The Confessions of a Young Writer
Storytelling can now be done via countless methods and through inexhaustible channels; I think this new development bears witness that stories would never fade, rhythms would never cease and minds would never go bankrupt on imagination, innovation or some other weird tale to tell.
I am a writer just like you — I have written so many types of stuff; for myself, for work and some other uncategorized pieces. I have taught writing with every opportunity I got and my relationship with writing has been strict, creative, weird, annoying, profitable, uplifting, frustrating and a whole lot of other mixed emotions just like yours have also been.
Storytelling is one of the few things I’ve been able to do with my writing skills. I don’t write to clear my head (although this has happened a few times) neither do I write to let people in on the conversations I have within myself (my thoughts are incoherent and my inside talks are just ‘off’). I write because I am a writer. It’s as simple as that for me.
But I haven’t written in a while and it feels like I was at the brink of death. I thought procastination had finally caught up with me. I remember how fast I ran from it and how hard I’ve tried to set myself apart from my limiting tendecies; but here I am relapsing into the sickness that could kill my dreams, ambitions and most importantly, my identity. I started to think I wasn’t cut out for a life of discipline, which was the thread of a writer’s life and I was going to fail at the one thing I had sworn my life to. I haven’t written in a while but I am having a good time. I have reconsidered my declaration of commitment and doubted if writing is really my “it girl” because if it were, it shouldn’t be this hard. I started to doubt my interests, even questioned my motives to see if they weren’t forced on writing. I revisited my hopes of the life I want to build to see if any other thing can fit into it.
I wouldn’t say I couldn’t write because I’ll always be able to write. This wasn’t a battle against my abilities. It was a question of my character, my grit and my guts.
I felt guilty more than anything. I taught people to always show up as writers each waking moment of their lives. I told people to build an atmosphere that fostered their writing systems. I taught people to not wait for inspiration because of its fickle ways but here I was, living the life I publicly criticized. You’d probably think I was worried about when people found out that I was living a lie or that the internet wouldn’t be kind to me when word came out but like Fireboy DML said in Lifestyle; I no dey mind, I couldn’t care less.
I tried to write on few ocassions but my mind wasn’t still nor was the chaos enough. Something was always missing at all the attempts I made, although sometimes it was a great environment that was missing. I would start to write with my favourite show on the TV or with Netflix all up on my screen. I would try to write with many distractions around. Maybe I did this because I didn’t want to write or maybe not. Sometimes, I’d start writing good stuff but stop at some point because I was no longer interested. It isn’t a do or die affair, right? I should be able to change my mind about a piece I was writing. And I did. On many ocassions.
I don’t know what’s going on with writing but I know what’s going on with me. It’s been an unanticipated time and maybe all I need is writing to be there for me as much as I have been there for it. Or is this too weird to ask?
