We’re excited to introduce you to the always interesting and insightful Roukia Ali. We hope you’ll enjoy our conversation with Roukia below.

Alright, Roukia thanks for taking the time to share your stories and insights with us today. Are you happier as a creative? Do you sometimes think about what it would be like to just have a regular job? Can you talk to us about how you think through these emotions?

This is such a good question! Though I knew I wanted to be a writer since I was four years old and have for the most part never wavered over the years, I have experienced (and still do experience) intense bouts of self-doubt. People are always telling you that you’re lucky for knowing from a young age what you’re wanting to do and keeping at it and seeing results (like an interview with CanvasRebel, oh my god!), but I think they mean that for traditional careers.

The last moment I remember feeling insanely perturbed by the idea of committing to writing as a career was right before applying to university for my bachelor’s degree. I was trying to decide what to do, even though I knew deep down what I wanted.

Though I graduated from high school with high distinction, I never considered myself to be confident in the more “practical” subjects that landed the “safe” jobs. Math and science required an immense amount of effort to get As in for me, and I had more of an inclination towards humanities and social sciences—I excelled mostly in language arts, creative writing, psychology, and social studies.

So when it came time to sit in front of my computer and start applying to universities, I spent more time panicking and overthinking and delaying than actually ticking boxes or writing statements. I was making myself sick and unproductive with the idea of being unemployable if I chose the writer’s way. I had been, in the last few months before graduation, comparing myself to my classmates who were choosing more societally respectable programs—law (I was always told I’d make a good lawyer by my family, which was a nice way of saying I argued a lot), engineering, medicine, etc. There was a lot of pressure coming from all sides to sacrifice my passions, even though I was good at them and loved them—from general academia placing more financial and extrinsic value on traditional paths and STEM-related careers to being the eldest daughter in an immigrant family of scientists, where it felt like the weight of their expectations and dreams rested on my shoulders.

I couldn’t completely choose comfort over passion, however, and was obstinate about going into English at least as one of my majors—I could make a case for the transferable skills it could get me and the freedom it would allow me to explore different professions—truly, I wanted to at least like taking courses in university for some time. But what was really difficult was choosing something to pair it with, something that in my head needed to be practical to justify my pull towards the humanities. I wanted to pair creative writing with it but kept switching it out for programs I thought were safer—psychology, pre-law, mental health studies.

It got to the point where the day before the application was due for the university I ultimately ended up attending, I came crying to my parents about which of my two fears would be more bearable—struggling in a program I couldn’t enjoy, just to work a job I couldn’t enjoy, just to be financially secure; or taking the risk of combining two liberal arts programs and ending up, in my head at least, dramatically destitute and a complete failure. I worry—still worry sometimes—about what people think of me. It renders me unable to make decisions sometimes, or worst of all, people’s perceptions influence my decisions.

I’m lucky that my parents are supportive people, for all their small, mostly harmless jabs about what they think of writers and the careers they make for themselves. They have only ever wanted me to be happy, and they said as much that day, and that comes back to your question. I’d say I am happy. I was nurtured from a young age with a love for literature, and I’m still doing what I love—there’s privilege in that, but there’s also an understanding that success is never guaranteed. I’m happy with the choice I made, so I have the better shot—I’m now set to graduate (hopefully with high distinction again) from the University of Toronto’s English literature and creative writing programs next year, and my parents’ trust in my stubbornness to make something of myself keeps me going. I am doing what I need to do to make sense of my place in the world.

I do wonder sometimes, though, in between the launch parties and the publishing milestones and the university deadlines, what it would have been like to go the “normal” way—to not be stereotyped as a future teacher every time someone asks what I’m going to do with my degree because they can’t fathom that what I have learned can be applied to multiple situations, not only passed down. I often think the work I’m doing doesn’t sound as impressive as landing on the moon or building the next bridge or saving lives at a hospital. With the rise of A.I. and anti-intellectualism and the dismissal of the arts becoming stronger day by day, it gets challenging. But it’s work I have never turned my back on, work that has saved me, work that has let me be my authentic self. I couldn’t trade that for the most conventional job in the world. I firmly believe stubborn and ambitious people make a way, and to hell with everything else. I’m happy because I believe I can overcome it all.

Great, appreciate you sharing that with us. Before we ask you to share more of your insights, can you take a moment to introduce yourself and how you got to where you are today to our readers.

Hello! My name is Roukia Ali (she/her), and I sometimes go by my nickname, Kia. I’m a Canadian-Comorian writer currently in my fourth year of university, doing my honors bachelor of arts degree in English literature and creative writing at the University of Toronto.I’ve been interested in my current educational pursuits since I was four years old and have always dreamed of being a published writer—I wrote my first story at four, started writing novels at eight, and got my first official publication at eighteen in my campus’ literary journal, Scarborough Fair, Canada’s oldest university-affiliated literary magazine. At the time of this interview, I have been published a little over seventy times online and in print, across various contests, anthologies, and magazine issue rollouts, within Canada and abroad. 

I grew up in a household that always pushed the importance of literature and being critical of the world around us and was able to begin writing in two languages, French as my first and English as my second. I became certain that I wanted to take the creation of literature seriously when I was eight years old, after receiving a Standard of Excellence for my short story writing in both French and English on the provincial achievement exams I took in third grade. Writing has always felt like the one thing I could be really good at if I worked hard and dedicated myself to it, and I have.

I have done all kinds of writing as a result of broadening my horizons throughout my time at university—poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, travel writing, screenwriting, interview and podcast scriptwriting, playwriting, comic book writing, genre writing, academic essay writing, etc. I am particularly intrigued by hybrid forms of writing or unconventional ways of telling a story, such as the use of the epistolary form or fragment writing. Though I have always been a big fan of the possibilities of fiction, telling my own story in a world where Black voices must constantly compete for attention and recognition is something I’ve come to value over the course of my degree. I started out as a poet, but I’m mainly a prosaist now, submitting pieces for magazines and contests until I scrape together enough courage and conviction to write a book (which could be happening as early as this fall!).

I think the primary thing that sets me apart from other writers is, first and foremost, my background. Canadian writers have steadily solidified themselves in the popular and studied literary canon over the years (Margaret Atwood, for example, attended my university and studied in my department), but Black Canadian writers, I feel, are still finding their footing. I hope to contribute to that canon, gaining some sort of national and international recognition for it, especially as a Black writer with a Comorian background, knowing most people can’t naturally point out Comoros on a map when thinking about African countries. Growing up reading and writing simultaneously in two languages has also affected the way I approach language and its uses in my pieces as well—I like examining what gets lost in translation, and I write from a place of necessity and great feeling over wanting to very bluntly and traditionally communicate my thoughts. I also like to think starting out in writing young has given me an edge—I never imagined being anything else but a writer, and have had it practically figured out my entire life, and I’ve brought that initial spark that hasn’t died down inside of me into everything literature-related—I’ve tried a plethora of different forms and have received formal education and training in writing, which is a privilege; I work as Head of Staff for a literary magazine, The Infinite Blues Review; I’m currently Vice-President of Creative Writing in my English Literature and Film Departmental Student Association; and a fun fact I always like bringing up about how much I love literature and writing is that I’ve read the entirety of Shakespeare’s works, from his plays to his sonnets.

What I’m most proud of, reflecting on my journey so far, is how many times I’ve been willing to bet on myself against all odds. I’m a very self-doubtful person, so it takes a lot of courage for me to put my work out into the world—I honestly think it’s why I didn’t get published sooner than eighteen years old. My motto in life is that you have to approach the opportunities that present themselves to you in it as things that are possible and within reach. I have an “it would be so cool if you achieved this” mentality about writing that continues to push me to go higher and dream bigger. It has led me to some of my greatest accomplishments—first place in competitions, getting paid for my work on occasion, presenting at launch parties and undergraduate conferences, winning awards, etc. I believe at the end of the day that we are our own barriers and worst critics, and it is a truth I’ve given to myself to not be intimidated by how often my voice as a queer Black woman goes overlooked. If I want something, I can very well have it.

What I want people to know about me when they interact with my work is that I am a very obsessed person (and that will always come across in my work). I treat writing as an honest dialogue between myself and my readers—if my heart isn’t in what I’ve written down, I don’t expect people to bother with me. Though I crave the validation writing can give me more often than not, I still find it to be fundamental to write for myself first before I can relinquish my writing to anyone else. I’m driven not so much by the logic and rules and expectations of writing as by the emotional necessity in it for me—the revelations that it can prompt, the images that can be excavated, and the lasting impression that can be left on my own or someone else’s mind, even long after the piece has been finished.

What’s the most rewarding aspect of being a creative in your experience?

It’s definitely the people you meet along the way and the people that have been your day-one biggest fans that make this all worth it.

My day-one cheerleaders have always been my parents, as I’ve mentioned. I may be the black sheep of my family considering my creative interests, but my parents have never doubted me personally, just the world I’m trying to be an artist in right now. It’s a crazy world—so much is happening out here that aims to discredit creatives and the work they do and the ways in which they force people to think (especially for themselves), evaluate what’s in front of them, and challenge their preconceived notions. The most rewarding part of this little career I’m starting to make for myself is stepping off a stage after reading my work aloud at a launch party or some presentation showcase and watching my parents receive compliments about me/my work on my behalf. Being an extension of their patience, resilience, and ambition is the greatest honor of my life.

I’m also so humbled by the community that exists in writing, the talent that I have been surrounded with for the better part of my life, especially recently. My peers in my creative writing program workshop groups that I have been learning alongside and learning from over the past three years. My mentors and professors, past and present, who have been guiding me on this special journey. My writer friends at other universities. The teams I work with at The Infinite Blues Review and at The Students of English Literature and Film Departmental Student Association. In the popular imagination, writers are seen as misunderstood, brooding, reclusive, and haughty. The practice of writing has always been described as solitary. But that could not be further from the truth. I love having a community to fall back on for ideas, inspiration, venting, and celebration. In a world where non-creatives aren’t expected to sympathize with or attempt to understand our struggles to make art in a world that seems so against it lately, I value having people that understand me to my core.

Sometimes, those people aren’t necessarily writers either. Getting sincere well wishes and messages of pride from my close friends and family will always hit for me. But sometimes, I get people that will come up to me after a reading, who will shake my hand or offer some encouraging words or just gush about how I made them feel, and it’s an incomparable rush. I find it so rewarding that my work is good enough to speak for me some days—that I can cut through the small talk I hate so much and connect with people on a deeper, more emotional level. I cherish knowing that I was able to touch people with my words, my voice, and my presence. I write because I want people to know who I am and find people that feel what I feel. Genuine connection always reminds me of why I do what I do and makes me think this is probably why writers I have always admired do it too.

In your view, what can society to do to best support artists, creatives and a thriving creative ecosystem?

I think a lot of the work to be done has to begin with understanding and changing the ways in which we view the arts in general.

It’s so frustrating to tell people that this is what you do, this is what’s helping you to survive or what’s keeping you alive or what makes you feel as if your life has meaning, and then getting shut down because an art career doesn’t have a measurable and palatable way of understanding success. Some people feel as if they will have still accomplished something if they don’t get paid a single cent for their work—that by no means suggests that they aren’t providing anything to society. Here in North America, we have a capitalist understanding of worth and productivity—we crave clear and driven results, and we crave evidence of some purpose we are fulfilling. But I personally think that if I make one person, just the one, feel a little less lonely or misunderstood in the world, I will have done my job and served my calling. Art has intrinsic worth, and seeing its value through an economic lens undermines the fact that there is an artist within all of us that could do such beautiful things and give us the meaning we’re all looking for if it wasn’t for the fact that they would starve or be squashed for doing it

I have never understood seeing one profession or path as superior or inferior to another. We all have our roles to play in life, and not everyone is cut out for the same things, and that’s what makes life interesting. People who turn their noses up at art and scoff at art fail to realize that whatever art we create makes up the vast majority of how our culture is perceived or understood. Art defines the times and is all around us—the one who believes in its uselessness still cries to their favorite music, goes to the movies, reads a book to wind down after a long day, listens to a podcast while cooking, plays a video game, goes to a museum, and spends hours scrolling through social media where some poem is trending, some celebrity has put out a post, or some headline is trying to paint a narrative. The one who believes in art’s uselessness will drive past a billboard with a carefully curated slogan without a second glance or a thought to how it may influence their consumer patterns, or go to a funeral or a wedding where someone presents a speech and not think to know what the words could mean in relation to the people being mourned or celebrated. The sooner we recognize art’s influence, the better our art can become when the power of what it can do is affirmed. We lose so much of our humanity when we favor the technologies or the certain metrics of success that also define the times we live in.

Besides just validating creative pursuits in a critical way, I have always been adamant about the need for programs and opportunities that are arts-related and for art spaces to thrive. We need to fight for the maintenance and against the censorship or closure of libraries, performance art theaters, music halls, and art galleries. Governments should consider funding more grants for artists to get their work out of their drafts and out into the world, and there should be more chances to develop artistic skills—I’ve always liked theater camps, open mics, writing fellowship programs, author talks, or just low-stakes workshops that operate on clear schedules. Artists deserve to be paid in general. Increasing access to independent resources to showcase work (speaking as a writer), such as literary magazines, chapbook contests, or the like, would have also been so useful for me, I’m sure, if I had been directed that way by someone I trusted over having to discover the pipeline on my own.

Nowadays, there need to be stricter policies and codes of conduct for the usage and commercial distribution of AI-related products—not only is it bad for the environment the art scene is thriving in, but it also plagiarizes the hard work of artists without consent or reward—there can be no more excuses that artists need to suck it up or risk being left behind when everything AI does creatively has already been done better, and with more effort and intention, by human beings.

Lastly, it is so important to nurture the future generations. Anti-intellectualism and plummeting literacy rates can no longer be tolerated. Children deserve to have access to the tools that equip them to interact with the world around them in curious and critical ways—strengthening access to after-school learning programs or developing interactive and engaging learning models to incite passion for reading, spelling, and discussion leaves future thinkers less vulnerable to exploitation and may even produce children that grow up like I did, wanting to be creatives.

Contact Info:

• Instagram: @roukiaa9140
• Linkedin: Roukia (Kia) Ali
• Other: You can learn a bit more about me and the magazine I work for here, at our website: https://sites.google.com/view/the-infinite-blues-review/home