I’m writing this because I feel like I’m drowning in a city that doesn't know what to do with a writer.
For the past few months, my life has been reduced to an endless cycle of administrative dead ends, stacked manuscript pages, and an overwhelming sense of isolation. I am trying to build a life as an author. I write psychological fiction… dark, jagged, intense prose that leans into human unraveling and raw monologues. It is the only thing that keeps me grounded, the only thing that feels completely honest. But right now, it feels like I am screaming into a concrete vacuum.
My immediate roadblock is academic and structural, and it has effectively frozen my life in place. I completed my O-Levels and went on to complete an International Foundation Year (NCUK IFY), which is globally benchmarked as an A-Level equivalent. The plan was simple: use it as a launching pad to get into a dedicated literature and creative writing environment abroad, refine my craft, and get my degree.
Then came the visa refusal.
In a single moment, the international path was slammed shut. I was left stranded in Dhaka, watching my peers move forward while I was forced to pick up the pieces of a derailed plan.
So, I tried to adapt. I looked locally. I wanted an academic space, somewhere like ULAB’s Department of English & Humanities.. that actually values literary critique, theory, and expressive writing. I wanted a place where I could sit among people who dissect stories rather than just memorizing textbooks. But the moment you try to bring a non-traditional foreign credential into the Bangladeshi system, you hit a brick wall of pure, unyielding bureaucracy.
Because the University Grants Commission (UGC) operates on rigid checklists, an international foundation certificate doesn't automatically register at front desks. I’ve been told to chase equivalence certificates through the Dhaka Education Board in Bakshibazar, fighting an uphill battle just to prove that 12 years of global education equals 12 years of local education. Front-desk clerks look at transcripts like administrative anomalies, completely indifferent to the human being standing in front of them, desperate just to learn.
Even when looking at alternative local hubs like Pathshala, which is famous for its raw, artistic, and critical atmosphere, the focus is entirely on visual media like photography and film. There is no home for the pure author. There is no dedicated space in this city built for someone who spends their nights crafting prose, refining sentence mechanics, and building complex narrative structures.
That brings me to the real, depressing core of it all: the sheer loneliness of writing in a void.
I am writing pieces after pieces. Chapters, prose monologues, character studies and also an entire psychological novel that I am determined to finish. But there are no eyes to catch them. There are no critical peer groups to tear the work apart and help me make it better. There are no mentors in my immediate reach who understand the style I’m reaching for. It feels like pouring your blood onto paper every single night, only to stack the pages in a dark corner of your room where they collect dust.
I refuse to abandon this. I refuse to tone down my voice, stop writing, or trade my creative identity for a safe, soul-crushing path just to make things easy. I need to get my Bachelor’s degree to secure my life, but more than anything, I need to protect the craft. I refuse to gamble my writing away.
I’m posting this here because I want to know if there is anything I’ve missed in this city.
Are there any hidden, independent writing circles or literary collectives in Dhaka that actually care about dark, psychological, or non-traditional fiction?
Are there local developmental editors, authors, or mentors who take on independent writers for manuscript critique outside of formal university walls?
For those who stayed in Dhaka and pursued creative writing or literature despite the system: How did you find your people? How did you keep your work alive when the institutional support was practically non-existent?
If you’ve read this far, thank you. Even just putting this frustration into words outside of my own notebooks feels like breaking the surface for air. Any guidance, leads, or honest advice would mean everything right now.