When I was about 11, after many failed attempts, I came to the fact that story writing isn’t really my strength. I was frustrated as a child, when my mother and my teachers advised me to write articles instead of fictions for my composition exam. Seeing my mom, who can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear (writing-wise), I believed I could too. But with my dull, plain and boring paragraphs with no suspense, no expression and far too many details, I am not surprised if I turn my readers into bibliophobics. I may have a good command of English but one swallow doesn’t make a summer and because of that, I no longer submit stories to my mother for editing as it would just waste her time.
But even though my stories aren’t good enough for the eyes of the public, I enjoy writing them and still do so from time to time. Sometimes I imagined that one day I could be good enough to get something published and although I may be building castles in the air, I believe that diligence is the mother of good fortune. Honestly though, I don’t think I would be able to produce anything that good since a leapord can’t change its spots but well – with practice, you’ll never know when you’ll end up in.
Perhaps, I don’t just write to please and entertain myself… maybe there is a glimmer of hope in my will that someday my grandchildren would talk proudly of me as ‘my grandma, Aiman, the famous author’ (btw, I can hear my mother laughing at me right now).