WRITING AND ME : The Beginning

Everyone talks about their firsts. If nothing else, we at least try to remember some of them. Our first steps, first kisses, first love or first sex even. Either way, we can all agree that there is something momentous about firsts.

Unfortunately, I cannot remember the first time I wrote. Although, if I were to take an unbiased guess, I would say I started writing in preschool; even though I might have held a pen at an earlier time. Or so my mum says.

I would eventually scribble on plain sheets of paper cut out from my drawing book. Cluster of bold letters they were, impressed deeply upon the paper like it was being branded, with thin lead stuck in wood for better handling, to which I was doing quite a poor job of. Some of my folks would disagree, being that I was only four years old at the time. They rather saw in me, a child with genius tendencies. They did not mind that some of the letters were misplaced, as some of the words, if not most of it, must have spelled out wrongly, to cook up an alphabet soup.

My artistic brother, who is a year younger, made paperback covers to encase my pages. Usually, they were obtained from cardboard or brown cartons lying within reach. He drew on them, caricatures of pictures that were supposed to portray whatever story I was writing. I usually shared my intended plot with him before I began writing.

I do not remember in details, the stories I wrote. But I recall presenting to my mum, my first self-published book. She accepted it with a beam of amusement and a light pat on my head, promising to read it. Too innocent to think much a smile, I walked away robust with pride, trusting and believing her to do so.

I somewhat regret not having a treasure chest where I could have stowed these memories, so I can maybe try now, to understand the psyche of the child I was.

As I grew older, writing gradually left me. Or did I leave it? I do not quite remember. But still we parted ways like estranged lovers; as a cat would leave home for the wild, maybe never to return. However, I held on to books. It was the only contact I had with writing.

Many years later, 2011 to be precise, during my youth service year, I stumbled upon an ad in the dailies about a creative writing workshop sponsored by Fidelity Bank. Helon Habila was to give the lecture, along with two other western authors. I am quite ashamed now to admit that I did not know who he was at the time but the idea seemed pretty good to me. Interest alone, however, did not guarantee a free gate pass to the seminar. We were made to back that up with a writing sample of 800 words. This was the break point for me for it was my first conscious attempt at writing literarily. So I went and sought after my lost love.

I took up the challenge to write a piece that was supposed to be my selling point to the highest bidder. What I did not realize, was that this was an unusual auction where I was bidding to be sold. After a lot of writing, erasing, and proof-reading from colleagues, friends and well-wishers, I came up with what I reckoned to be a killer piece. I submitted it and waited anxiously for the 1^st of July which was the proclaimed date to get back to selected applicants.

In a scene from the movie, ‘My Week with Marilyn’, Dame Sybil Thorndike said to Colin who was infatuated with Marilyn, that “first love is such sweet despair”. This could not have been truer as half-way into the month of July; I kept clicking on my inbox to find zilch there every time I checked. I felt I had been stood up by my date. I was at first angry, disappointed, then sad. In fact, I guess this is what it means to be heartbroken.

I have not stopped writing since then. Okay, I have not been entirely religious and consistent with it but the more I write, the more I realize I never had a killer piece for experience cured me of my delusion.

As a rite of passage for most would-be writers, I have launched a blog as this should help me become a better writer and maybe eventually attain the killer piece I have always longed for.

Towards the end of the movie, here’s what Colin said “Here’s what I remember most. Her embrace, her belief in me, and the joy she gave. That was her gift. When I think of her now, I think of that time when a dream came true and my only talent was not to close my eyes.”

The voice of a resilient heart sounds like this. I would know because despite how it feels like I am not able to get it right a lot of times, writing gives me joy. It is the haven where I seek refuge when nothing around me seems to make sense and even when everything makes sense, I still write. Like a true lover, I share my life with it.  My only prayer is that I do not stop writing.