#46: why i write.

an essay on ambition and celebration.

Over the summer I attended my first writing workshop, hosted by the peerless Chinonso Nzeh. Gathering the courage to request a slot was unnerving ; I knew requesting for a slot was an admission to the implication that had been hanging in the air for a while now — that I was  a writer.   I have never wanted to identify as a writer. I felt too inadequate, too simple, too plain. Writers are gods. They spell magic on the page, they spin vast worlds, they twist and turn fate according to their whims. Writers are incisive reporters of the times, the true anthropologists, the only set of people brave enough to attempt an exploration of the human condition. Take for example Paul Lynch’s Prophet Song  (my current read), a poignant portrait of the anxieties and existential dread that occur in an unstable political climate. Or Coco Mellors’ Blue Sisters, with its beautiful prose and percipient characterisation. Or anything Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie has ever written. Or the thousands of essays written by people so extraordinary it feels inadequate to define them as human. Those are WRITERS, I’ve always believed. I am but a mere imitator, a figure hidden in the obscure darkness fearing the inspection of  light. But I did it. I declared myself a writer (one who needed guidance and community badly) and signed up for the workshop. 

    At the risk of sounding dramatic, I’ll venture to say that this workshop fundamentally changed my creative life. The theme of the workshop was Interior Landscape, Memory and Verismo,  “how an interrogation of self enables an adequate engagement with your work.”¹ I remember staring at my phone screen moments before the workshop began, anxious and afraid, with a sinking feeling that I should not be there because I am not a writer anyway. As soon as the workshop began, my fears began to erode, slowly but surely. Chinonso was made for this. He carried the class with surety, humour and a self-consciousness that I believe had been borne from deep introspection (I think every great writer possesses this).  So many things stayed with me. “When you’re vulnerable with yourself, words flow on paper”, he says minutes into the workshop. “Question yourself before you observe others.” I rush to scribble this down. At another time he says, “Call yourself out if you want to become a good non-fiction writer. Be stubborn — confront the very truth, stare it down in the face. Write with nuance — explore complexities. Write what is true to you.” He insists on having an interactive session, and so the class is alive, it’s buzzing with quiet life, the sparks of energy that occur when writers commune together. After the first session,  I am full. I am inspired. I am challenged. I am hopeful.

A week or two before the workshop, I had taken a hiatus from the newsletter. I was riddled with anxiety, despondent. I felt the newsletter wasn’t doing well, that I was stuck in obscurity, doomed to unimportance my whole life. Were people even reading? Why wasn’t I growing? I could see everyone growing, why not me? The voice that had whispered to me “maybe it is because you’re not a good writer” had become louder, more demanding. Moreso,  I was disappointed in myself for even caring about the numbers. Isn't it said that true creatives don’t care about such superficial things? Why did I care so much? Why was I ungrateful for the current state of my newsletter? Did I not know that I was blessed to have this? My mind kept going round and round in tortured loops. I had to do something I hoped I would never do: take an indefinite break.  I told everyone I was taking a break, but only I knew the truth. I wanted to stop writing. The workshop came around, and with it, the pushing to investigate my interior landscape. I had to ask myself, “ Why do I write?” I set out to question myself before I observed others.

George Orwell² believes people write for different reasons.  “ Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they abandon individual ambition – in many cases, indeed, they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all – and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Aesthetic enthusiasm. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity. Political purpose – using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other people’s idea of the kind of society that they should strive after.”  You have to identify your purpose (or purposes) for writing, and then stick to that. Make it the star you follow. Stay true to it. It’s the same sermon Chinonso was preaching in the first session of his workshop: explore your interior, investigate your reasons. Only then will you write honestly. Only then will you write with heft.  Only then will you write happily. 

    I write for all these reasons, I’ve realised. I write…because I want to say something, anything. There’s too much on my mind. I find that I cannot say all I ever want to say if I don’t put pen to paper. I write to understand myself and the world around me. I write because I am vain, I prize my intellect, I want to be known. I write because I am moved by the power of words, the life a few letters take once they are arranged together, the magic that shines back at the reader when those letters are arranged into words and the words are arranged into sentences. I write because language moves me; I have been saved by the writings of others. I want to be someone’s saviour.  My ambition for writing at the moment is small — I don’t have dreams of being published in a literary magazine or writing a book—yet audacious. I want people to read  me and see themselves reflected. I want to move people. This is why I write. So I will call myself a writer. Unlike George Orwell or Joan Didion³, I am a ‘baby writer’. My steps are still wobbly, still tentative. I still stumble, my arms holding on to objects for dear life.  But one day I will walk, steady and sure. One day I will run. 

    It’s been exactly a year since I started this newsletter. I imagine having a newsletter is like being a new parent, obsessed with everything their baby does,  and filled with an overwhelming outburst of love at random moments. I think my friends are tired of hearing me talk and agonise about my publication. My best friend says  she likes to see me oscillate between extreme despair and unspeakable joy every other day. The newsletter impacts me deeply. I have never loved a project so much. I think it is because I can see how it has changed me. Writing every other week has made me slow down. It has made me observe life closely. It has caused me to pause and ruminate, and in doing that I have found things about myself that I never would’ve . The mundane has become an outsized ball of yarn to me, one that begs to be unravelled. I am awed by the beauty of everyday life because  I write. 

    I celebrated the publication’s anniversary this past week.  It was such a random celebration; I got the idea while studying at the library and immediately acted on it. I went to the mall, got a plain white cake (I was lucky to get a freshly baked cake), got some squiggly colourful candles and went back to school. Then I sat by the benches and called my friends out of the blue. They all came and we had the most random celebration under the trees. We sang the birthday song, they gave little speeches, I blew out the candles and we took lots of pictures. We cut the cake and shared it with people randomly passing by. It was fun and quirky and so me. I think people were looking at us weird but we did not care! Even after sharing the cake there was a huge chunk left. Later that evening I finished it in one sitting, to Krystle’s dismay. 

     I end this essay with such joy. I am happy, happy, happy, happy. It’s been a great year because of you,  dear reader. Thank you for reading. Thank you for commenting, for liking, for re-stacking, for dm-ing me privately, for being here! The thing about writing is that it demands to be read.  Thank you for giving in to that demand. 

essays i loved this week

against narrative

#180: Against self-analysis

mediocrity is a knife

do you have to let it linger?

gallery.

the random party:

happy birthday to us!

1. Chinonso’s LinkedIn

2. George Orwell’s Why I Write

3. Joan Didion’s Why I Write