American Muslima Writer -Daring to Work Towards Jannah

I actually had time last night because my kids had fallen asleep easily and husband too. My stomach was hurting badly making it imperative that I relax in a way that doesn't make it hurt worse. I stared blankly around my house wondering what to do with my time. Can't do dishes requires too much work and standing. Can't even do computer because my pathetic little folding chair requires a hunchback squish stomach seating which will cause more harm. My eyes then fell upon my disheveled bookcase. The plastic pins holding up the shelves have bent under the enormous weight of my books and they fell being held up only by the books under. This is what I get for buying cheap bookcases. Since half the paperback books had fallen under the crushing pressure of my Islamic books (on top shelf naturally) I could pick a book out from the floor (which is where I'm leaving them until hubby fixes the bookshelf) or from the few remaining on the shelf. I spotted the top book on my "to be read still" pile and saw it was a book that my husband had read. I picked it up and read the back. It didn't grab me but I didn't want to hem haw all night when my precious time was normally limited. A baby waits until you're comfy to wake up. I shrugged and took the book to my couch and poured myself a glass of mixed berry juice to help ease my aching stomach. The book is James Rollins' "Sandstorm". The first sentence really grabbed me into the book that I thought might only mildly interest me. I read two character's Point Of Views until the next one was to begin on page 15.

Then I did the unbelievable. I put the book down and went to bed. Without being dragged there by my crying baby. My thoughts were in turmoil though despite the calm state of body. After only 15 pages my heart was crying out to write again. The natural flow of words I read so elegantly stated had reminded me of how much I loved the written word and how much I had missed reading. It has been months since I read a fiction book. Should I pick up my pen again? How cruelly I had cast it aside for other goals. Leaving my beloved characters hanging in their trivial problems until a further date when I could go and help them again.
This morning when I woke up I roamed the house. I felt better so I could do my chores but the pull of Sandstorm yanked my heart to the couch where I had fallen in love again last night. To return to the lover's tryst with my book would mean things might not get done in the house, thereby sparking my husband's disapproval. Yet I couldn't resist. I set up as I had done the night before even down to the glass of mixed berry juice. I started at page 15 and read until the Chapter 2 break. Then I did another incredible thing. I put the book down.

It was too good. Reading again. Feeling words that my own heart ached to write. I have to take this slowly. Like a smoker who quit and has to build his three pack a day habit back up slowly. I'm afraid of my writing addiction. Afraid it will consume my life. I will forsake cleaning just to write one more page. Forsake playing with my daughter to write just one more paragraph. Embrace baby's feeding times and stretch them out to be able to write just one more word. Life which has begun to finally organize itself will fall into disarray as I scramble to get things done and still have time for my addiction. So I'm hoping that by reading slowly it will take me longer to read the book and longer to start writing again, thus delaying the inevitable chaos.