The Ones Between the Lines: Intro

hala saleh
3 min readNov 2, 2016

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This is part of my attempt at writing a “novel” or set of stories for #NaNoWriMo. Here is the link to the Table of Contents (Index), which will be a work in progress through November 2016.

“Mothers don’t write books,” she murmured to herself, absentmindedly picking up the trail of socks, playthings, and other miscellany her boys left in their path, as if to mark their trail, as if to ensure they never got lost in the jungle that had once been simply a home.

“But you have so many ideas,” she continued, in her head now. “And a wittiness that translates well onto the page.”

She sighed, glancing out the window, pausing for a moment.

Who was she kidding? Writers must be readers, after all, and the deepest thing she’d read lately had something to do with a pigeon whose dreams of driving a bus had been dashed by practicality, reality, and the rules that prohibit animals to step outside the box and partake in an activity that had been deemed “for humans only.”

It seems she had a lot in common with pigeons, lately.

She shook her head slightly as she realized the other obstacle to her fantasy writing career was that she probably had the literary depth of a 12 year-old.

Though she had spent her elementary years in “America”, most of those years with her nose in a book, by the time high school rolled around, she and her family were “back home”, whatever that meant. This meant there was a whole new language she needed to become proficient in, limited access (which really meant no access) to a functional public library system, and a cutthroat public testing system that meant the difference between getting into a major your parents could be proud of in front of their family and friends (medicine, engineering, and less desirably but still acceptable, something in the sciences), or a lifetime of “I’m not sure where we went wrong with you.”

So, high school equaled no time or real ability to read for pleasure or to “expand horizons” as all the PSAs used to say when she was back in the US as a little girl — you know the ones, they had those catchy little jingles (“The More You Know!”).

Then by the time she was back in the US for college (in pursuit of the family’s relentless dream of American higher education and ultimately, an immigrant’s version of the American dream), she realized she was congregating with friends who were casually referencing Thoreau, Proust, Hemingway, Kafka, Tolstoy, and so many others that she had merely brushed elbows with on the shelves of the college’s library, but had never taken to bed, let alone shared a meal with.

She had a lot of catching up to do, and tried to do it in between computer science lectures, math problem sets, and a newfound fondness and subsequent avoidance of these things called bagels and limitless cereal at the dining hall.

So she picked up Ayn Rand, and spent a few weeks in a cycle of trying to remember where she left off, then starting all over again. She finally completed not one, but two Ayn Rand books, feeling only melancholy by the end. She picked up Rushdie, hoping that the cultural references here and there would make up for her getting lost in the intricate tapestry of words he seemed to so effortlessly draw upon the pages. She picked up Americana literature and saw glimpses of herself in some parts while simultaneously becoming aware of how un-American she must seem to those who saw her dark hair, her olive skin, and heard the hints of an accent they couldn’t quite place.

Over the years, she accumulated quite a number of unfinished titles, each spending some time at her bedside, only to be replaced by the next work a few days (or for the luckier ones, weeks) later. Like a woman searching for the perfect lover but abandoning each attempt before giving it an opportunity to blossom, her literary pursuits ended up being, well, unfinished business.

Indeed she, herself, felt like unfinished business.

And unfinished business is a recipe for disaster, especially when it comes to a project as audacious as writing a book.

“But you should do it!” she said mockingly, copying the tone of those in her life who have encouraged her to write, to “express” herself, to release her talents (ha!) to the world.

“Sure.”

Next chapter: 1: How to Eat an Elephant

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hala saleh

People-driven Products, Sunrise/sunset and light chaser. Always learning.