I wrote my first article when I was eight years old. It was about military oppression in Nigeria. I loved it. But Uncle Monday, my primary school teacher, didn’t like it because he thought I copied it. “I didn’t,” I cried. I was hurt.
Secretly, I continued writing. I wrote for myself. I was scared of what people might say. Fear of scorn and fear of rejection made me embark on necessary nonsensical career journeys.
To become successful in Nigeria, I was told, you have to be an accountant, an economist, an engineer etc etc. Indeed, I followed the bandwagon. What do I know? For years, I sat at home looking for that university that would admit me into their noble department. My talent suffered.
A writer’s life might begin with these doubts: whether, truly, he/she is doing the right thing or maybe, just maybe, that professional profession is better. These aporias fuelled a mediocre living.
After four years of waiting and wasting time and JAMBing, I finally made it into university to study literature. The arts called me back. Like Okigbo, I returned to Mother Idoto naked.
I studied various writers’ works and their lives. They have one thing in common, they love words and most of them were considered as weirdoes, geeks and misfits.
As I continued my trip into this sometime solitary life, I discovered some strange truths. First, people you love and those who love you always say something positive about your writings. Even when it is crap, they sing your praise. They encourage you.
Second, there are those, as a writer, you hate to love or love to hate. Those who run around defaming your personality and wishing, most importantly, that you amounted to nothing. Every move you make is devilish in their eyes. That writer smokes heavily, uses drugs, and copulates with two hundred women a day before he writes. These ones add to the spurious myths held about writers.
Depression. Boredom. Energy. Envy. Love. Hate. Madness. Negativity. Positivity. They come, yes. They visit a writer once in a while. And in these moments of visitation, the writer may let the guest rule those hours or decide to rule the guest. Whatever the choice, a result comes out: good, bad and good-bad.
The life of a writer may mean a lot to some and mean nothing to others. For example, in a party, I was dancing to Davido’s Skelewu and, screaming “Skelewu!” until I found myself outside. I met this lady, a conversation ensued and we got to that awkward part where you’re asked, “What you do for a living?” I answered proudly, “I am a writer.” A fake smile emanated. “You look like a banker. You guys try sha. You creative people. It is always good to have you people as friends. You never know. I know what writers are like.”
As a writer, you must learn to work for free most times. Friends, family members and even enemies send you stuff to proofread, re-write, and some tell you stories that need urgent writing. You must not say no. You must not charge. You are supposed to be a voice for humanity. Your pay is in heaven. You can feed your family with your goodness.
Discipline is key. Practise is essential. Every good thing comes to the writer who writes regularly and consistently. Life has made it that way.
The life of a writer is patience and determination filled. Forty rejection letters later, the writer keeps writing. When bills strangle the writer’s neck, when life’s harsh realities punch the writer into a coma, why does he keep composing words?
Story telling is part of a writer’s life. He can conjure characters from the air and make them live. He has the power to make you believe a woman can create gold. He has the power to make you cry, laugh, just to mention those two.
I’m still writing. My life is writing. Writing is my life.
In this career, I’ve learnt lessons. One of them remains important: never give up and never allow what anyone says about you or your work derail you from your set goal(s).
moshoke@yahoo.com
@moshoke
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