Writer's World

Wisdom:

If typewriters could talk, mine would vocalize, “With each click of your fingers on my letters, you rouse my silence and give our words a voice.” It’s strange how easily I could relate to an inanimate objects point of view and reject my father’s. He’d walked into the room, holding up an apologetic expression over his face. As he looked at me, I couldn’t help but notice, over the years, shame and grief had left their marks in his eyes. I stood next to the window from which I’d stared out for endless hours, only to conclude: windows are the eyes of a house and mine would never have any veil adorning it, ever.

Victory:

I don’t know when exactly I’d made up my mind to be a writer. I remember my mother telling me that when I was six, I’d shocked the family by announcing the title of my first published thriller story, as ‘Jack the Respected Ripper’. The day I’d moved to this room, a fight had broken out between the titans-Dad vs. Mum- the encourager vs. the enforcer-Arts vs. Business degree. To avoid getting caught between them, I’d locked myself in the room with my love- the typewriter. Later, the whiskey was smuggled in the bottles from dad’s hidden stash.

The chair: Oh, the chair! It had a story to tell you about me: “It was only after he sat on my cousin’s lap at the dentist office, more like forced on to, did he recognize his fear. After He’d brought me into this room, on purpose, I helped him get over his fear one day at a time. He’d sat on my lap, only to rise and reach out to his dreams.” At the end of the fight, English literature was my present.

Compassion:

My darling father was still waiting to hear my answer to the question he’d asked repeatedly. The stubborn boy in me had refused to respond. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say: he wouldn’t hear me anyways, like he hadn’t for years. Although today, he’d hoped to be set free of guilt. Walking absentmindedly towards the window, he slowly picked up the green glass bottle. To my surprise, after taking a whiff out of it, he downed the leftover whisky. Seeing how his face cringed at the bitter taste, I smiled.

Timeless Love:

A silent knock on the door meant my mother was checking on us.

“Honey, are you in there?

“Yes”. Both of us were quick to respond, but my father’s voice resonated with power.

My mother-the elegant and bold queen- the one and only- to whom the king bowed down to. I missed her comforting hugs.

“It’s time to leave our home, Jo.”

“I can feel his presence in this room. It’s like he can hear me, Joyce.” I didn’t expect to see tears in my father’s eyes because I’d seen them dried up.

“I know dear. After he was gone, I came down here every night to talk to him, comfort him, to keep him safe.”

“He hasn’t replied. I asked him if he’d forgiven me for not supporting his choices.”

“Jo, you need to let him go. Forgive yourself. He loved you no matter what. He knew how much you loved him in your own crazy way.”

“I loved him so much, Joyce”

“I know, Honey. Wherever he is right now, I’m sure he can hear you.”

My dad looked straight at me.

“I never really grasped his explanation on why he never liked curtains. It makes sense now. Living without the constraints of any known confines is indeed liberating.”

“Jo, you sound like a writer.”

“Now you know whose genes bossed him into blossoming into a writer.”

“Oh, Jo!I am happy to see you smile. Let’s bid him goodbye for the last time and hand over the keys of the house to the new owners. “

My parents smiled at me: “Goodbye Son, we love and miss you.”

I replied for the first time: “Don’t leave me here. I love you both.”

I used to believe the unknown wasn’t something new to a writer. I’d dared to walk into it every day, to come out refreshed following the encounters with the ethereal creations in their homely realm. I would decode their secret messages, to write about it. Previously, I yearned to visit the unfamiliar zone, regretting coming home. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s a one-way street, as soon as the car accident resulted in my permanent placement into the unknown.

I’d three years to prepare myself to walk into the new life I’d envisioned as my afterlife. My only worry was if I would be able to write again. Then again, a writer does not need his body to express his visions.

All I need is to be equipped with: Wisdom, Victory, Compassion and Timeless Love. It was time for me to leave behind my soul in this room-my typewriter, and to travel on in my spirit.

Cursed is the life of a writer; so much to explore and just five senses to do it with. I walked out through the window, towards the light.