Confessional

Of Book Fairs and reprises

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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.

Brave little steps and gold stars

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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.

Love Letters

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I was thinking about love letters and remembered how much I enjoy them… how much they say about humanity. Then, I remembered that I had written once about how much I enjoy love letters. I decided to retrieve my musings on this wonderfully romantic topic. I dusted it up and decided to re-post it here… Didn’t change much, I’m afraid — still feel the same way.

It turns out that on the day I wrote this note that I was seated in an airport lounge supposed to be working but instead found myself day dreaming… imagine, I still do this — let my mind wander off, lost in some fantasy.

I am reading instead what I love the most in the world – some fiction novel that’s a cross between romance and chic lit. I am loving the character – Valentina: 34; single; in love with a man who lives far away. And she just received a letter from said man. It got me thinking – I can’t remember when I last received a love letter. Damn it… I just realized that I really really want a love letter… Valentina’s could be a model:

“… I wondered if it could be true, that you might reciprocate the feelings I had, and turn my longing to kisses. Now, I hope. Do you feel as I do?”

Do people talk like this anymore?

I suppose that in the 19th Century and back it was more common… any 21st Century takers?

Do people, even write letters any more? I am not talking about hot, steamy emails or text messages. I mean real, live, par avion covered letters, scripted in pen.

I would imagine that they are a novelty. I can also see how they could be an exercise in frustration – it took me about 2 months once to receive a wedding invitation through Kenya Post.

But you know, I remember, once when I was in love, around 10 years ago, receiving about six or seven love letters in about six weeks of summer. I looked forward to those envelopes, dotted with cologne spots and the most tender words I have ever had the pleasure of reading. For me… and not by me. I was so eager to hear what my love’s heart wanted to say. It was so so silly romantic but I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Unabashedly soaked it all in.

Sometimes I wonder if I have outgrown such indulgence as really and truly believing in the value of a love letter. Mmmmhhh. It seems that I might be a little sentimental. Must be residual from having my heart awakened and having attended the most beautiful wedding last Friday. Seriously, though, do modern and post modern mentalities even debate these things? Is it possible to be too sophisticated so that love letters are so yesterday’s news?

Forget the musings… I just really want a love letter.

I am so amused by how consistent I am in my longings… I still feel the same way.

I think, for me, it would be quite in order to receive a love letter and for it to be as priceless as diamond ring. I guess that’s really not odd — writers love words, hear words, and believe words.

Nope. Not odd at all.

Can I be me?

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So a while back I watched one of the many docu-stories on Whitney Houston on Netflix. It was all very riveting… I mean, she was the queen of voice, right? Super Bowl XXV and Star Spangled Banner…

Anyway, one of her docu-stories has stayed with me. I can’t remember the title – it might even be the same title as my post – but in one of the most poignant scenes, they tell her that she’s about to go on an interview and she innocently (so hopefully) asks, “Can I be me?”

Now, I don’t recall the exact answer she gets but the change in her face makes it clear that it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. And you can almost see her slowly shift into a manufactured person. The vibrancy in her eyes fades. But she does well in the interview. Her responses are well-timed and seasoned with the right amounts of bubbly. And she… she is so very severely diminished.

I revisit that image and scene in my mind often. When I encounter people who have high walls and eyes full of secrets. When I try to shade myself and make it look like feminine mystique (I often fail miserably — but the efforts are hilarious even to me). When I hear pain in stories that are so bravely told. When I hear deprecating humor and sarcasm come through in conversations. When I see longing in children’s eyes for affirmation from their siblings. When I hear my mother missing me but trying so hard not to say so. When I see my friend act out only to pull back in shame and guilt. When I interact with people at work and struggle not to reach out a hand and say, “Just be you… I promise to be me, in return.”

I don’t know why the process of human domestication requires denial of vital parts of ourselves.

Maybe the stress and exhaustion of work everyday is not in the tasks or the cleverness demanded by the roles we play. Maybe it is from the shimmying in and out of these necessary performances. Maybe our greatest fetes as humans is not in exhibiting consciousness but in the continuous acting and performance we do and pass off as living life.

Maybe it’s not as bad as I making it sound — gosh I am obsessed with the story behind the story, aren’t I?

I wonder who will serve up “Can I be me?” face today.

Rebellious streaks and being unoriginal

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So I think I like starting my confessionals like this… with “So”… anyway, that was a random observation; back to the matter at hand: rebellious streaks.

Sooooo… I recently put on a septum ring and loved it. I loved how I looked in it, how powerful it made me feel, and there was an edginess to my look that made me feel very sexy and alive. And you’re probably wondering how a simple little ring would make me feel this way, right?

Well, I have been thinking a lot about my life hurtling off into adulthood and the pressure I am feeling to act and be a certain way (again). I have written before about Proper Miss shenanigans and how repressed I feel (…because of professional work environments and other life choices I keep making mostly), et cetera. So it’s not a new feeling — this constant need to break out.

And now it has manifested in the need for me to demonstrate autonomy over my choice of body jewelry. It’s not just the septum ring. It’s also the body chains, gothic harnesses, and all other ordinarily yummy stuff, if you’re experimenting in high school or college. I wonder if me acting out this way is some subtle form of sabotage that dares the world to ask me why I am making these choices, but really I am setting myself up to lose.

Of course, I feel a deeply rooted, and mostly silent pleasure, from all this stuff. I chuckle at being so unoriginal — maybe this is my oh-so-textbook mid life crisis. And if it is, well let’s just say that it really is a feeble attempt.

But after all this thinking and musing, I am just going to keep doing it because it makes me happy and it’s part of what fuels all my other beautiful, guilty pleasures like writing and dancing. And it keeps me rooted to the core of me…

Back to writing

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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

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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.

Someone please buy me this from Whiskey River Soap Co

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!

Scream
— Edvard Munch —

Okay… I must get back to the writing now.

I finally did it

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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.

Life with no regret

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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

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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.