The First One

Here we go

I’m curled up in the back room on the fourth floor of the school.

I made a publication.

I wonder why I hadn’t before? Perhaps laziness. It seemed like too much work.

Now, I’d like a place to see all my work together.

It’s late in the night and all has gone to sleep. There is only the click clack of my fingers against the keyboard. I rub my eyes. I’m exhausted.

Tomorrow, my mind begins. Tomorrow…

But what I shall do tomorrow remains to be seen.

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I’ve spent the day conducting interviews. My field work is strong. I’ve scheduled more for the following week. The girls here are excited, chattering amongst themselves about me and my work. I’m embarrassed, because it’s not much to speak of.

What to you write? The last thing?

I tell them about the poet whose face graced the covers of my last two posts. Darwish.

The reaction to my humble clicking on my laptop is overwhelmingly positive and I suddenly feel as if I must not let them down. I want to do this right.

Because I’ve set up my elevator pitch like this.

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I'm a writer. I write articles. I have readers. 
They are foreigners who know nothing, absolutely nothing, about this. The school. The girls. The people. The way of life. 
And I want to write about it. I want to create an article that represents who you are. Will you let me interview you?

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Oh, yes. They want me to interview them.

We’ve even decided on a name.

The Last Ottoman Girls.