Greetings from Detroit, the city in which I live since my writing won me a house. I know, it's still hard for me to wrap my head around it too. The short story is that a cool non-profit in Detroit called Write A House awards permanent residencies to writers based on their quality and depth of their writing. At the end of last year, I won. In February, I moved to Detroit, to my very own house, to more space than I know what to do with.
Since then I've been attempting to be an adult (and often horribly failing), trying to get to know a complex, rich city that's often known for all the wrong things, and doing the only thing that keeps me going: writing.
The future, both for me and this city, remains uncertain but hopeful. This has been a strange and wonderful journey so far, the weird manifestation of some kind of American Dream for a child of Middle Eastern refugees whose life could have been completely different if it wasn't for a couple split second decisions almost 30 years ago. I'm capturing some of it on the Write A House blog, trying to share a part of what all of this means for me, for Detroit and for me in Detroit. Please follow along there, if you're so inclined.