011. raison d’écrire

The fall I contracted carpal tunnel I used to cry myself to sleep, thinking that at 21 I was kissing the cadence of my handwriting goodbye. Most people with whom I speak about my writing are familiar with this vanity: that I love the look of my handwriting as much as your enticement with oven-fresh cookies, and that to me, flipping to a random page of a notebook and finding my script in fine graphite is one of the warmest comforts.

How I began is this.

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featured image by Gabrielle

010. the crossroads: aladdin, rushdie, and me

Aladdin was my Disney Prince. I had a crush on him for as long as I can remember; as a kid I watched the library’s copy of Aladdin and the King of Thieves enough not only to internalize every scene and song, but to run the VHS tape beyond repair. He was my Prince because he was kind enough to offer his bread, because I had a penchant for rogues (or perhaps for this he and Peter Pan are together to blame?), and because he was painted familiar: Tanner skin, black hair, shalwar, and Robin Williams’s suggestion that we “brush up [our] Sunday salaam for Prince Ali” while he rode on “Abu.”

(Incidentally, my father’s favorite way to annoy me was to pronounce my boy’s name “Al ad-Din,” to which I’d immediately stomp my foot and correct, “No, it’s Aladdin.” Embarrassing in retrospect.)

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