When my editor asked me to write another column to replace the first one, I responded very quickly by promising him that I would do exactly just that in half an hour.
I stared at the bright screen of my laptop and wondered what I should write about. It was that precise moment, a teenager who had finished his final secondary exams, phoned to ask me if I could advise him whether he should take up journalism or not.
I said the first thing that came to my mind. I told the poor and confused student that writing is like a specially prepared cuisine. You need special preparation from the ideal ingredients to the right temperature of the oven. You also need to be in the mood. You spoil it and your customers will remember and never visit your restaurant again.
When I stopped, I could hear the boy talking to someone at the background in a whisper, perhaps his mum. I am sure he was complaining, saying the man he knew as a columnist had completely lost it.
I coughed to bring him back to the conversation and started explaining what I should have said to him five minutes earlier. This time, I carefully explained to him when they say ‘food for thought’ they mean write to provoke readers and make them think.
It is not about which school of journalism he should go but what he would learn from his teachers. He needed to come back to develop his own style to make readers go beyond the first line. If you cannot captivate your readers, then you don’t stand a chance. They would never pick up an article with your byline again.
I also explained to the young man, most importantly, he must connect with his readers. You must bond with them and if you have to make them feel every beat of your heart while they read you, then do so. You cannot hold back when you write. You have to pour out your anguish, spit out your frustration, dazzle them with your charm and every word in the page must radiate with happiness if you want them to feel your joy.
But I warned him that good writers never aim to impress. They write what they see, hear and importantly, what they feel. When I stopped, I could tell that he was puzzled.
He asked me quite timidly, “Did I call you at the wrong time, Sir?”
I knew then I made a mess of it. The young man was looking for advice from a person he considered his role model. What I did was giving him a mouthful. It was not what I said, now I know, but how I said it.
This is the thing about writing. There are no tones or variations of voices when you hit the keys of the keyboard to detect your mood. They don’t see the tears that cloud your vision when you write about a difficult subject.
Readers don’t see you pace up and down when you have the writer’s block. Yet, you need to do it because writing is not just a profession but an addiction worse than any intoxication. At times, writing can be that thin line that divides the world of insanity and the real one. Sometimes, you can get so deeply entrenched in what you write and you get confused with the
reality.
I did not say that to the young man because I did not want to put him off about journalism for good. In conclusion, I told him, writers are neither made nor born with the talent but the circumstances somewhere in their childhood inspired them to be one.
Saleh Al Shaibany
saleh_shaibany@yahoo.com
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