It’s been so long since I wrote anything. It’s been really difficult to get into the space where I connect with inspiration to write and express and leave my heart on paper.
Writing is mostly cathartic but also an extension of who I am. This year has tried me in the deepest way and pushed me to be so much more than I ever thought I could be.
I am so grateful.
So many people had it way harder than I did. I suppose if finding inspiration to do this thing that I desire so much is my only difficulty then I am so fortunate. So yeah… I am grateful.
Gratitude is such a funny thing. It is defined both by what we say and what we hide… this post hides a lot too… even so, at its simplest, it conveys that there was much that was lost by so many. Inspiration, for me, and perhaps time… time that mostly shifted in a blur… and now it is Christmas.
I suppose I will be bleeding on this here keyboard because I am back. And with so much story.
So right before the COVID-19 lockdown and restricted movement shenanigans, I attended a writers salon and read for a group of people (most of who I did not know). It was a big night for me and I think I wrote about it here… though I am pretty sure I had a few more reactions to that night that I should delve into in another post… it was quite heavy stuff so maybe I will wait.
I think I love this word – delve… it’s got the right mix of sophistication without being too uppity and feels good when I write it and say it in my head… Slight digression but anywayyyy….
I am challenging myself and being really intentional about writing some sex scenes in my new romance novel. I skirted around this in my first book… I was slightly uncomfortable because I kept thinking about all the people that I know that would read that book. Also, there is a little voice inside that tells me that worse than people judging me for writing about sex, they would make judgements about my own preferences or experience.
Oy… very complex this… but you know, I think a good sex scene couched in a moving romance can be distinguishing and really elevate a story. As I am an avid reader of romance, I do think that a good love making leads to more satisfaction for the reader … from a story line perspective…
I think love making also provides the writer a more intimate space to explore complex issues about love and loving that would be difficult to otherwise delve into… you’d think that with such intimate spaces, a good sex scene can hopefully lead to an even better understanding of the characters, what motivates them, and really what they are looking for… but I am yet to overcome this fear of being silently judged.
I also think that there is also this African side of me that just feels shame about writing so openly about sex. This is more problematic because I think that the consumption of our stories requires a venture into those uncomfortable spaces and my hesitation maybe points to the need to soften and immerse myself into this experience. I imagine that this resistance is also about my ego and it’s rigid judgement about being open about sex and pleasure.
Whatever the reason may be, I think I owe it to myself to be brave and embrace this challenge.
I have decided to be intentional about facing this fear and write a couple of isolated sex scenes and see how I feel about it. I am wondering whether they are worth posting in the Confessional but I think I will decide when I get to a sizeable number. Maybe when I review them I will understand whether love making is in my repertoire of writing skills or not. I might even be able to confront and put to bed (— see what I did there — tee hee) this rigidity that makes me so aware of what is natural for lovers to do and for romance writers to describe.
Do you see how many times I used delve? Love this word. Maybe I will use it in all my sex scenes… mmmhhh…
So I haven’t written in a while. It’s been a tough couple of months since the first case of COVID-19 was registered in Kenya. I am not playing with ‘Rona so I have been self isolating… and have limited the number of people I interact with on a daily basis (careful to keep it under 3). Then I have worked from home since that case was announced.
Like many people, I thought that I would finally do the Shakespeare thing and come out of this COVID-19 isolation with a novel. Except I have been spent and not an ounce of creativity could be squeezed from my insides. I think I have been subconsciously directing all my energy towards survival and being content with the isolation, the silence, and the sometimes loneliness.
I have to admit that I am more hermit-ish than most people and so being isolated is not a big deal. But there are times when I wake up and wish there was someone else in the house to say “Good Morning” besides my dog… but then again, I am so happy that I get to expose my neurosis only to myself especially in these uncertain terms. So… well… it’s not clear if I am winning or not…
Anyway… for the first time today, after a writing dry spell of about two and a half months, I was finally able to write. Yes — this blog note is a major breakthrough for me! And also, I was a responsible author today and even looked at some edits from my previous book… I can’t stand the typos that were there… (palm-connect-to-face-several-times). I had started the re-edit process before COVID-19 and then lost my mojo.
I am not sure if I have enough mojo to do a new book (or complete all the ones I have started but can’t seem to finish) but I am hoping that I will have it in me to express all that is sitting inside me. There are so many stories that I hope I will get to tell — and so I pray with all that is within me that I will be able to let the creativity flow.
But I am grateful that I can write again. It feels like my soul is sighing and stretching into that magic that makes storytelling the most satisfying of activities.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
So I have been suffering from writers’ block. I just cannot seem to get it together. But you know the funny thing is that I was feeling some sort of pressure to write a certain way.
Okay, so I think I have figured out where the block is coming from. You see, I had a conversation with an interesting person at a cafe somewhere in Nairobi about writing. The conversation was pleasant at the time and I had no issues with the exchange we had.
Lately, though, that conversation has become some sort of private hell and replaying it in my mind has been messing with my mojo. Anyway, in the conversation, I was blabbing about my writing process and what it means for my emotional stability. The pleasant stranger stopped me to ask what I write about. I said romance and then they cringed. And I winced in response.
This conversation – cringes and winces included – has been fueling my writers’ block in the way of an accelerant to a fire. Every time I sit down to write, I have a short flash back to that convo. And yes, of course, I cringe.
But I also find myself working very hard to sound intellectual in my writing. I am so obsessed with creating deep, meaningful interactions that I feel that I am killing my own vibe. I don’t know. I like writing romance and making it not so cringe-worthy is really slowing me down. It is also making me want to sit in a corner, hug my knees, and cry… mostly because deep down I am afraid of the fact that I am insecure about loving romance novels. I suppose I feel a bit of shame that I totally eat up nyummy stories about connecting with someone, the excitement of kissing them, the anguish of conflict, and the relief of making up.
My good lord! Sounding intellectual when trying to write about love is exhausting! I have been looking for ways to disappoint my characters so that they are in despair. After all, sadness and heartbreak are a separate category of literature, right? And I am not the queen of plot twists — I confuse myself!
I am not sure why admitting to writing romance bothers me because in the secret places of my being, the magic of romance is enough. And I wish I could just go back to a simple story of lovers meeting, then loving then fighting then loving again. My current book is killing me because I feel as though I am playing to an audience that’s judging me already.
I am so behind on my word count goals that I am thinking of abandoning this book altogether. I want to start afresh and possibly just stick to a simple, sappy love story. Maybe if I do that, I will re-discover my love of storytelling and unlock this block that is costing me word counts and sanity.
So I finally published my first book. I feel both terror and relief. Terror because nothing will ever be the same. Relief because I finally fulfilled a promise I made to myself.
