This will be my first ever published personal piece, and I can’t exhaust the count on two pairs of hand the people that will be absolutely proud of me for finally doing this.
What a shame that I’m publishing this for the exact opposite of what is expected –not to start a writing journey, but to end it.
THE BEGINNING
I can’t remember when I started writing, maybe 7 or 8, or 6. I can only remember why.
My sister was my influence. She made DIY illustrated little books. I remember her character, Ama, vividly. I still catch a glimpse of the illustrations in my subconscious.
I would go on to create my version of Ama- similar plotting and sketching of stick images like she did. I’d be dissatisfied with my work because hers were always better –I knew because I’d coax her to finish mine, meanwhile, I delved into hers almost immediately she wrote another chapter, then actively demand to know when she would write the next.
This was our thing- the two of us exchanging stories that never saw a ray of sunshine.
We grew and so did our works. Well hers first as a natural order, I mean she’s older. This time, we had gotten saturated with American stories and Harlequins. Her stories now had American characters.
(At 12, I had used the Oxford Encyclopedia and Atlas at home to learn the 50 states of the United States, their capitals, and a lot more; I knew more American names than names across tribes in Nigeria).
She began writing YA stories, and as the custom, I would beta read. The stories were such engaging reads.
The first one of this order was an ‘Untitled’ drama, a story about a set of twin that got separated by their parents, unknowing to the parents. It had so much suspense and plot balance.
She left that halfway, to my displeasure, and began ‘Sing Out’- New choir director meets choir in disarray and takes unconventional steps, eventually falls for the pastor’s daughter.
Even as I write this, I remember the character names and how the stories transitioned. I read each chapter at least 17 times to the point of reciting each line off heart. Anytime I waited for a chapter she was yet to get on, I’d go back through the stories from beginning.
In a bid to let out all that stirred in my head as I waited, I would ask my father for money to buy an exercise book, and on fresh clean page, I’d start my version of Sing Out- and the other 8 she subsequently wrote.
When she had a fancy lock diary and a multi-ink coloured pen to write with, I was itching to read that as well, but she told me it was personal, reminding me how I’d be unable to crack open the code if I ever tried to pry. I hated her for not letting me see the style of her diary-writing.
I once sneaked into her using cursive lettering to write DEAR DIARY, and some days after, like a Sheldon, I found her unprotected reality-check journal. Satisfied on the conviction that she probably journalled the same way she wrote in her diary, I told my mother I needed that multi-ink pen, and my fancy diary, she got me them. With the thrill befitting a trip to Bora Bora, I used its tiny key to unlock it, and on a fresh pink first page, clicking down the green ink of my pen, I curved my hands, writing DEAR DIARY.
Eventually, I read wider and wider -novels, dictionaries, cereal packs. I was always curled up in the room doing something with a book- I’ve always had an impulsive penchant for new knowledge. Suddenly, at home I became the reader and writer.
AS IT GOES...
Books were my worlds, they put all I felt to life in the various universe that I existed in. They entertained me, educated me, made me comfortable in my shell. When every other person would seek outside-fun, I would find pleasure in books, or beg my parents to let me go visit my uncle who had a young child -being around little children was my only other hobby.
Writing became my solace, friend and avenue to let out all the world reading introduced to me.
On a fateful day I took one of my current story at the time to school to complete a chapter during the break time, a classmate saw it and asked if it was mine. I affirmed, somewhat proudly.
It became a column news in class that I was a writer who wrote cool stories. Flushed, I began bringing the stories to school, allowing only my close-knit group get a hold of it. I would ask them what they thought about it.
“You’ve found your talent, how cool is that? Bringing stories in your head to word is a rare skill” they’d say
I would tell them “even my sister writes”. For credence, I would sneak her book (sorry sis) and bring to them, and they would say “Wow, it really is in your family, her stories are captivating”
My sister is a better writer, far better. How shameful it was that I, the acclaimed writer was not half as good.
I was also the worse form of shy to ever exist, eschewing the ‘writer’ identity at school I would ask them to not pass the stories across classes because I didn’t want the publicity.
But when Press Club was introduced in school, I couldn’t resist telling people that I wanted to join because I was a writer and I would do good for the club.
Somehow I gave myself the tag – BookQueen –Queen as my first name; but also a queen of (reading) book, and WriteGirl – a girl who writes, but also sounds like ‘Ms. Right’-it was my genius idea for the perfect double entendre; in essence it became a sort of brand name.
TRUTH AND DARES
Right after secondary school, I got an offer to volunteer in writing for an organisation. It allowed me to work from an office, with a desktop. I felt like such a cool kid.
The lady who brought me on board introduced me to her teammates, and sometimes when I was working (or using the free Wi-Fi to check my Facebook), somebody would peep in through the door and say “Well done little girl”, and offer to see what I was writing. I would oblige, then they’d say “you really wrote this? Wow, you’ll go so far with this”
Flushed and trepid, I’d smile and say thank you.
When a white man at the office commended me just for being there, the lady announced to me he was her superior, hinting that I could show him my writing, I gave a non-committal nod. When she never hinted again, I was glad -putting myself out has always been a bane of my existence.
Another day one of the workers asked me if I had a blog. “You’re so good, I can send a link to my friends and get you publicity”
I told him I did not.
With vivid surprise he demanded to know why, and I told him that I’ll think about it. He challenged me to a one-week time frame to get on the modalities and get back to him with a link to my blog.
What he did not know was that I had thoroughly thought about starting a blog and had been repelled by the thought of public scrutiny. He also didn’t know that the next day, a Friday, was my last day at the office because I had to start reading for JAMB and post JAMB.
Again, I was thankful that he did not reach out through anybody. Bless him.
FELINE
That volunteering experience plunged me to several other experiences beyond writing.
I’m giggling as I think about how I put ‘serial volunteer’ on my LinkedIn profile, because I will go all out for anything that I am passionate about and will reach for its publicity all around, just because my ‘I’ would hide under the cover of whatever organisation I was working with -making sure I was never the visible catch.
People will always ask me when I will finally start my blog, 2 offered to help me to create a page. I would act so grateful and happy, then kill their vibe to help out.
In the process I got a Wattpad account (I read limited stories there because I will always be a fan of hardcopies), I merely wanted to say ‘Yes’ whenever people asked me if I had Wattpad -all writers and readers were believed to have an account
The first time I replied ‘No’ to having a Wattpad, the asker was almost mortified “Which! book girlie! didn’t! have! Wattpad?!” then recommended me authors and series to get on.
It quickly became “Why don’t you put your stories on Wattpad?”
That made sense to me, I could use whatever name and people wouldn’t know it’s me.
But as the days went back, so did my zeal.
“You really have a lot the world needs to hear” “Why are you always hiding?” “You are really dulling yourself” “When you’re ready let me know if you’ll need anything” “You really need to start making money with your talent”
2 months after my first volunteering, I got an enveloped cash -a stipend from the organisation.
Well then, I smiled, if I could make the money without necessarily putting my name out, why not?
A couple years later I got recommended to work with a Ghost Writing agency, dkm.
HEAD OF A COIN
My sister was winning cash awards in writing, getting submission acceptances, but that was not far-fetched. She thrived in everything else, fellowships, delegations, school. A multi-accolade babe, that one.
At some point, merely inspired by her -not in a way to be (like) her, I decided to try writing submissions. I saw a world of thriving writers getting published and building communities.
That same week of this decision, in the manner of internet witchcraftcy, I saw at least 5 random posts on self-sabotage and getting out there. I decided to tell myself the truth about boxing myself when I could spring out and be more.
I decided that I could transcribe all those exercise books of novel into soft copies, using my mother’s desktop to make online submission, but it felt like too much work, and since the only other writings except journal entries and diaries I had were the pieces I had written for organisations and work places, I decided to start anew, something that wouldn’t get me typing for long. I chose poetry and small write-ups, but mostly poetry.
I started by submitting to familiar people -friends, and older people who had shown support that I connected with. My sister, the mentor was across state so she missed this part of my evolution. My other sisters will read and thumb me up, my parents will raise an eyelid in admiration and say ‘Chioma the Writer’ -it was in a manner of teasing that meant ‘this is the only life you know, but I’m proud of you regardless’ ,such that when I’m being called and I can’t hear my name, somebody will push the room door open, find me in bed surrounded by a pool of booksss and pensss and a dictionary, and exclaim “Chioma the writer! Didn’t you hear you’re called?”
I didn’t tell anyone I wanted to know what they thought -it felt so embarrassing to ask for scrutiny, so I’d casually say “Hey, read my work” and sometimes throw in “let me know what you think” as if it was a passing comment of courtesy, but I did get feedbacks, mostly commendations
“Love this” “You write so well” “This is your talent, really”
Other times, it would be a correction of my tenses, or “can you add more imagery?”, or “I love this one better” with an undertone that meant that the other one was probably subpar
I subtly took my writing to Facebook. Felt cringey at first, but I eventually settled in. My Facebook friends were people I was familiar with to an extent- it was just like Facebook posts afterall.
I blurred the fear and wrote random thoughts. Again, comments were mostly great.
My older American friend once told me how my written English was better than most American teenagers she knew. Imagine how that comment from an American audience thrilled me.
I began actual literary submissions. Not a lot, but after the fourth or so, I got my short story accepted for a Facebook writing-community anthology. The plan was for it to get published, sent to us the contributors for free as an e-book, in turn we would sell it to people for any amount we wanted -it was a sort of encouragement to kick-start us for a story writing career.
Best believe I didn’t sell a single copy. I had sent the anthology to about 2 friends, and called it a day.
Years later, I would post on my WhatsApp status that I got a story acceptance, and people would say “Please send” “Can we get it online?” and I’d say “Oh its free, I’ll send it to you” ,but I wouldn’t. I didn’t even re-read the story after it’s publish, I thought I’d cringed too much going back to my work because I’d be sure to find something that I have grown over and wonder how people will take that in when they read it.
I got another acceptance, to a writing workshop. The requirement was to write on a prompt, selecting the best 30 submissions. Not only was mine accepted, it was the reference story during the class. The teacher said he connected with the submission and wanted to know who wrote it. I didn’t raise my hand. There were people who didn’t make it for the workshop, so he just assumed it was an absentee.
In 2016 at a teenagers’ summer camp, my writing on ‘Change’ won 3rd place.
One time I sent my work to my sister, she said “Wow, you’re getting better”. It made my week.
As I went on, I got a job on recommendation to write a brand story for a company -it was the first time I got a real writing payment, the amount was small, but I chose that amount and can’t honesty tell why.
TAIL OF THE SAME COIN
I read the story about the talents in the Bible, and how all talents given are meant to be maximised. I wasn’t maximising this talent, no doubt. Was God mad at me for that?
I had played hidden for too long so I decided to come out through submissions to magazines, literary papers, writing fellowships, and writing jobs.
At least 200 submissions later, and not a single acceptance.
That was the real self-doubt era.
-Am I really any good?
-Have I been deceived all these years?
-Are my friends and family really just massaging my ego? Would they?
-I’m not even improving my craft, but is that because there really is nothing to improve upon?
“I’m a content writer, it’s my niche” I would say when asked
Of course Queen, it’s content you write, but what kind?
“Um… Am I a poet? Story teller? Story writer? Prose? Article? Blog? Fiction? Non-fiction? All?”
Do I even know what I’m doing?
I’d come across the most relatable posts on rejections and self-doubt and I’d find comfort there “It’s just a thing a lot of us go through” Then I’d doubt myself again when I get to see the works of these people rejected, theirs so well structured. One more ‘Hit send’ and they might be getting an acceptance.
I am so sure it’s not imposter syndrome. I’m just not all that.
Within myself, I sometimes get so amazed at how smart, intuitive and insanely intelligent I can be, that I’ll hope and pray that the world sees it too, but again, I’ll think what if all that is not worth the world’s sight because I don’t even put any working effort to it.
I dropped reading for a while, my vocabulary collection became rusty and bland. I even lost touch with the literary space -for instance I became adrift to the latest reads that occupied the literary community , or did I know when Issues became a notable literary jargon. I realised that even after a while, my reading range was nearly not as substantial as the possibilities my mind could stretch to.
Was that it? Am I unrefined?
I called myself out for lacking in terseness, and overthinking other people’s work. Could I have phrased my thought in that intelligently concise manner they did? Am I devoid of a grace available to others?
I would drown myself in YouTube videos and Quora posts of writing tips and what-nots, and a lot of them will say “Write what you want to read, write like you’re writing for yourself”
I did that, so why don’t these magazines think they are good?
“Write what others want to read” another will say. I’d try to do that, but how do I know what exactly others want to read? And how many preference of ‘others’ can I exhaust writing?
I remember writing unfamiliar love stories on girls with slender arms and long legs, green eyes and white dentition –picture perfect things I don’t even slightly relate to, but that was what all the female characters in the Harlequins had, and love is what we all wanted, therefore that was what I’d swear people swoon to.
African writing submissions are mainly grief stories of war and female inequality, and hunger and rafted huts, I thought, so once I tried to tweak my stories to that pattern, not only was I not feeling it, so were the readers.
Humph!
REALITY CHECK –Where I am
I’m a still-decider in the sea of self discoveries and truths.
My writing journey interlocks my reading journey, as do maybe all writers in the world. “Reading is the inhale, writing is the exhale”
Sometimes I will read through a poetry and prose piece and immediately put on my blue glass, because suddenly I feel dizzy as the convergence of cerebral words plunge me into a lightheaded sensation, leaving me inept to its understanding. I’ll slow my reading pace and task my brain to make out a meaning, but I’ll finally find peace in knowing that I don’t understand what it means for a "shielded rabbit to meet a cacophony of heirloom in a consecuting baronage".
Other times it’s the point of the entire poem that beats me, I understand the words but not the meaning; but it seems everyone else gets it.
I find the ones with simpler structure -poems of perhaps 2 lines with great meaning getting resounding applaud. Then I’ll find another poem of same ambience treated like its mid-level, and I’ll think "but what is the difference?", they are a variant of the same thing -like using colour and color. Are meanings applauded merely by personality and visibility?
I don’t downplay the essence of a piece solely because I don’t understand it, or its patterns - poetry is mystery, it is divine , it is sometimes the way I don’t understand how Noah tamed the snakes in the ark but believe he did.
I subscribe to the religion of poetry, I believe in the god of words, perhaps I’m not just Orthodox.
In the past, I’d hate that I don’t understand every piece I come across
“Why is that luscious intertwine of wordplay flying right above my head?”
It’s the same way I never understood a single line of a Shakespeare writing, and dropped it as quick as I’ll drop a hot coal if I mistakenly picked it up. My mother would tell me about Hamlet and Macbeth, and I’d be captivated by the stories, so I’d say “you know what? I’ll stretch myself and read Shakespeare, and Lord of the Rings”, but I’d try and try, and after the 3rd Chapter I’d l give up again and ask her to just summarise the book in its entirety for me.
All these teaches me how life is fun-complicated, not typical, without a defined standard, not a chance-game, just a free flow of humans processing an existence the way they know to, magnetting the tribe that vibes in to their tune.
I am not in doubt that writing is my place; because even as I write this, I feel so easy and light. Bare.
It’s my comfort.
Looking ahead, I don’t know the writing path I will take, but I’m making a reverse.
There are things I do so well, but also things that make me hate my existence and cuss me to mediocre- like fellowship submissions, or finding my space.
I get stuck with the perfect words and tenses and imagery and articulating my thoughts. I count my flaws in the way that overwhelms my strength and fades it out.
I’ve had good points in my life that I can capitalise on, and build with.
I’ve also had bottom barrel points- days when I can’t even cry because the tears don’t know how they will form, so I’m choked with them in my throat, unable to arrange my thoughts as to understand why I feel the way I do, like cxvzhdtdfhxzcfnbcdts.
Sometimes I’m seeking an ADHD diagnosis, making jokes on it, then catching a whiff of fear to a possible reality of it.
I assumed that if my skill were an economy bracket, I’ll be middle class, but I desire a wealth of knowledge.
On days I’m overwhelmed by my incapacities, I drown into the compliments and supports I have gotten overtime. They keep me grateful, not just because they soothe my ego but because I am really thankful for people –I’ve been surrounded by people who wish, want and take steps to get me the best, and I’m thankful over again that if I quit on life, there are people who will live for me.
I like to pride myself of being deeply introspective and a lifelong learner- I learn from every situation, and take gems from every season of my life, so once again I’m learning -learning to accept love and support when I’m accorded, to find a clan, to hit reverse and make an appropriate turn, to embrace failure and use it as a leverage for growth, to put on the hard work rather than leave things to chance, to acknowledge and state my weaknesses then do something about them, to open my mind to so much more and seek after the knowledge I had shied away from, to unstunt my evolving, to be unashamed of scrutiny, to come bare.
The beauty of coming out bare is that it introduces you to a new world of vulnerable relief, then courage, then liberation.
I tried to use this season to thoroughly find myself, but I quickly realised that I have not a single idea of who I am, that my brain and mind are a quicksort- each independently navigating component pathways.
To dig in to find me, I have to unearth through my Root, for its in God alone I can find my be-ing.
I am not ending a writing career, but ending the process I had followed- the how’s, why’s and what’s. I’m restarting to bear my course. My Becoming.
Affirming that “my aspirations do not need to look like anything else that exist and that I can chart my own course” {paraphrased from Moe Odele}, I will lit the lamp in my hands and find my way through this tunnel, until the light at the end of it overwhelms the little light of mine.
smiling, in hopefulness.
It means the world to me that you stayed to read through. I hope it was worth your while.
And yes, I am asking for your thought..
See you around, again. Soon
