On writing

‘My name is Jose. This is how it is spelled (J-O-S-E). In the Philippines we pronounce it the same way as in English (Hosay). And the Arabs pronounce it is as do the Spanish speakers (Khosay). And the Portuguese speakers, they spell it the same, and pronounce it (Josay). But all these name variations have nothing to do with my name here, in Kuwait. Here I am Essa.’

‘If I were to be like the bamboo tree, a tree of no belonging.  Break a part of its stalk and plant it, with no roots, in any land. It does not wait long before its new roots break into earth. It grows all over again in a new land. It lets go of its past. It lets go of its memories. It does not even care that people have not agreed on its name – kawayan in the Philippines, khaizaran in Kuwait, or bamboo in other places.’

An adaptation of two beautiful excerpts from a beautiful book. The Bamboo Stalk by Saud Alsanousi.


You know when you read something and you get a lump in your throat or your eyes get teary; well behind that piece is a writer that cried his soul out for you in words.

Who says writing is easy.  It’s painful.

It’s painful conjuring up emotions, beliefs, inspirations.  It’s painful finding the right words, rhythm, style.  It’s painful cutting out words.  It’s painful letting go of a piece.  It’s painful waiting to find out whether people like it or not.  Oh, it’s all so, so painful.

But you know what’s much, much more painful?

Not writing.

She lays her darling darlings on the page.  Side by side.  At times she snuggles in a dot, at times a squiggle.

Her darling darlings, all so dear.

Some, perhaps, too dear.  She doesn’t let go.  Takes them back.  Back into her soul.

And lets the others run free.

In silence strums the solitude poet;

His words his strings, his pen his pick, his poem his song;

To be sung on stage by another, to an oblivious crowd.

He stands back stage.