the lonely life of a writer

Ever thought about the fact that all the most amazing writers have a history of mental illnesses, high suicide rate, high substance abuse and alcoholism? It isn't that odd, I guess, when you think about how much time you spend alone as a writer. Not just alone, alone with your thoughts. That you write down. And that sometimes you can't find the words for. And it drives you crazy.

Writers are lucky, when they can actually write. I love the fact that I can put my feelings into words. It helps me understand them, helps me understand myself. I don't know what I would do if I couldn't write.

But writing is one lonely job. Here I am: I flew, 6,000 miles away, to a city of 8 million people, just to go write, alone, in a cafe on the Lower East Side. Yet, magically, being alone here is not the same as being alone in Beirut. In Lebanon I'm never alone. I'm never alone in my room because at any time my dad, my sister, the housekeeper or the cat could drop in. The doorbell rings, I know it's not for me, but I have to answer it anyway. The land-line rings, and I also know it's not for me since I haven't used the house phone since 2002, but I have to answer it. If I'm sitting alone in a cafe, I'm gonna get interrupted at least 3 times by someone I recognise who is also here. Some will say that's the best part about Beirut (like my dad, he loves the constant social interruptions) but for me, it's not an environment I can work in.

So I brought myself to New York City, and I'm trapped at home because it's minus a million degrees outside and my nose almost broke off when I went to Yoga this morning. Yes, I went to Yoga after two months of putting off doing any sort of physical activity. Anyway, what was I saying? Ah, yes writing.

I'm writing today, I have nothing else to do and I've decided to stop procrastinating. Don't postpone what you can do today for tomorrow --or something like that. My mom would always say that to me. Good advice too, except I don't often take it. But this time I am. Odd thought I had this morning (this is off topic but I'll still mention it) I stopped and looked at my mom's picture on my phone's background and I suddenly wished for something I haven't found myself wishing for in a long time: I wished that she could come see me here, now that I moved to New York. That she would come to visit her daughter and that for a week, just seven days, I could have her all to myself, and show her my Manhattan. It's funny, but the very first time I found myself wishing to visit America was when my mother told me bedtime stories about her youth: when she was 17, she went on a trip to America, sleeping in different people's homes --that's how I remember it anyway, her great adventure.

She was a fun person, my mom. Loved to pull pranks on her friends. Read comic books. Was a ski champion. Loved Peanuts comics, and I think that says it all. I miss her at odd moments, still. Like now, for some reason, sitting in this New York apartment.

Anyway, got completely off subject here. See how the mind of a writer works? Goes off on all kinds of tangents.

Yeah, the life of a writer might be lonely. But the mind of a writer --that, I can tell you, is full of stories.