I always loved reading. It was fun. It was a great learning experience, as they say; books allow you to enjoy intercourse with the best of minds. It was always worth it when I took time time off to read something be it some torn piece of newspaper or a real book.
Then came writing. I wanted to be as good as the people I loved reading from. My first try was with what in our primary school was called “composition”. We came up with our own stories and the teacher would award us marks based on how clearly we managed to embarrass ourselves. At first I used to think of what to write before writing. But being a slow thinker, this often took ten to fifteen minutes of the forty minutes allowed. I never once finished telling my story whenever I chose to think about it first.
My adaptation option was to start writing and figure out the story as I go along. This worked greatly. My fiction was always a great read even to myself. The twists I could put into my story as I went along was entertaining even to me. And this usually left me with some time to check for spelling errors. I scored well and this encouraged me to pursue fictional writing a lot more.
Fast-forward a decade or so later, I still grapple with most of the challenges I used to experience. Time remains on top of this list. But the challenges are nothing compared to the many invaluable lessons I have learnt along the way. To start with, I can handle time a lot better. I’m clearer and candid. I can be polite if I want to. I can be impatient if I want to. I can set the tone. My thoughts can now be seen in my writings.
It’s now time to move to the next stage. I want to inspire just as much hatred as I wish to. I want the reader to hug me anytime I feel like. I want the reader to imagine my face. For all this only practice will bring.