I write my life into my work; I can’t help myself. I deny it
all the time of course. People read what I’ve written and send me messages
saying things like ‘how are you Amina?’ and ‘how have you been holding up
lately Amina?’ And obviously I tell THE lie and say I am fine. On my
adventurous days I say I’m splendid, super, the picture of perfection, always
awesome. The real truth is that my written work isn’t always centred on my
life. That would the height of hubris and slightly obsessive on my part.
However, I can honestly say there isn’t one thing I have written that wasn’t as
a result of an event in my life. Some events are more profound than others.
Some of them are more closely and honestly interpreted into my work than others.
Yet it is always the case that I observe something from my life so far, often
from my past, and after thinking a little too much about it an idea begins to form.
That idea quickly becomes coherent words that end up on paper. Some days I feel
the need to share it immediately however awful it is. Other days I leave it on
paper. I go back to it over and over again looking for the loophole I
unwittingly created. Some of these are still on paper somewhere and they’ve
never been shared.
So on the days when I’m feeling dark, which I am beginning
to accept is most days, I write. I write whatever I am feeling or seeing or
thinking. I write till my fingers cramp. I write till the words look like
unbroken scribbles. I write till I can’t make sense of any thought that pops
into my mind. I write about everyone that matters to me. I write about
everything that has had an impact. I just keep writing because it is the only
way I know how to live.
