Everyone
talks about their firsts. If nothing else, we at least try to remember some of
them. Our first steps, first kisses, first love or first sex even. Either way,
we can all agree that there is something momentous about firsts.
Unfortunately,
I cannot remember the first time I wrote. Although, if I were to take an
unbiased guess, I would say I started writing in preschool; even though I
might have held a pen at an earlier time. Or so my mum says.
I would
eventually scribble on plain sheets of paper cut out from my drawing book. Cluster
of bold letters they were, impressed deeply upon the paper like it was being
branded, with thin lead stuck in wood for better handling, to which I was doing
quite a poor job of. Some of my folks would disagree, being that I was only
four years old at the time. They rather saw in me, a child with genius
tendencies. They did not mind that some of the letters were misplaced, as some
of the words, if not most of it, must have spelled out wrongly, to cook up an
alphabet soup.
My artistic brother,
who is a year younger, made paperback covers to encase my pages. Usually, they
were obtained from cardboard or brown cartons lying within reach. He drew on
them, caricatures of pictures that were supposed to portray whatever story I
was writing. I usually shared my intended plot with him before I began writing.
I do not
remember in details, the stories I wrote. But I recall presenting to my mum,
my first self-published book. She accepted it with a beam of amusement and a
light pat on my head, promising to read it. Too innocent to think much a smile,
I walked away robust with pride, trusting and believing her to do so.
I somewhat regret
not having a treasure chest where I could have stowed these memories, so I can
maybe try now, to understand the psyche of the child I was.
As I grew
older, writing gradually left me. Or did I leave it? I do not quite remember.
But still we parted ways like estranged lovers; as a cat would leave home for
the wild, maybe never to return. However, I held on to books. It was the only
contact I had with writing.
Many years
later, 2011 to be precise, during my youth service year, I stumbled upon an ad
in the dailies about a creative writing workshop sponsored by Fidelity Bank.
Helon Habila was to give the lecture, along with two other western authors. I
am quite ashamed now to admit that I did not know who he was at the time but
the idea seemed pretty good to me. Interest alone, however, did not guarantee a
free gate pass to the seminar. We were made to back that up with a writing sample
of 800 words. This was the break point for me for it was my first conscious
attempt at writing literarily. So I went and sought after my lost love.
I took up
the challenge to write a piece that was supposed to be my selling point to the
highest bidder. What I did not realize, was that this was an unusual auction
where I was bidding to be sold. After a lot of writing, erasing, and
proof-reading from colleagues, friends and well-wishers, I came up with what I
reckoned to be a killer piece. I submitted it and waited anxiously for the 1st
of July which was the proclaimed date to get back to selected applicants.
In a scene from the
movie, ‘My Week with Marilyn’, Dame Sybil Thorndike said to Colin who was infatuated with Marilyn, that “first love is such sweet despair”. This could not have been
truer as half-way into the month of July; I kept clicking on my inbox to find
zilch there every time I checked. I felt I had been stood up by my date. I was
at first angry, disappointed, then sad. In fact, I guess this is what it means
to be heartbroken.
I have not
stopped writing since then. Okay, I have not been entirely religious and
consistent with it but the more I write, the more I realize I never had a
killer piece for experience cured me of my delusion.
As a rite of
passage for most would-be writers, I have launched a blog as this should help
me become a better writer and maybe eventually attain the killer piece I have
always longed for.
Towards the
end of the movie, here’s what Colin said “Here’s what I remember most. Her
embrace, her belief in me, and the joy she gave. That was her gift. When I
think of her now, I think of that time when a dream came true and my only
talent was not to close my eyes.”
The voice of
a resilient heart sounds like this. I would know because despite how it feels like I
am not able to get it right a lot of times, writing gives me joy. It is the
haven where I seek refuge when nothing around me seems to make sense and even
when everything makes sense, I still write. Like a true lover, I share my life
with it. My only prayer is that I do not stop
writing.
