Catch me on any given day and you will probably find that i am energetic, full of life, annoying.
But catch me on a special Tuesday and you will find something else; an edginess, a sensitivy. I suppose on these special Tuesdays, if u touched me, however lightly, i would jump out of my skin.
It might be the cups of tea i drink on these special Tuesdays, or the coke, but its probably something more. You see, i joined a writers workshop.
Some people began singing in their mothers womb. Music was a journey that began in secondary school for me.
The one thing i probably was born to do, was write.
I started writing in nursery school (i assume). But i remember plays, little lines that i jotted down. I have books filled with words in my house, things i wrote. Writing has always been a release, and because when i wrote, i found release, i allowed myself to be free.
I wrote about fears and death. Love and questions. God and life. Pains and joy. The more i hurt, the more i wrote. Till (i confess), a part of me began craving pain, just so i could create.
s.h.a.r.ing my writing was itself a journey.
The first person who ever read anything i wrote was my father, and even then, it was fiction.
The true ones i kept hidden.
Over the years, only a few have read my real writings.
Giving my writings up meant exposing myself, and so, i wrote and hid.
I started s.h.a.r.ing them though. By letting people read, my having something i had written be performed on a stage.
I even started a blog (which i sometimes wish was anonymous), and got a column in The Guardian. Tweets. Facebook notes. Poems.... I wrote
But you see, it was still anonymous
The first time i read at Taruwa, i shook
And i hardly read there. Infact, i hardly read them anywhere
But i joined this workshop, where on special Tuesdays, i sit with a group of people, and we read what we have written.
It is the singular most complex experience for me.
First im at peace with the world, but once i start to read, a combination of factors set in
I am proud, cos i think i write well
I am afraid, cos i think my piece is stupid.
My competitive self wants the applause for my piece to be louder than everyone else’s
The perfectionist in me hates the thought that i missed something out or wrote something wrong
I feel exposed, because no matter how much fiction i put out there, a piece of me is tied in
And when i finish reading, the room is cold and silent. But i am sweating and i hear voices
They criticise the way i read each line, they scrutinise the faces that look back at me
And no matter what is said, i am on a high for the rest of the night
Meet me on a special Tuesday and ask me any question. I am at my most honest
Meet me on a Tuesday and communicate. I am at my most vulnerable
Meet me on a Tuesday and see me profess love. I am at my most flirtatious
I am high and wild and free and edgy and exposed and sad and amped and great
It is a special Tuesday and this is how i feel