The writer’s block: I’ll called it a form of flattery, cos really, I can’t write, and claiming to have a block, is to fancy myself a writer. It’s been a weeks now… two weeks, maybe ages since I wrote something read-worthy. Now, I Can’t write, can’t think, poor imagination… very poor.
Flashing back, I thought to myself, where did this all start… the beginning? I enquired. Not much to surprise I find the root cause of this supposed block, that is nothing and no one else but “Code name Jolie” On a perfect day, my phone would have buzzed melodies about a hundred times. But then, the real question is, do I really know how to write? I’m I a failure? Have I been deceiving people all this while with all those poems I’d written about mumble-jumbles? I really thought I had something, but now, I guess I am pretty sure that I am just a common reader, who can neither pass for a critique.
As I am in the mood for dishing out blames, let’s not forget the thorn in my flesh, the whoring bitch in my minds night, Spelling. I cannot trace back to the genesis of this epidemic, sometimes I am tempted to believe it comes with the age, but with further investigation, not too far of inquires… very close the from – apple –to -tree theory , does it come to mind that my dad’s memory is as sharp as a samurai’s blade. So what’s the issue here? What is my brain concocting, or not concocting?
Growing up, somewhere in my subconscious, I had this strange believe that I could write. When I was 14, or, maybe 15, I rattled and dusted out my grandfather’s old typewriter and went on pushing back the keys till my fingers wore weak and bore sore circles from the thick-circled rime of those ancient keys. Surely it would have made him proud come to think of it? What would have hit the spot would have been, having to actually type out something illegible from the slamming keys to ribbon, from ribbon to the cylinder of A4.
I did manage to type out something, cos somewhere in my “intermediate stage of development body”, I though myself as a budding writer. But just in time to crash my concord, the story was first criticised by my dad , my very own father, as being strange, and a little too deep to be written by a girl just stepping into teenage life. I should believe that put a seal on the lid of my hopes and dreams of becoming a writer. I would say, I had the wildest imagination you could think of. I loved making things move (Not literally, that would be telekinesis for goodness sake) when I pen things down. I imagine myself in this situation, just like a play; still, but in motion, beautiful in expression, a bit ambiguous in taste, if you don’t get it, then don’t read it… It’s not meant for you.
And on my dreams and aspirations: when will I get my break? When will I make that trip to the publishers for the approval of my manuscript and a stalwart hand shake to lock up the deal? Where in god’s name have I been? Must have been I really dark cave, or in a shop with blinding florescent bulbs all over. Something… I can’t think up anything from the top of my head right now. Well before I divert off my sweet day dream. Yes, where was I? That’s right. Now cutting through a standing ovation wearing a beautiful dress, walking proudly to the podium to collect my prize… My Nobel – Prize (giggles). When that day comes, I’m sure to knock down a whole bottle of tequila and absolute vodka, dance like I’ve never done before, in church. Oh what a joyous thought. Having my dad pointing out to anyone who’d care to know that I am he’s daughter. Come to think of it, have I ever made him proud? Yes I have, dancing the Igbo cultural dance in school then, pry 2 or so. Did he like it anyway? That’s a bother for another day. Seems the trail is leading me to the gravy of the matter. Well then, who is an excellent writer anyway?