Love holds me.
Surrounds me.
On either sides of my soul.
Comforted, seen, and heard.
Love holds me.
Back to writing
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.
Back to simplicity
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.
Aaaarrrggggg… I could scream!
— Edvard Munch —
Okay… I must get back to the writing now.
I finally did it
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.
I am sitting with this for a while.
My brain is still buzzing.
Nostalgia and Other Short Stories
Nostalgia and Other Short Stories is a collection of short stories with a reminiscent view on relationships among couples living in a very cosmopolitan, yet still traditionally fueled, Kenyan society.
In this debut publication, Ema Tinje explores, almost sentimentally, the challenges and triumphs of coupling — over time, in the face of personal growth, and against fluid limitations.
The stories in this collection present competing choices and other complications that color the journeys into intimacy. Tinje’s characters wistfully anticipate closure and the resolutions invoked by their vulnerabilities, demonstrating that there is not just one way to do relationships.
Life with no regret
I am feeling an urgency to live the life I have always promised myself. Two of my friends died in the last two weeks, and it’s gotten me looking inward.
If I died today, would I be okay with it? I am not sure.
There’s so still so much I want to do. I have stories I want to write and publish, places I want to travel and see, people I want to love on… the love of my life that I am still holding out hope that I will connect with (sooner rather than later)… a cottage I want to build in the country side… a beach house I want to own and where I want to live when I am a full time writer.
I think death makes me experience my mortality on a very deep level. Losing loved one is not easy but the thought of me dying actually makes me sad. Maybe it’s because I realize that there are no guarantees.
In many ways I feel as though “now or never” is a mantra for this short, fleeting life (to use a common cliche).
One thing is for sure… I don’t want to live a life that will see me carrying my dreams to the grave. I am not sure if the pangs of regret would be with me after death but I’d rather not find out.
I think that’s why I am so grateful for my Pooch. Getting him was the fulfillment of a lifelong desire to have a dog as a pet.
And then my humble attempts at traveling to different places has been in the quest to quench this wanderlust that I have inside me.
I also took up dancing. That is a truly me thing — it is all about connecting with my inner child and self. I feel so liberated when I dance — I didn’t think it would resonate this much with my soul. But this is my indulgence (… well, along with binge watching crime shows on the weekend…). It is one of the few things that I can say is truly about me.
Besides the writing thing, I suppose the next thing that I most long for is to find this big love and pour affection into the second love of my life. Some people say that it is this same longing that keeps love away. I often laugh because the yearning comes from somewhere deep inside me and I almost can’t help it. And so, well, my desire for love is no different than the desire I have to fulfill my life’s purpose in crafting stories of love. It might take me longer than most but I will live this truth. I am so sure.
I suppose I just don’t want to run out of time. And when I see my friends and loved ones dying, I feel the clock ticking.
I long, long, long to convince myself that the life I am living is truly full and that it has the meaning that I secretly wish for. That it is not just for show. You know, that it is not just about satisfying the eyes that watch or those for who my ego loves to perform.
To live a life with no regrets and simple pleasures.
Energies and music
Energy is a curiosity. It is telling of stories yet to be written and some best forgotten. As relationships develop, they often take on energies and personalities distinct from the ones of those who participate in them. When coupled with music, it is a beautiful thing — it can be inspiring. But maybe it’s anything that involves crowds working together — dancing, flash mobs, riots (maybe not those so much)… but something changes when people direct themselves into similar intentions and interactions… I think just as everything has two sides, sometimes herding is not as bad — it’s not as great when it manifests as group think, but it’s great as vaccinations and herd immunity, and also dance fests… and most things counter culture that are artistic in nature like breakdancing.
I was dancing today and then I sat and watched people around me dancing together… it was truly magical. I was swept up in the emotions of it. It was beautiful. I want to do it again. It was different from clubbing… happiness from movement and joy from moving together… it was magical.
Broken toys
My good friend warned me about playing with broken toys.
I didn’t listen.
I was too busy examining my time-worn scars wondering if I too was cracked in bits and place.
Embarrassed that I wasn’t perfect and overly friendly I paid humbly my dues.
Crossroads
I stand.
I sit.
I pace.
I wait.
I sit on the edge of my mind’s rumblings.
I skip reluctantly in the spaces I miss as I hurry along to connect stories backwards.
I sit. Again.
I wish for pauses.
I have not moved.