Confessional

Love is…

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So when I was younger I religiously read one of our daily newspapers, The Daily Nation, because it had this comic strip – Love is – which it turns outs, has an awesome love story about its creator and how she drew the cartoons for her future husband… *swoon*

I used to race each day to find what love was each day and I savored every reading.

Recently, I have been wondering what love really is — especially now that life has happened to me and things are not what I thought they would turn out to be.

Turns out that love is not as simple for me as I thought it would be. Unrequited feelings, loss, and personal tragedies make it difficult to ease into love or even to trust that things work out. Isolation is a safer space than it should be for a romantic… and I am far more familiar with loneliness than I ever thought I would be.

But this is not the only story about what love is or has been. I have loved many wonderful souls and some were really wonderful people to love. I have loved others who did not love me back. I was loved by some that I did not love back. So, really, love has been a retrospectively wonderful experience.

Some days, though, like today, love seems to be one endless journey of searching, connecting, disconnecting, falling and failing, and I suppose for the most part, just waiting. Waiting for something magical to find me and surprise me and stick with me… in the most pleasurably challenging ways.

https://loveiscomix.com/daily/20050914/

Historical Romance

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The first time I read a Historical Romance novel, I had a weird reaction. I was late to the party so I must have been in my early twenties. Until that point, I had only explored contemporary fiction and romance — I really loved chic lit!

A friend was getting rid of her books and gave me a few new ones to try. Because of the book covers 🙄🙄🙄 I thought there was no chance in hell that I would enjoy them… except I did. There was something about the way the writing appealed to my fantasies… the phrases the characters used and the tenderness with which they expressed the simple desire to connect. I found that with historical romance, I was rooting for the couples to find each other, to resolve their conflicts, and to agree to let each other in…

Now if you’ve read these books, they’re very formulaic. They focus on the couples meeting, loving, conflict, then resolution of this conflict, and at last a satisfying or happy ending (usually they marry because this is often the goal). I didn’t expect to like this formula, but over time, I have relished and looked forward to discovering how these characters love, what makes them clash (and there’s a whole range of conflicts, I have found), and what makes them have faith that to love is to forgive, compromise, fight for the opportunity, etc., etc., etc.

For some reason this quest for love, in this particular format, also moves me the most. It is not unusual for me to feel sad when the couples fight or have my heart skip a beat when there is, at last, a confession of love. I am often frustrated when they just can’t get it together… all the near misses and unvoiced longings prolong the time to the confession and this is, of course, a highlight in this journey! So yeah… I am often very, very, invested.

Secretly too, if I have a love interest, I often think of them in these moments. My heart sighs with longing even as these characters move along their story line. I never would have thought that I can identify with the characters in these kind of books… but I guess the desire to be wanted and loved is “universal” in that sense. Maybe that’s really why I love all forms of romance.

In any case, reading a historical romance is today, one of the highest forms of indulgence for me. I savor and slow down the reading… only two to five pages at a time. I look forward to the next stage of conversation and to lovers finding love.

That’s not all. When I finish the book, if it’s not a Kindle purchase, I will lovingly shelf the copy and note the emotions I felt carefully. And then on a slow dusk evening or lonely day or weepy weather day, I will pull it back out and jump back to the places that made me feel, and reprise the emotions.

I love romance novels because of the possibilities, the words, and the tenderness they capture. It’s like a delightful box of written surprises.

Let me get back to my latest one… About a certain maidenly aunt and her beau, both in their fifties and looking at a second chance at love. I am about half way in… *Sigh* …

I have a silent ember of longing too… I need to feel the promise of finding true love for me. (I could also write a historical romance, too, huh?)… Let me see what side of hope they will push me towards.

“Yes!” in perpetuity

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Ok so I did this crazy thing and went to exhibit at the 2019 Nairobi Book Fair. I got the Judges’ Choice Award which was amazing… I felt embraced by the Universe. And so affirmed. I was so extra with the whole experience as I organized for a photographer to take beautiful pictures of the Booth… and me at the booth… and my many friends who came out to support me at the Booth.

I experienced magic in the many individuals I got to hug and be around. For me, seeing and being open to people I would never have otherwise met without putting on anything, was eve’thing.

I loved sharing and listening and being surrounded by other writers. There were so many different journeys that collided there and to witness it all was amazing.

You know, last year was the year of “Yes!” for me… but it seems to me that I have a year’s lag on this yes thing. I have been saying a lot more yes this year than ever before… Maybe it’s a yes in perpetuity thing… either way, I am loving the magic.

When I read my confessionals

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So a crazy thing happens… I first have to brace myself. I think it’s because I am never quite sure how reading what I wrote is going to make me feel.

Sometimes I shock myself and sometimes I feel shame. Shock – because of how much I reveal. Shame – because of how much I reveal. Most of it is mixed admiration and the early makings of an emotional hangover… probably because I am often surprised at what I am willing to admit when I am writing. How vulnerable I truly am.

I also read in between the intention of wanting to be clever… and perhaps, some trace subtext of relief… and just a tinge of satisfaction at being able to write it all.

I often say, many times like an old grandpa with repetitive jokes, that I think the best version of myself is the writer. I allow myself so many freedoms when I am in this space. I give myself lots of room to just be… and this is a gift I seldom give myself when I consider all the other versions of me that are running around.

I like the idea of re-reading what I have written because I have the courage not to be dishonest with myself. In this confessional, I think I am assured of at least one place where I can reflect my truths back. This is not all a bad thing.

Of Book Fairs and reprises

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So one of the gushy experiences I had during the Nairobi Book Fair was having my friends visit the Ema Tinje Booth. There was much celebration and talk about my love affair with writing and how it all led to the Book and the Booth.

As we were chatting, *nostalgically* about my early dabbling with short stories, one of my sister friends reminded me of one of her favs of my short stories. I laughed because I wrote this piece while trying to figure out what kind of writer I am… so I went hunting for it in the archives to present it here.

I must say that I am amused by the style and the premise of the story… it’s a short flash fiction piece… here have a read:

Naked Flashes
I moved to this particular gated apartment complex for the love of space, light and hardwood floors. The living room sprawled for what seemed like miles with awesome windows letting the light in from everywhere.

The sun in the morning streaked in at dawn and stayed. It was the light that got me. You see, I love windows on principal. Dark rooms depress me. I am pretty sure it has something to do with
the four years I spent in a narrow, windowless office while I finished two excruciating masters’ degrees.

In any case, the windows had me at hallo.

I also love being naked in rooms filled with light. I hate it that nakedness is considered some sort of taboo in most African cultures. Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate being connected to the earth and at least ten years behind postmodernism (which is just a major trip down depression). But I just long for the freedom to just be – no protocol, zero traditions that dictate behavior etc. And my little rebellion to the structure of my culture is to walk around naked in my house. It helps that I also live alone.

But my nakedness is secret so it’s all the more exciting.

I have to say that I don’t have a conventionally enviable body and well, most people wouldn’t expect a girl like me to be happy naked. But it is bliss. I like my short neck (that’s new for you too, right?)… I enjoy how my breasts fall over me, the bulge of my stomach, the dimple before… I like my tattoos (another symbol of my inner liberation)… I love the curve of hips, my strong thighs, and what I think are the sexiest legs. For a short person, I think my legs are rather long… I love my back, the smooth expanse of dark that dips into my waist and mushrooms into my ass. I have a nice bum. I have a tattoo above it, a lotus flower – a symbol of the life that I hold center. Yes, I know it’s rather cliché to have a tattoo right above my bum but I had so much fun getting it.

Most mornings, after a shower, I drag my near sheer curtains open and let the sun in. I bask naked in awe of the glorious light and let it seep into my soul, it seems. Then the window glass magnifies the open rays and my breasts heat up; there’s nothing like the sun.

Unselfconsciously, I opened my closed eyes only to find the daytime gate guard, mouth open, eyes wide, unable to move.

Earlier today, I felt eyes on my breasts in addition to the sun. I could feel them boring into me in awe.

My instinct was to scream, scream, scream, scream.

Instead, I drew the curtains, sat on my bed, and laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

I am definitely liberal now; my nakedness is no longer my own.

Still no urge to put on clothes though!

This still makes me giggle… there were so many questions I got on whether its really did happen. But alas! it did not. I just have a crazy imagination.

Brave little steps and gold stars

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Okay. So I wrote a book. I published it. And now I am on the journey of selling it. I am committed to doing this author thing well because my dream is to write full time… a privilege I was once told is not common for many African writers. Still, I want it.

But it is a journey of small little brave steps. The vulnerability of writing a book cannot compare to the intensity of asking someone to read your book… let alone buy it. I thought the exposure of being a writer was in the baring of my soul — of granting open access to the thoughts that run around my head. But it turns out, I am more afraid to disappoint my readers than I am to expose them to my imagination.

Like many people, I am so text book in wanting love and affection. I want approval. I love my gold stars. And I can’t tell you how it lights up my insides when someone actually likes a story I wrote. I know that as I grow into my craft, I will have hits and misses… but it’s the hits that I enjoy the most.

So you can imagine that it took me a while to accept that the book won’t sell itself. I had a hard time figuring out that I actually need to ask people to buy the book. It was a little tough to accept that this writer’s journey is incomplete, if the book remains with me (… like literally in my office where some 400 odd copies are boxed waiting to be sold…)

But I think I finally got it.

I took another brave step today. I reached out to my friends and asked them to buy the book, to visit this website where I have been squirreling away my daily writing habit with no viewers, and actually posted the location of my modest social media footprint.

I am so exhausted from it all. And the flu that is haunting me at the moment.

But in a way, I am glad I learned something about myself. I am a simple chic at the end of the day… brave little steps and gold stars… that’s my process.

So. Now I am a published author and about to become a killer book salesman.

Love Letters

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I was thinking about love letters and remembered how much I enjoy them… how much they say about humanity. Then, I remembered that I had written once about how much I enjoy love letters. I decided to retrieve my musings on this wonderfully romantic topic. I dusted it up and decided to re-post it here… Didn’t change much, I’m afraid — still feel the same way.

It turns out that on the day I wrote this note that I was seated in an airport lounge supposed to be working but instead found myself day dreaming… imagine, I still do this — let my mind wander off, lost in some fantasy.

I am reading instead what I love the most in the world – some fiction novel that’s a cross between romance and chic lit. I am loving the character – Valentina: 34; single; in love with a man who lives far away. And she just received a letter from said man. It got me thinking – I can’t remember when I last received a love letter. Damn it… I just realized that I really really want a love letter… Valentina’s could be a model:

“… I wondered if it could be true, that you might reciprocate the feelings I had, and turn my longing to kisses. Now, I hope. Do you feel as I do?”

Do people talk like this anymore?

I suppose that in the 19th Century and back it was more common… any 21st Century takers?

Do people, even write letters any more? I am not talking about hot, steamy emails or text messages. I mean real, live, par avion covered letters, scripted in pen.

I would imagine that they are a novelty. I can also see how they could be an exercise in frustration – it took me about 2 months once to receive a wedding invitation through Kenya Post.

But you know, I remember, once when I was in love, around 10 years ago, receiving about six or seven love letters in about six weeks of summer. I looked forward to those envelopes, dotted with cologne spots and the most tender words I have ever had the pleasure of reading. For me… and not by me. I was so eager to hear what my love’s heart wanted to say. It was so so silly romantic but I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Unabashedly soaked it all in.

Sometimes I wonder if I have outgrown such indulgence as really and truly believing in the value of a love letter. Mmmmhhh. It seems that I might be a little sentimental. Must be residual from having my heart awakened and having attended the most beautiful wedding last Friday. Seriously, though, do modern and post modern mentalities even debate these things? Is it possible to be too sophisticated so that love letters are so yesterday’s news?

Forget the musings… I just really want a love letter.

I am so amused by how consistent I am in my longings… I still feel the same way.

I think, for me, it would be quite in order to receive a love letter and for it to be as priceless as diamond ring. I guess that’s really not odd — writers love words, hear words, and believe words.

Nope. Not odd at all.

Can I be me?

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So a while back I watched one of the many docu-stories on Whitney Houston on Netflix. It was all very riveting… I mean, she was the queen of voice, right? Super Bowl XXV and Star Spangled Banner…

Anyway, one of her docu-stories has stayed with me. I can’t remember the title – it might even be the same title as my post – but in one of the most poignant scenes, they tell her that she’s about to go on an interview and she innocently (so hopefully) asks, “Can I be me?”

Now, I don’t recall the exact answer she gets but the change in her face makes it clear that it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. And you can almost see her slowly shift into a manufactured person. The vibrancy in her eyes fades. But she does well in the interview. Her responses are well-timed and seasoned with the right amounts of bubbly. And she… she is so very severely diminished.

I revisit that image and scene in my mind often. When I encounter people who have high walls and eyes full of secrets. When I try to shade myself and make it look like feminine mystique (I often fail miserably — but the efforts are hilarious even to me). When I hear pain in stories that are so bravely told. When I hear deprecating humor and sarcasm come through in conversations. When I see longing in children’s eyes for affirmation from their siblings. When I hear my mother missing me but trying so hard not to say so. When I see my friend act out only to pull back in shame and guilt. When I interact with people at work and struggle not to reach out a hand and say, “Just be you… I promise to be me, in return.”

I don’t know why the process of human domestication requires denial of vital parts of ourselves.

Maybe the stress and exhaustion of work everyday is not in the tasks or the cleverness demanded by the roles we play. Maybe it is from the shimmying in and out of these necessary performances. Maybe our greatest fetes as humans is not in exhibiting consciousness but in the continuous acting and performance we do and pass off as living life.

Maybe it’s not as bad as I making it sound — gosh I am obsessed with the story behind the story, aren’t I?

I wonder who will serve up “Can I be me?” face today.

Rebellious streaks and being unoriginal

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So I think I like starting my confessionals like this… with “So”… anyway, that was a random observation; back to the matter at hand: rebellious streaks.

Sooooo… I recently put on a septum ring and loved it. I loved how I looked in it, how powerful it made me feel, and there was an edginess to my look that made me feel very sexy and alive. And you’re probably wondering how a simple little ring would make me feel this way, right?

Well, I have been thinking a lot about my life hurtling off into adulthood and the pressure I am feeling to act and be a certain way (again). I have written before about Proper Miss shenanigans and how repressed I feel (…because of professional work environments and other life choices I keep making mostly), et cetera. So it’s not a new feeling — this constant need to break out.

And now it has manifested in the need for me to demonstrate autonomy over my choice of body jewelry. It’s not just the septum ring. It’s also the body chains, gothic harnesses, and all other ordinarily yummy stuff, if you’re experimenting in high school or college. I wonder if me acting out this way is some subtle form of sabotage that dares the world to ask me why I am making these choices, but really I am setting myself up to lose.

Of course, I feel a deeply rooted, and mostly silent pleasure, from all this stuff. I chuckle at being so unoriginal — maybe this is my oh-so-textbook mid life crisis. And if it is, well let’s just say that it really is a feeble attempt.

But after all this thinking and musing, I am just going to keep doing it because it makes me happy and it’s part of what fuels all my other beautiful, guilty pleasures like writing and dancing. And it keeps me rooted to the core of me…

Back to writing

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I finally got back to writing. I took a break… an involuntary one… there was too much going on around me and I couldn’t focus on my writing discipline. It’s a shame how life’s difficulties can sip into the very things that keep us in balance. I think I have written this before — I am my best self when I have sufficient time to write. I feel grounded and reconciled. Still, I can’t say why the first thing to be chucked out the door when I am struggling is the writing.

It feels like moving my writing from the fickle land of my whims into more permanent territory will be a lifelong venture.

I do have to admit though that my current project doesn’t lend itself to big spurts of writing. I am re-visiting a painful place. It is not easy. I’ve had a few bouts of crying… and sat in my sadness… and even held several pity parties. I want to excuse it all as being quite necessary since my current project is about healing on a very personal level. I am realizing that as I re-tell myself the story of the hurt, I am also filing away things that have been holding me back. So I suppose it will be alright in the end.

When it is too much, I have to remind myself that I must write this book because all the others won’t get written if this one is still in the way. Besides, I am pre-occupied with maximizing my happiness potential. The very idea that I have this large expansive of satisfaction that I have yet to feel drives me to search fervently. If healing is necessary for me to access it, then I have to keep going.

Also, since I have a longing to experience relationships on a certain level of authenticity, I guess it means that I have to confront my hurts and deal with my domestication (… this is a veiled reference to Don Miguel Ruiz’s Mastery of Love — I should reflect on that one of these days…).

Needless to say, the writing project that I am trying to finish now requires a deeper level of reckoning and well, the result is that I am running from myself even as I am reluctantly trudging towards the healing that it brings.

There is one fringe benefit of having completed one book project though: the prospect of getting to the end of this road fills me with anticipatory joy. I know that I will get there eventually and that it will be worth every morsel of pain and struggle.