I was a bairn obsessed with any bundle of words that took my imagination on a pleasant ride. Strewn about my bed were Enid Blyton, Sugar Girl, Chike and the river, Robinson Crusoe and the likes. Birthing in my subconscious was the dream of having a similar bundle with my name on its front cover as the author. I did not hesitate to wield the pen. I filled scores of ‘Onward Big’ exercise books with fables. They filled me with pride and I decorated the books with Indomie indomitable stickers.
My growth clock spun into my adolescent years and I wheeled into the world of major word brokers; Arthur Conan Doyle of Sherlock Holmes, John Grisham, Sidney Sheldon, Nora Roberts and others.
“All these books you keep buying are just a waste of funds,” my mum would say, “because you only read them once.”
Still whenever I had the craving for a new book, my tongue would mould sweet pleadings and she’ll get me just one more yet again.
As my interest in publishing my own book grew, I noticed my writing lacked the creative spell necessary to enchant readers. I have no acquired flair in Creative Writing except the remains of my six year stint in secondary school English. I had to do something about that.
So, the tide of my interest in novels changed drastically. I sought more than just the thrill but also to untangle wisdom from the creative web of words. Merriam Webster became a close ally, breaking words into bits that illuminated my intellect.
I wrote more, cringing more often than not at the thatch of words my brain wove. I was tethering on the brink of despair. Am I ever going to write a bestseller? That became the foremost question on my worry laden mind.
Rejecting the handshake of despair, I tore relentlessly through my favourite bundles of words. I pored over web articles on writing. I started a blog to keep me writing and for critique.
As stable as change is, it happened slowly. I noticed it despite the scales of misgivings that refused to peel off from my eyes. I started getting thrilled by my own creativity. I tried to avoid clichés and stay loyal to novelty. A great deal of thinking is needed for the creative word party to turn out beautifully. So I had to also work against sloth of the mind. It’s a constant challenge.
My ‘better’ was fast being hushed by another I would call my ‘best’ only to discover later that it was a misnomer. This is because I would still come up with something ‘better’. The cycle keeps going on and I can only give praise to God, my inspiration.
My joy is not complete because my best is yet to come and I am not yet where I want to be. I am still content with each sailing second because I am in the process of becoming that which I hope to be.