There is a nagging impulse to write. The halo of these thoughts, these stories which still hasn’t made sense to me floats right above my head. It lures me on, softly calling out to me, begging me to write it. I feel inadequate. I think I don’t deserve the honors of writing the story. And I genuinely don’t. When was the last time I even wrote fiction?
A year ago?
I have written a few fictions this year; I wrote two novellas that I think is shitty and a piece of writing garbage because I can’t be pleased with my writing. I don’t ever think I will be. So, I have written two novellas. Although these two works were part of a series that I should have continued but were somehow stopped by the client from writing because I demanded more pay (I was getting paid #1.3 per word. I was expected to make the novella 20k words, but on both installments, I exceeded the word count by 5k words for the first and 10k words for the second, and I was not even given a tip, also if it was 1k. I was paid for the 2ok words, nothing more.), I still feel like I am selling myself short with fiction.
I don’t rate myself highly. I don’t know how to. I have tried, I honestly have, but I don’t know how to navigate from here forward. I am stuck. In my head, my writing has not gotten better. Even though a dear friend of mine keeps telling me, I write well, and I don’t believe her so much. I can’t write well to save my own damn life.
But you see these stories that have been haunting me for weeks now; they won’t stop. No matter how hard I try to tell myself I don’t need to write these stories, and I can’t shake them off me. I saw a picture on twitter that read, ‘write for you and not for others.’ I want to yield to this voice of writing wisdom and write for me.
I remember a secondary school classmate and friend, Bukola, who told me these same words more than seven years ago. She said she wrote for herself and not for the audience. I don’t know where Bukky is at the moment, but I want to tell her words are biting me back, hard. I should write my kind of stories. I should develop a voice for that is unique to me and original. These stories are begging me to. I should listen. I should open my arms and let the wings of these stories lead me wherever they want to lead me to. Just like I did for those novellas, I should allow the characters to unfold themselves and not try to hide from them.
I have this weird belief that stories are given to us by the gods. They are placed on our palms to tell because we are the only medium through which the gods can relay the many messages they want to convey. We are their speakers on this tangible world, our jobs as writers (I am not a writer) is to help them tell their stories, and if we fail to tell those stories as best as we can, they get angry and withhold future stories from us. They do not give us their stories anymore because we have not successfully told them as truthful as we know we ought to, but we have instead hidden behind our egotistic self-imposed incompetence. We have placed our selfish belief that we aren’t good enough ahead of the greater good of humanity and the gods of whom we owe our existence.
I may be wrong. I most likely am. But that is how I feel sometimes, and I can’t sleep this feeling off. I can’t hope that these stories fade away with time; that they evaporate as I deny myself a yielding vessel to the gods.
Fuck the gods! I want to say. But I wouldn’t know it. At least I can type those words.
Hey gods, I didn’t say it, it was a thought. So, here it is, I will try to open myself up like a rose in the morning, welcoming the sun to its world, I will allow the gods to use me to tell their stories. I want to say fucking stories, but the F word is becoming too frequent in my vocabulary. I should take them off. People like me, role models who are pictures of what decent looks like should not be found using the f word. It reduces the picture quality of our goodchildness. Or goodchristianess. I want to get this demon off my back. And hopefully get a bigger one as soon as this one jumps off, or I kill it and bury it inside a folder in my laptop never to be displayed for the world’s consumption.