I have severally been asked why it is I like to write. Why many at times, when I am not cracking up whomever I am engrossed in a conversation with, you will mainly find me with my neck arched dangerously towards my phone, a BlackBerry™ 9800 slide (which for now serves as my canvas as my MacBook is still being cleared by customs) typing away as my fingers dance to the tune of the music from my earphones and the juice that oozes from my gift.
I can say I am a junkie. I am addicted to words. I am lost; lost in a sea of words. However, despite my supposed habit, I am happy. I am content. I am somebody. I’ll be the first to admit that of the many things I am good at, I am not as half as good in any of them as I am in talking about them. I am a storyteller. It is what I am good at and it is who I am. Some people can sing, others can forge while others can draw. Me, I talk; that’s my gift and boy am I proud of it. In fact, I recently discovered, while attending dowry negotiations at my wife’s home, that the most difficult thing for me to do is to keep quiet. I mean it is so haaaaard! Especially if the story is juicy; having to keep quiet had me all burning inside, with words struggling and fighting to come out, like fire shut up in the bones. Ask anyone who knows me; I cannot keep quiet for the life of me. I begin and I am like a diesel powered engine; to quote Howard Wollowitz; “I can go all night”
There are many reasons why I love writing; but chief would be that it helps satisfy my need for interaction. Despite being the loudest chap in your phonebook currently, I am a tad shy and genuinely scared of intimate communication. That could be why I have such few friends. I am not very well versed with genuine, heart to heart, soul bearing relations and so my writing gives me a chance to truly open my heart and talk to ‘someone.’
Truth is, not all my content is fiction; in fact, less that 10% of what I write is completely made up, and even now I am not entirely certain of that figure. Most of them are real and are probably what I could be experiencing at the time. All I do is find a way to weave it into a story for the purpose of anonymity and also add a little bit of satire to it. Good news is, though, that my bae has been teaching me on how to communicate from the heart and that it’s okay to let someone into my self-constructed fortress of solitude.
Writing gives me this peace, joy and satisfaction that I have been unable to find elsewhere. Not in the marijuana blunts or beer bottles and vodka shots; not in the random flings or nights plagued by debauchery. I did not find it even in my unhealthy pursuit of self-worth in the gym. I changed the way I cut my hair and went through some financially painful fashion phases, but at the end of it, I still felt numb. So one day, about three years ago, after endless intimidation from my friend Sophie, I picked up a pen and wrote down how I was feeling at the time. If you go through the blogs I have posted, it is the one titled ‘The broken plate.’ It felt real. It felt peaceful. It felt redeeming. The crashing waves and billowing wind called unto me and I answered; I jumped in and have refused to get dry ever since.
It has enabled me to grow and express myself, has given me audience and offered me a canvas upon which to paint the pictures hidden deep in my hippy-like soul; my perception of this world and the journey called life. I get to expose the passion that burns deep in my heart; the fire that propels me, even in the face of difficulty. I get to embarrass my shame and shame my fears; I pan out my mistakes and the lessons I have learnt along the way.
Finally, I get to pen my hopes, my dreams and my expectations; what I desire to see in the world tomorrow and how I can make it a better place for my little princess to live in. This, ladies and gentlemen, this is why I love writing.