Sometimes you just write,write and write some more.

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If by now you deem me as a hopeless idealist and fantasist, I would not judge you. God knows you are right; but so are we all. We are all forlorn dreamers who are scared of the future. We are scared of leaving our lousy girlfriends because we are hopeless romantics who think they will change or maybe we are too scared someone else won’t come along. We are afraid of trusting people because we have been hurt in the past. We somehow forget that that is the thing with life, people will always disappoint you, and that’s just about it, pain and hurting are inevitable. If you are a writer like me, you are hell terrified of writing another blog post because you still cling to your previous success. Crap! We are more petrified of death than we are of giving meaning and worth to the life we are living. My list goes on, so let’s get this settled; your rightful description; a frightened dreamer.

When this blog started, I had an anomalous feeling about it, almost shifty. First, I wasn’t given options ati would you like to write or not… I was just told, “We will be writing,” and that was it. That word ‘we’ was simply forced rationalization and not even close to romantic coercion. Secondly, who even calls a blog ‘Voice of an African Child’? What exactly is there to be voiced, land grabbing, women’s rights, corruption or are we just a Ghafla News sub-outlet?

Then, there was the whole combination of the writers, the guy who wrote to you about looking like praying mantis (which I totally concur with btw), when you read his work you just start laughing and then you read it again and just can’t stop. Then there was the other guy, no one understands him, today he writes an article on politics and you are seriously thinking he should be president and the next day he is talking about lying to his crush and your feminist side just does a whoosh. Interesting enough, there was also this girl, you read her poems and you just get daunted and the depth of her words just intrigues you for days. Finally, there was me, and I did not know where exactly I lay.

You see the thing is you can’t place me as a writer. I neither write creative fiction nor nonfiction. It’s just something, a set of words pulled together and sought of makes meaning. Even worse, my writing is imprudent, I can only write when my hands get the hold of writing, and those days just never come. I just felt like everyone else had a niche; they had a carte blanche to be called writers, poets, comics and I didn’t fit. In fact, I have had my hand in poetry for five years now and I blogged the poems religiously for four of those years. But truth be told, I have felt like a poetry fraud for those five years. Whenever I have written them, I have felt like I have swindled rhythm of its right and quintessence. Consequently, when the blog came, I felt not worthy of writing, I contemplated of quitting on days on end and before you judge me again, please be sure you did not give up hunting that girl you’ve had a crush on for months.

The truth is most of the times I have stared at my computer screen for hours, even days and I have had nothing to deliver. The truth is you have struggled reading for your exams and you just don’t follow through. The truth is that you have tried business ventures and nothing seems to work out. The truth is you have been hurt in all your relationships. The truth is that you have every right in this world to give up and quit. The truth also though; is that this is life. This is adulthood, and nothing comes easy, nothing happens spontaneously. You work and work and then when you become a perfection of the practice people naively call you an overnight success.

Fairly, it’s us who make the choice to fear things in life, it’s us who give the ultimatum on quitting. The fear to succeed and the momentum to succeed is simply self-made. Thus, however way you pull yourself, you are just a frightened dreaming soul.

15 thoughts to “Sometimes you just write,write and write some more.”

  1. Nathaniel West says; Writers, like seismographs, record the emotional charts of societies; so in the end, as obviously must happen, a period of time, with the behaviorisms amd characteristics, conveys to our mental retina an instinctive pattern. The artist brings to the surface those “x” qualities that, midway between germs and tremors, lurk anonymously feeding an individual frustration. Once a society is characterized or caricatured, (has, in fact, given a poetic/non-poetic name), it is freed!
    Y’all such an amazing crew of young talented beautiful souls. You liberate the mind, from all the void and drudgery of everyday life!
    Keep up the fire burning!
    Xoxo

  2. I am a writer like you, and sometimes I am hell terrified of writing another blogpost because I still cling to my previous success. Crap!

    And I like how you say it; that this is adulthood, and nothing comes easy, nothing happens spontaneously.

    I like everything you’ve said, ’cause it’s all true.

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