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I spent a large portion of my morning holding back tears. I don't think I've ever cried over missing Mehdi, which is actually strange, but I've managed to pull myself together whenever I feel homesick. But for some reason, today, even though I had dragged myself to the library, and was under the pressure of an upcoming supervision, I still found myself taking that deep breath you take when you're trying to push emotions back in, and setting a tissue to eyes welled up with tears. But in the end, I'm not too upset about it, because it lead me to coffee with a colleague, who, I must add, is also one of the warmest and dearest people I've met at Oxford. We didn't talk about how pathetic my day had been or even about how horribly suffocating the thick, dark sky is. Instead, we spent most of it talking about creative writing, in a very raw way. We talked about how sometimes we find ourselves overcome with this intense rush of desire to write the novel we both have been thinking about for years, but how we just can't do it, for some reason. Why? "Why don't we write?" we kept asking one another. Well, we don't have time. This program is so intense. But, is that really the reason? Did we start the novel before the program? Did we write in our long breaks between terms? I don't think that's the reason. I've been thinking about this for six months now: Why don't I write? Because, if there is one thing that I am not confused about in my life, it is that I want to write a novel, and I know I can. I don't know. I remember my creative writing professor once told me that he will do just about EVERYTHING to prevent himself from sitting down to write. He said, he would straighten his laptop for minutes. He would dust the keys. He would even organize the pens in his pen holder, and label all the folders on his desk. And only when he had run out of all procrastinating tasks possible, he would start to write. I'm not sure what it is about that initial keystroke that's so difficult to overcome.

I was overcome with one of these rushes to write on the plane ride home to California, this past Spring. And I opened my laptop (probably out of sheer boredom on the plane) and wrote. I wrote the first three pages of my novel, and it felt so right getting this story out. Then my battery light flashed, and just as it was about to die, I clicked, "Save" and the window popped open, "File Name:" "Save as Type:". "Docx" was right. I paused over the "File Name" for what felt like hours. I thought, "If I label it as 'novel' then I'll always see it, and feel guilt over another unfinished project blinking at me in my Documents folder. I didn't have a name yet for the novel, so I couldn't save it as that. I couldn't save it as short story, because that wouldn't do it justice." so I decided, to name it "-----" That's what it's saved under. "This title comes with no pressure," I thought. 

Yesterday, I opened "-----" and felt my heart skip a beat, because no one can tell if those rush of writing moments churn out any good work. But I read through, and I liked it. I really did. I know I can write this novel. I know I will, one day. And today's coffee with my dear friend assured me of it, I think it assured both of us.