Selective Writer’s Block: When Some Things Are Better Left Unwritten

Darkness is oppressive. Silence echoes what I do not want to hear. Night is a curse that keeps on coming back. Night is the green screen onto which everything is projected, what I do not want to see nor feel, my anxieties, my fears and pains. The sunrise ushers the relief of light, the glow of which makes the burden of things feel slightly lighter.

The hustle and bustle of survival gets in the way of despondence, yet the feeling lurks around almost every corner. The day feels endless because the struggle for survival offers no respite. And before you know it, darkness comes and it starts all over again. More often than not, this is how it feels these days.

Beirut has never been a place for the faint of heart. Once upon a time, if I were asked to describe it, I would have compared it to someone irresistibly charming, more than anybody you would ever meet. Someone you would keep falling hopelessly in love with, even though you’d always know it would be a tumultuous, love and hate relationship with no future whatsoever. When compared to a force of nature, Beirut would be a glorious sunrise after a furious storm, though you’d always be left wondering when the next storm will hit, because it always does and stronger than the one before. 

This is the essence of what has made Beirut the inspiration it has always been, by the good and the wicked, the beautiful and the repulsive, the mundane and outrageous, the life and the death. Pain and sadness usually inspire, if only as a way to confront them. This time it feels different. A country is collapsing and I, along with millions of fellow compatriots, am in the middle of it, seeing it sink patiently from dusk ‘til dawn. I open the windows and watch a free-fall into an abyss with no end in sight. I listen to those trying to cling onto any sliver of anything to keep themselves alive. Or shall I say, a country is dying and I, along with millions of fellow compatriots, am on its deathbed, seeing it wither patiently from dusk ‘til dawn. 

I take it all in, powerless in the face of it all, often not wanting to wonder what tomorrow will bring. Pockets of happiness are created out of necessity, to maintain a modicum of sanity. There is hope, but it’s in extremely short supply, sourced from memories of better days and daydreams of what could have been.  

But this isn’t only about Beirut. 

This is about realities that are too painful; a sense of empathy that becomes too acute and too personal, all leading to a feeling of powerlessness so heavy it’s crippling to write about. Articulating the barrage of emotions is impossible, although there is so much to say. The pain and disbelief can’t be surmounted. This isn’t entirely a writer’s block, but a ‘selective block’ so to speak. The inability to write on specific situations, about which you have too much to say, but have no words to say it with.

The subject overpowers your ability to write about it in a coherent way, and express more than rage and helplessness. However way you tackle it ends up being a reflection of the actual predicament, reading and re-reading forces it to be re-lived on a loop. It’s a different kind of torment that stabs straight into the heart and starts aiming at your soul. It leads to questions that one doesn’t have the answers to, or doesn’t even want to hear. In a certain way, it is life, in its most basic, raw and truest form.

As writers, we choose to put words on paper for many reasons. Whether fiction or non-fiction, we write to express our feelings and opinions, to deal with and make sense of what moves us, to move others, to entertain, to scream for help or to scream for change. Forcing it out by tempering what’s at stake would be a lie, while presenting reality as it is feels like a curse. That’s why some things are better left unwritten, until one is ready to write about them. And I’m still not ready to write about Beirut yet… 

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Marina Chamma is a Beirut-based political economist, writer and blogger on eyeontheeast.org. Having started her university studies at Sophia University in Tokyo, she graduated from the American University of Beirut with a B.A. in Political Science and obtained a M.Sc. in International Political Economy from the London School of Economics. Her first book, “And So We Drive On: Short Stories,” was published in July 2020. Her fiction and creative non-fiction writing has also appeared in Sukoon Magazine, Sonder Midwest and in “Liban: Messages pour un pays” (Beirut: Editions Noir Blanc etc., 2019). Follow her on Twitter and Facebook on @eyeontheeast

AND SO WE DRIVE ON: SHORT STORIES

A mother encounters her son, arbitrarily detained during Lebanon’s civil war, revealing almost everything she wanted to know about his dreadful ordeal. A nearby shooting causes an unexpected detour, unveiling a desolate Beirut, hidden behind pitch-black nights and unfinished buildings.

A soon to retire spy returns to Beirut and reestablishes contact with a former asset, but is he the one being spied on this time? And so we drive on is a collection of short stories inspired by Lebanon and life in Beirut, a city many of us love to hate and hate that we love. the stories are about life itself in all its beauty and ugliness. inspired by the experiences of some, they are ultimately the stories of all. They are a reflection that no matter what happens to us, we as human beings move on. We drive on and life somehow drives along with us.

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Category: Contemporary Women Writers, On Writing