, clinging to life," I muttered, "but forgive me, I can't leave you here. I know how tightly you've held onto this dish, but it must be used for new meals. Your love for the dish is cursed if I leave you here. No one will use it, and it'll end up in the trash, shattered."

With determination, I scrubbed the spot with wire and sponge, exerting force. My younger sister entered the kitchen at that moment, eyeing me incredulously, deeming my actions foolish. Well, that didn't matter. Everyone has their place in this life. Mine is foolishness, and hers is boredom

The relentless grind of work stifled any desire for imagination or writing, and here I found myself staring at the blank page once more. I remembered my first book, how it ended with fervor and love. I wrote it without concern for criticism; I didn't write to impress anyone but to entertain myself and escape between the white pages to build a world and a story with words. I sighed in frustration, feeling utterly devoid of ideas today.

I absentmindedly ran my finger over my phone to check the news when I noticed a message from my dear friend. I wished to read it, but something caught my eye on the screen of my laptop—a black spot! My heart sank as I thought the screen had burned out. I muttered, hoping against hope, "Anything but you, please Allah don't let this be happening now!"

I leaned closer to the screen to examine the black spot intently, hoping it might just be a smudge that could be wiped away by hand and not a burnt mark on the screen. But suddenly, it expanded, as if I saw a hand reaching out from the other side.

Before I could scream, it all vanished, and the screen returned to its usual state—a mere blank page in the Word program.

I shouted for my younger sister, "Tala! Tala!"

Tala rushed in, alarmed by my panicked voice. "What happened, Sidra?" she asked hastily

"Do you see the laptop screen?" I asked frantically. She looked at me with surprise, then approached to inspect the screen.

"What's wrong, Sidra? The screen looks normal. Did you call me all the way from your room just for this? Anyone would think you saw a scorpion," she remarked, bemused.

But the traces of horror still lingered on my face. I didn't know what had happened, but it had definitely happened.

Tala sighed and said, "What do you think about taking a break from writing? You seem like you've finally lost it."

Despite the tightness in my chest, I nodded. I closed the laptop, returned to my room, and rested my eyes.

I lay my head on the pillow, feeling exhausted. I wracked my brain, but not a single drop of the rest of the story came out. Would anyone be satisfied with an ending like this—Nairobi dying in the middle of the Alk forest where Prince Gerald couldn't help her due to the story's tyrant, Shield? I don't know. It was the only idea swirling in my mind right now.

The sound of footsteps echoing in the room was irritating, undoubtedly my brother's. So, I asked, "What are you looking for?"

No response. I repeated, "Zahid, what are you looking for here?"

Still no answer. I opened my eyes, annoyed. "Zah..."

Before I could finish, those wide honey-colored eyes were staring at me, and my heart nearly leaped out of my mouth. A nervous chuckle escaped me. "I must have finally lost it to see you in the flesh, Shield! My imagination must have finally gotten the better of me."

"Hello, dear writer," he said. "You'll wish my presence here was just a figment of your imagination."

- 

END

( Eurqub promise) it's an Arabic proverb that means false commitment, which describes the situation of someone who promises and fails to deliver, and "Eurqub" was a man who was used as an example for his lies and failure to fulfill promises.

hope you like the first chapter. 

any Ideas about what well happend next ?!. 

To we meet again.

-S.B