I’m scared of writing.
Writing, well truthfully, reading, has to be the easiest thing for me to do. Before I was a writer, I was a reader. Writing stems, I think, as a consequence of wanting to be a story teller, or wanting to be part of the voices that propagate humanity’s most wanton thoughts. Writing, for some, is a way to seek immortality. Some write to heal because crying gets tiring eventually. All that heaving, man. You get tired, ya know? And then you want fries or ice cream but you don’t have money to facilitate fulfillment of these desires. Its maddening.
Some write because they want to say something. Others write because something has to be said.
I won’t lie and say I have a philosophically profound reason as to why I write. I just do it. It has to be done. My psyche says I have to write. I consume a lot of literature. On everything. Even Zimbabwean eating habits. I read a lot of African writers and follow tonnes of African bloggers. My Pocket has more than 1000 articles and woe unto me if there’s any way I’ll read all of them. There’s something fearfully amazing about being able to relate with a Malian or a Zimbabwean through something as minute as a tweet or a blog post about the traffic in Lagos or the maddening levels of corruption in Nairobi.
I write because, life.
I’m scared of writing because, life.
