A Letter from a Writer No One Has Heard Yet

A Letter from a Writer No One Has Heard Yet

Years go by, and sometimes I feel as if I’m writing into a vast emptiness that never echoes back.
I sit before the page, pouring my whole heart into words, while the world moves on as if nothing happened.
No one has heard my voice yet—not because it is weak, but because the noise around us has become louder than any honest story.

I wrote about injustice and courage in The Oil Train Theft,
and about the purification of the soul through pain in Holivera —
a novel where I wanted to show that light is born only from deep wounds.
I was deeply influenced by George Orwell’s fearless truth,
and Leo Tolstoy’s divine compassion —
and somewhere between their shadows, I tried to find my own place.
But who grants opportunities in these times? No one.

The ads exhausted me. The marketing drained my hope.
It feels as if every road leads not to readers, but to sellers —
to those who wish to take from the writer, not read him.
Still, I write, because writing is not a choice. It’s destiny.
It’s the last home where I truly find myself, even if no one reads me.

Maybe one day, someone will pick up one of my books —
not to count the pages or check the sales,
but to hold it as one would hold a living heart made of paper.
Then I’ll know the waiting was not in vain.

Reda Zayed
A writer who still believes that words can change the world,
even if no one has heard them yet.