Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade. DIAPERED DOLL "You've never looked more beautiful," my husband whispered; better a positive phrase than an honest appraisal of my bulging body. No one told me I'd have brownish spots on my face, be sick, have problems with my bladder, ankles, back. Prior to pregnancy, I recall early evening visits with friends. I saw their clean babies in cute pajamas-with-feet, cooing, gurgling. Creatures with no teeth, down hair, miniature features didn't scream, eat, eliminate, ail...did they? I stopped working and had inner conflicts. I'd taught high school before baby #1, and my paycheck was a nice contribution to the household. My identity was intact, feelings of self-worth encouraged, status in society recognized for my individual accomplishments. At the dinner table, I had a 'day' to contribute to the conversation and opinions to express. Of course I also was Mrs. and his name but MY first name was used on attendance charts, exams, faculty listings. It stopped. I wanted a baby; I knew nothing of the responsibility, lifetime emotional commitment, financial realities, difficulty maintaining self-esteem, pulling of others demanding I be wife/mother/housekeeper/cook all at the same time. Sometimes when I pushed the carriage near a school, I felt envy...just as I had when I'd once looked at bedtime babies. Strange. Same sensation, different role. Women visited. Lesson plans and vacation dreams were now formulas and toilet habits. Naps, and push toys, and debates about pacifiers took precedence over politics, science, novelists. I was happy; I was miserable. My husband, after dinner, played with the diapered doll we'd created while I cleaned up soiled dishes. Then he had the newspaper, I had the laundry; he had the television and I anticipated dirty diapers, human screams, disturbed sleep. Sometimes I was jealous of this man I cherished because he continued with the same life but ADDED to it, while mine was dramatically altered. Adult females visited with cookies, clean changes, cumbersome bags filled with necessities for unexpected emergencies. Other adults who dropped by were usually sales or repair persons. Generally, relatives no longer came to visit me; they came to see the baby. I often felt like a non-person. Was I immature, selfish? I didn't think so. I once had been a productive adult with feedback; actual baby care was 24 hour-seven-days-a-week work with short-lived satisfactions. I held, rocked, caressed the human my body had housed. He cried, spit, had rashes, chest colds, allergies. I stroked his silk hair and found cradle cap, rubbed his body with lotions that could not control prickly heat. He was so utterly helpless, yet when he asserted himself as time passed, I was even more burdened. As calendar pages were pulled off, my parasite developed personality. He responded to my voice. We sat on the floor taking cubes and creating a vertical line. Glee, when the pile tumbled onto the carpet, was contagious. I hummed in our kitchen while my husband repeated this learning event after supper. It was daddy's time. I lingered over the last scoured pot so father-child could have additional privacy. It was special. I was pleased. The three of us went to the zoo, had picnics, waded at a beach. The three of us took car trips, made snowmen, planted zinnia seeds. The three of us were family. I shared, contributed, taught at dinner meal we all ate together. I had stories of wonder and exploration I was privileged to be party to. My immediate friends and I took turns reading and reviewing the latest books while our children banged on pots, shredded paper, or crayoned. The novelty of a 'baby' grew stale and when relatives began to visit they talked to my husband and me! They shared our child's special events; he became reason to have a celebration. Some, who otherwise might not have made a trip to see us, came bringing gifts to this new generation. I began to recognize the dignity of my labor. This job was not as static as it first appeared. I had to re-evaluate priorities, become flexible, face situations for which I had no frame of reference, handle accidents and illness rationally. I learned how to manage time, conserve energy. Pleasures from fingerpaints, clay, crayons, picture books, singing, hugging, helping, letting-go were enormous. Being mother had a special mystique and challenge. My self-worth soared. Imagine, I'd influence this human's values, philosophy, attitudes! In my control was encouragement and individualism; in my control was dependency and conformity. This was power. My husband continued to follow his routine as prescribed by his profession. I occasionally sat back and noticed how dynamic my weeks really were. I realized my whole life would require me to assume identities as I'd move from one role to another. My challenges were ongoing, with fear and exhilaration as each would be encountered. His seeming-freedom from a 24 hour baby care day was a restriction and he was locked into a job. His concern for costs was more draining than some sleepless nights cuddling a croupy child. I was the lucky one. I read Plath's "The Bell Jar". So she felt alienated as she sat in a pediatrician's office feeling she'd go mad caring for a baby all day. We all feel alienation at times; just knowing it is a universal state is comforting. I read Friedan's "The Feminine Mystique". She forgot to inflame women who file folders all day, and men whose sole job is to screw one assembly line nut on one bolt. Why incite housewives and encourage an uprising? She didn't see that cleaning hotels, hauling garbage, shop clerks re-hanging tried on clothing was hum-drum. I really enjoyed A.A. Milne and Dr. Seuss more than I ever would have imagined. I looked forward to re-reading, because of my child, my girlhood favorite dog and horse novels...Lad...Flicka.... My past was being used again. Nice. Spoons fell, cups tilted, food found its way into his hair, and I focused on my goal to assist my son towards independence. A fine balance between enough/too much control brought uneasiness. I pondered the position in which I'd placed myself: could I let my child leave as a young adult who would have no need for me and still feel personal satisfaction? Closer, could I accept the loss of control when he'd exit the house for kindergarten? Would jealousy jump in as my all-knowing state would be challenged by others? He'd have his own day to share with dinner conversation; I'd have a new batch of diapers and formulas from his sibling. Touching my husband's hand, I realized we faced a future that would come full circle and we needed to continue to find and develop our 'oneness'. The child was not an extension of ourselves but a being we chose to put on this earth. His accomplishments should not give us status and identification else we'd encourage areas of development for selfish reasons. What would be best for HIM certainly isn't an immature or self-centered attitude. Was I ripening, getting considerate? The small foot outgrew fitting into my palm. Sporting his new, low, hard soled oxfords, we all went to a flower show. Again pregnant, I held our son upright against my cheek. Lilacs formed a backdrop. My husband pressed a camera shutter. I felt beautiful. ©1995 All About Kids reprinted: 2001 Shemom reprinted: 2017 Indiana Voice birth Day-date"Watch me. Watch me, Mom.. It’s 2019 already, and my birthday month." I look to the sky and whisper to the quiet air. Within my mind, I re-play some meaningful markers of my passages through time. "Can I’ve the creepy paper? Can I?" I giggle at Mommy. "Crepe paper, not creepy." I wrap the crinkly stuff around my skirt but it tears when I try and tuck it into the elastic at my waist. Mommy smiles, and fixes it. She puts a piece over my satin hairbow, and I climb on a table. "Watch me. Watch me." I shout and begin dancing. "I’m five. I’m five." I twirl and like the sound of the paper moving. Baby sister who’s only one, and big sister now seven, pay no attention to me. "Whee." I pretend to tap dance to get their attention but Mommy reminds me to be careful on the table ‘cause I can fall off. So what. I can’t get hurt. I’m five. I see Mommy light a match, touch the stove to turn on flames, and start cooking my special-day meal. All I want is cake. And I can blow out my own candles now. And I’ll go to kindergarten this year with my big sister holding my hand and crossing the wide-wide street with me. Oh five is just such fun. I put baby, holding her all by myself to do this, into the wicker basket of clean clothes and diapers Mommy’s taken off the line that’s on the roof of the apartment building. I shove the basket towards the radiator and sister seems to like that. Since it is April, the radiator isn’t hot anymore and I can’t get reminded to not go near it or get burned. I climb in the basket and my creepy paper skirt tears even more. "Don’t let Joy eat that paper!" Mommy warns. "And you’re getting your shoes all over the clean clothes." "I know. It’s soft in here. I’ve shiny-shiny patent leather shoes on. They’re so special they can’t get anything dirty." Mommy grins and shakes her head. She doesn’t want to scold me on my birthday. With motions, I take the baby’s hands and recite ‘Birthday me, birthday me baker’s man, bake me a cake as fast as you can’. Seven year old Carole helps Mommy at the stove but I know she’s happy for me. I put out my right hand: I’m the age of all my fingers there. "Dear Diary. I’m nine." I’m writing this in my own bedroom. When I was six, and we all saw this house, I ran upstairs first and found a sunlit room with a window that had an outside box of flowers leaning against the house, and the floor was not wood but like Grandma’s kitchen one yet with checker board and other games designed right into the linoleum. I shouted that this was mine. I didn’t know my parents had never before lived in a house. "Diary. I’m never-ever going to be a single number again after this." I imagined the double-digit of ten was going to open magic doors for me to walk through and I would really be a big girl. Nine was great, and I was going to a different summer camp in three months and was excited about that. Mom was already sewing labels into all of my clothing. "Diary. Wait until I tell you about my birthday ice cream that Daddy had a place make into shapes. Real shapes. There’s a horse, and a ballerina, and ice skates, and everything. They’re sitting in something called dry ice, but how can ice be dry, and why won’t he allow me to touch it and says it’ll burn my skin. Makes no sense. But the ice cream is wonderful to look at. I’ll have the best party ever." Sixteen. Carole has made me a corsage of pink ribbons and sugar, like I did for her two years ago. My dress is sheer brown silk over turquoise taffeta and has a brown velvet band circling my tiny waistline. I know I’m pretty. The dining room is elegant, as Mom always makes it, and Dad has his flood lights and 16mm bulky camera ready to take movies when guests come. Twelve year old Joy helps Mom with the finishing touches on the table, and Carole turns on the record player in the living room and my guests begin to dance. Mom and Dad have the luxury of carpeting now, but we dance on that just like we used to on the wood except our feet sometimes sink in the lush pile. I know the meal will be perfect but I don’t tell Mom, and the cake is so gorgeous I’ll hate to disturb it with a knife. This is a grown up party; I’m the center of attention; I like that. Twenty. I’m a junior in college. I’d rather not take the train home for my April birthday and will celebrate it at school. After all, I can always have a belated one with family at some point. The universe still revolves around me, and I love school, the scenery of the campus with rolling hills and two lakes, studies, the sensation I have surrounded by all the books in the library, running on the track early in the morning before exams, performing in theatre productions, being the songstress in my dorm, writing skits and doing artwork for inter-college activities, and sharing my school tales with loving parents who always listen to me and don’t mind the expense of my long-distance phone calls. Pieces of me, inside, still love hair bows and crepe paper. The sewing skills my mother taught me are used as are my decade of piano lessons when I’m at a dorm party where there’s a piano. Seems nothing of my childhood was wasted; even ballet made me move gracefully. I telephone and share my day; they understand and give me freedom to grow without guilt. We bury my father in May. 2019. Numbers. Grade point averages, price of postage stamps, tax percentages, clothing sizes, calendar dates, birthdays....... All digits affect us.. We hear a cliche ‘you’re only as old as you feel’ and know the expression is quite ridiculous. Many of us feel we’re still seventeen while the numbers are decades more, but we’re not seventeen and the gift of moments has a ticking clock. My tiny dress size, and hair color that continually grows without grey anyplace defies time. Yet, on the annual specific date my mother’s body ushered in my life, I’m aware of the very word ‘years’. At my current numeral, my mother was dead from contaminated blood she’d received during open-heart surgery, having spent 32 years of her life as a widow, alone, never even dating another man. At my sum, my older sister was dead from the ravages of stomach cancer. I’ve had multiple decades of living more than my father was allotted during his brief 45 years. Numbers. My spouse, since we were both in our twenties, holds my hand and knows we’re privileged with our 3 children, their mates, the 15 offspring from their bodies, the 7 great-grandchildren, so far, sharing ‘life’. As a physician, he witnesses how fragile the human body really is and doesn’t take for granted our longevity. "Mommy. Can you fix my creepy paper skirt?" Inside my head, I’m dancing on the mahogany coffee table in an apartment with radiators, ice box, stove lit with a match to ignite flame, wicker basket of line-dried-on-the-roof cotton clothes, diapers and baby sister, oilcloth kitchen floor. Inside my head, I feel big sister’s hand helping me cross a wide boulevard for kindergarten, I see my age 6 very own bedroom in a big house with forced air heat and no radiators, I taste the coldness and sweetness of the ice cream shapes at my 9th party, I smell the fragrance of the dining room flowers and foods arranged carefully for my Sweet Sixteen. "Watch me. Watch me." I look to the sky and whisper to the quiet air. "You’ve watched over me, and I’m thankful." I force a shallow sigh. "But watch me twirl. I can still do it. Can you see? Do you remember? Thanks......." ©2011 Poetica Magazine Might “MeToo” mean inclusion? “Ooh. That’s so pretty!” Sounds from a bridal shower 2019. The all-female guests are wearing jeggings or skinny jeans, untucked wide tops carrying cross-body purses. The little champagne glasses have frail bubbles making quiet fizzy sounds as each are being refilled. Same scene decades ago except the attendees would have been in dresses, hosiery, high heels that coordinated with the outfit, carrying clutch purses and proper white gloves. Baby showers filled the same purpose with audience and gifts.
“I’ll never have that and won’t go to one either; it’s sexist, but also humiliating. My-gift-is-better-than-your-gift is horrible!” My parents nodded with understanding as, in girlhood, I spewed these words after noticing part of this event at a neighbor’s backyard. While I preferred women and men gatherings growing up, at age seventeen I knew many universities were male-only; there were some female-only ones, but I’d intentionally selected co-ed for undergrad school. Separate dorms, dress-codes, curfews for women were enforced but none knew any better. These were society’s standards. “Showers” with pretend-elation while feeling inadequate/superior, depending on a gift’s expense, were not part of college life. When I got engaged, my widow mother made a large party at home. Men and women spoke to one another, although each family seemed to eventually gravitate to familiar faces. I noticed my mother’s ability to make food displays elegant, and entertain gracefully no matter how many people were in the house. Dishwashers did not yet exist, yet the plentiful food was served on real China plates she’d clean by hand. Those who brought gifts did not see them displayed. I carried packages upstairs to my mother’s bedroom; my fiancé and I opened each after guests had gone, while my mother used pencil and paper creating a careful list of item-and-giver so my hand-written thank you notes would be specific and genuine. Fast-forward: my daughter was engaged. Well-meaning acquaintances just absolutely wanted to make her a bridal shower. I’d totally avoided being an attendee at any, hearing my own words, “I’ll never have that and won’t go to one either; it’s sexist, but also humiliating. My-gift-is-better-than-your-gift is horrible!” I said that the mother-of-the-bride won’t be there so really don’t bother. My husband and I made an engagement party, had ‘old-fashioned’ invitations created with raised print on white cardstock, and gift-bringers were spared embarrassment of having individual items opened in front of everyone. When her baby #1 was due, and I saw she probably wanted the specialness, I still could not put a person in a position to feel awkward about having less money to spend on a purchase than another, nor a sexist situation. Eventually, her firstborn was able to travel the 1200 miles to our house, and my husband and I made a ‘welcome our first grandchild’ celebration. 21st Century. Is it true that a woman might write “x” next to a newborn’s gender on a legal birth certificate? Friedan’s 1960's book seems tame. There are no dress codes, curfews, and such in colleges or most anyplace. Transgender has even moved into the modeling profession. Films and tv shows celebrate homosexuals and lesbians, and the drag-queens once so shocking in “La Cage” are seen as excellent dancers and impersonators. Women painters’ works are part of the Museum of Modern Art, the field of politics has aspiring American Presidents, and an annual gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art has fewer ball gowns and more body-revealing unusual-designed attire. Employers cannot ask if a young applicant intends to become pregnant, and living-together rather than legal union has no stigma. Single-mother is totally okay. October 2019. I passed a banquet room at a local restaurant. Stopping to look through an open door, the area was filled with only women, and a table of gifts was placed near one single guest-of-honor for her to open and reveal contents to all present. A sign noted ‘bridal shower’. My husband said he’d also heard of ‘gender showers’ where a mother-to-be reveals to a female audience the biologic sex of her unborn, and ‘baby showers’, women-guests-only, still exist as well. Some places have banned the use of fireMEN, policeMEN, MANhole cover in a road, mailMAN, and such, and Wimbledon’s tennis in England has been accused of using male last names only for men but addressing each female tennis participant with Miss or Mrs and her last name as a courtesy. Somehow that seems to be a stigma for women players. So: Why is an all-women ‘shower’ with the necessary ‘ooh’ and ‘oh that’s adorable’ utterance still so engaging?
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Carol Smallwood is a literary reader, judge, and interviewer. A recent book is Patterns: Moments in Time (WordTech Communications, 2019). Carol Smallwood Interviews Hadley Moore Hadley Moore's short story collection Not Dead Yet and Other Stories won Autumn House Press’s 2018 fiction contest: https://smile.amazon.com/Not-Dead-Yet-Other-Stories/dp/1938769414/ref=sr_1_2?keywords=not+dead+yet+and+other+stories&qid=1566925581&s=gateway&sr=8-2 Paperback: 216 pages, $17.64 Autumn House Press; September, 2019 ISBN-10: 1938769414 Moore: I say this all the time, but it is true: the process is so mysterious. For me, it isn’t so much that certain characters are easier or harder to write as that whole stories are. I can look at the table of contents of this book and remember what it was like to draft and revise each story—which I wrote relatively quickly; which went through multiple revisions, sometimes in fits and starts over years; which I thought I might never finish—but I can’t tell you why. The process is likely determined by a combination of how well-formed the idea was to begin with, whether I received useful feedback from a reader on an early draft, how much uninterrupted time I had to work on it, and many other factors related to all the as-yet unknown ways our brains operate. I just have to accept that when I start a new project there isn’t any way to know how it will go.
This book took about ten years to complete, during which time I also focused on other work. Each story felt like a discreet project, and it didn’t occur to me until I had most of them drafted that I might be heading toward a full collection. Smallwood: Do you write poetry or nonfiction? When did you begin to write character centered fiction? Moore: I admire poetry but I don’t write it; everything that comes out of me is a sentence. And if I have an urge to write nonfiction, it’s usually about fiction books or fiction writing, but I haven’t published an essay in years. All of this is to say fiction is my literary home. In my early twenties I started dabbling in essays, then I got an MS in journalism, and it was a few years after that that I finally decided to try fiction. I was twenty-nine when I started my master of fine arts (MFA) program. Smallwood: We connected through Michigan Writers https://www.michwriters.org. Please expand on what you shared in an interview with Midwestern Gothic: “There’s an austerity to the Midwest that doesn’t lend itself to self-promotion.” Moore: This was in response to a question about why there isn’t so much acknowledgment of a regional school of writing of the Midwest as there is of, say, the West or the South. I don’t have a comprehensive answer, but I do think it has something to do with the unassuming nature of (at least parts of) the Midwest. That’s a stereotype and a sweeping generalization, but there are certainly aspects of truth to it. Smallwood: How do you manage to include humor, even absurdity, in difficult situations? Moore: It’s just the way my brain works! Not everything I write is funny, but much of it has an element of gallows humor. It’s something that presents itself early in drafting, as part of the tone and a character’s situation or worldview. I like to say my life’s motto is “Laugh or slit your wrists,” which I realize can come off as both overly dark and also flippant, but life is hard. You have to laugh at it. Smallwood: Do you find male characters more challenging to delineate? Moore: No. I don’t think we’re so different, really, in what motivates us and what we obsess over and what the stakes are in our lives. Smallwood: What magazines has your work appeared? Moore: Many literary journals: McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern, the Alaska Quarterly Review, Witness, the Indiana Review, and others. Many of these are housed in and receive support from universities. I keep an updated list on my website: http://www.hadleymoore.net/disc.htm. Smallwood: What is your literary training, background: Moore: I earned my MFA from the wonderful Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College in North Carolina, where my teachers were Maud Casey, CJ Hribal, Erin McGraw, Michael Parker, and Steven Schwartz. They were all excellent. I was very lucky. I also participated in the Association of Writers & Writing Programs’ Writer to Writer Mentorship Program with the writer Christine Sneed, who has been so generous and encouraging. Smallwood: What are you working on now and what advice can you share with those wanting to be published: I’d like to find a home for a novel manuscript I’ve revised several times, and my current project is shaping up to be thematically linked stories about the assassinations of the 1960s. Persistence is the key. Writing has to be work you would do no matter what. Publishing ambition is great, but artistic ambition must precede it. Smallwood: Where can readers learn more about your work: My website is www.hadleymoore.net, and I very recently got on Twitter: https://twitter.com/HadleyMoore10.
BOOK REVIEW |
Dorene O’Brien is a Detroit-based writer whose stories have won the Red Rock Review Mark Twain Award for Short Fiction, the Chicago Tribune Nelson Algren Award, the New Millennium Writings Fiction Prize, and the international Bridport Prize. She is also an NEA, a Vermont Studio Center and a Hemingway-Pfeiffer creative writing fellow. Her work has been nominated for three Pushcart prizes, has been published in special Kindle editions, and has appeared in the Baltimore Review, Madison Review, Best of Carve Magazine, Short Story Review, Southern Humanities Review, Detroit Noir, Montreal Review, Passages North, and others. Voices of the Lost and Found, her first fiction collection, was a finalist for the Drake Emerging Writer Award and won the USA Best Book Award for Short Fiction. Her fiction chapbook, Ovenbirds and Other Stories, won the Wordrunner Chapbook Prize in 2018. Her second full-length collection, What It Might Feel Like to Hope, released in 2019, was named first runner-up in the Mary Roberts Rinehart Fiction Prize, was a finalist for the American Fiction Award and won a 2019 gold medal in the Independent Publishers Book Awards (IPPY). She is currently writing a literary/Sci-Fi hybrid novel. |
The Second Child
From an early age I felt that there was something wrong with me. Actually, many things. I was skinny, gap-toothed and wore thick cat-eye glasses with pink, blue or lime green frames, as if to deliberately draw attention to my being as optically challenged as a bat. In childhood pictures my sister, a year older, smiles in her polka dot dress or purple jumper while my head is down, as if to hide my crossed eyes and my pumpkin grin. Unlike my sister, who oozes confidence with head tilt and an open-mouthed laugh, I try—and fail—to blend into the background in checked pants and a paisley shirt. In some photos I am hiding behind my glamorous mother, who had obviously prepared for the shoot: jet black hair twisted into a complex up do, hourglass figure accented by a belted dress, feet in Go-Go boots propped at flattering angles, tinted lips frozen in a striking smirk.
Based on the stories about my sister that were told and retold, she was exceptional, walking, talking and charming the adults around her while other children her age appeared to use all of their energy converting oxygen to carbon dioxide. She threw balls, counted her fingers and happily ate whatever was placed before her. One would think she had exited our mother’s womb tap dancing while singing an aria, whereas I had snuck out and immediately hidden under the sheets. Our family photos, which feature my mother and sister in color-coded outfits and camera-ready poses, reveal one thing clearly: my sister was our mother’s daughter. Who was I? A changeling, an impostor, a peculiarity. According to legend, when my mother brought me home from the hospital to meet my year-old sister, she greeted me with a slap on the head. From her young perspective I had invaded the territory that she and her mother had exclusively occupied; little did she know that since she was an exact replica of our parent and I was more like a frightened rabbit or a receding ghost, she had little to fear.
As we grew I continued to hide and my sister continued to sing and dance her way into the hearts of aunts, neighbors, strangers at the grocery store. When we were four and five years old our mother cut our hair into a pixie-style with bangs, and we looked alike but for my flamboyant glasses. Our mother often pushed me to join my sister in the center of the living room where she did the Twist and sang the Beatles song “Eight Days a Week.” I refused, instead clinging to her skirt until she shoved me away in frustration. She never understood that, despite her demands, I would never be like my sister, and in this way I would always feel like a disappointment to her.
When my sister and I entered middle school with little in common but the battle for our mother’s love and attention—a battle I was impossibly equipped to win—we grew apart. She made friends with the athletes who played softball and volleyball, and I became friends with the geeks whose hearts were set on A papers and perfect exam scores. Though tall and thin, I could not sink a basketball or run a mile, but I effortlessly won science fair prizes and topped honor roll lists. My sister, who grew more muscular and popular with time, struggled in her classes but easily spiked balls and scored runs. I’ll never know why our mother hadn’t done the obvious: convince us to employ our complementary talents to help one another. Instead she focused on my sister’s sporting events, attending every game and cheering herself hoarse or jumping from the bleachers to argue with a coach while maintaining a curious absence from my spelling bees and academic awards ceremonies.
By the time were in high school, my mother had given up trying to mold me into my sister’s image, instead cutting me loose to make my own way. The teachers who challenged me, told me that I was exceptional, encouraged me with ceaseless A’s and classroom praise, became the adults whose attention I craved. My needs at school were met, but at home I grew sullen and resentful for reasons I did not fully understand. As a teenager I broke curfew, dated boys of whom my mother did not approve, picked arguments with her that I was smart enough to win. In many ways I became a cliché: I wore black clothes, channeled my fury into bad poetry, pondered why I was enraged all the time. As the gulf between my mother and me grew, I threw myself into investments that would pay off: research papers and Honors French, school newspaper and Advanced Algebra. Still, though lauded by adults for working hard and outpacing my peers, something still felt wrong. Though I had finally accepted the person I was—shy, watchful, awkward, brainy—I was always adrift, a puzzle in search of a missing piece.
Though a gifted student, after high school graduation my mother discouraged me from attending college, recommending that I instead find a job so that I could start paying rent. But I had grown to love school, the only place I felt valued and confident, so I navigated the scholarship process alone, winning a full ride to a local university, where I was allowed to spread the credits over part-time attendance in order to work full-time to support myself. I was hurt when my mother did not attend my college graduation ceremony, when she later begged off the launch party for my first book. I told myself that it didn’t matter, suppressing the knowledge that the approval of a parent is a potent, perpetual thing. Even as a bright, successful adult, I persistently felt unworthy, often crying myself to sleep while reliving the many instances when I’d felt shortchanged. Sometimes I would recall myself as a little girl and envision how I would have cared for her: allowing her to choose less showy glasses and matching outfits, reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn alongside her, screaming myself hoarse when she reached out her hand to accept a ribbon, a medal, a diploma.
Even after meeting the man I would marry and finally feeling loved and respected, carved into my psyche was the deep-rooted belief in my worthlessness. I carried it around like a boulder in my gut, used it as an unconscious lens through which to view all of my interactions, doggedly tried but failed to outrun it. Then, when I was pregnant with my daughter, I had a heart-clutching epiphany: her life would be shaped by my bitterness, depression and low self-esteem. If I did not pluck out the toxic thorns that continued to wound me, they would remain to poison my child. For the sake of her mental health I knew that I would have to radically alter my vision of myself, reconstruct the image of who I was, extinguish the power that my mother’s behavior continued to exert over me.
The first step was listening to the people who said that this is not uncommon, that most parents have favorite children, that some even have no qualms about revealing it. The next step was believing them, not just in my mind but in my gut. Then there was the step I wish that I had skipped, and that was confronting my mother, who called me insane before engaging in a lengthy tirade that likely continued long after I walked away. Foreseeing no progress on that front, the final and most difficult step was excising the hope for an emotionally healthy relationship with my mother. She never apologized for her behaviors—she never even admitted to them—but this was irrelevant as I finally understood that I was the one who had to change, to accept that she was simply unable to alter the vision of herself as a loving, impartial parent. Once I internalized this fact, I no longer felt unworthy or “less” than my older sibling regardless of what our mother felt.
I have a loving, healthy relationship with my daughter, an only child. Though my husband and I had agreed that we would have two children, I did not conclude until many years and hours of therapy later that I was unable to confer the heavy weight of second birth status on another child.
Based on the stories about my sister that were told and retold, she was exceptional, walking, talking and charming the adults around her while other children her age appeared to use all of their energy converting oxygen to carbon dioxide. She threw balls, counted her fingers and happily ate whatever was placed before her. One would think she had exited our mother’s womb tap dancing while singing an aria, whereas I had snuck out and immediately hidden under the sheets. Our family photos, which feature my mother and sister in color-coded outfits and camera-ready poses, reveal one thing clearly: my sister was our mother’s daughter. Who was I? A changeling, an impostor, a peculiarity. According to legend, when my mother brought me home from the hospital to meet my year-old sister, she greeted me with a slap on the head. From her young perspective I had invaded the territory that she and her mother had exclusively occupied; little did she know that since she was an exact replica of our parent and I was more like a frightened rabbit or a receding ghost, she had little to fear.
As we grew I continued to hide and my sister continued to sing and dance her way into the hearts of aunts, neighbors, strangers at the grocery store. When we were four and five years old our mother cut our hair into a pixie-style with bangs, and we looked alike but for my flamboyant glasses. Our mother often pushed me to join my sister in the center of the living room where she did the Twist and sang the Beatles song “Eight Days a Week.” I refused, instead clinging to her skirt until she shoved me away in frustration. She never understood that, despite her demands, I would never be like my sister, and in this way I would always feel like a disappointment to her.
When my sister and I entered middle school with little in common but the battle for our mother’s love and attention—a battle I was impossibly equipped to win—we grew apart. She made friends with the athletes who played softball and volleyball, and I became friends with the geeks whose hearts were set on A papers and perfect exam scores. Though tall and thin, I could not sink a basketball or run a mile, but I effortlessly won science fair prizes and topped honor roll lists. My sister, who grew more muscular and popular with time, struggled in her classes but easily spiked balls and scored runs. I’ll never know why our mother hadn’t done the obvious: convince us to employ our complementary talents to help one another. Instead she focused on my sister’s sporting events, attending every game and cheering herself hoarse or jumping from the bleachers to argue with a coach while maintaining a curious absence from my spelling bees and academic awards ceremonies.
By the time were in high school, my mother had given up trying to mold me into my sister’s image, instead cutting me loose to make my own way. The teachers who challenged me, told me that I was exceptional, encouraged me with ceaseless A’s and classroom praise, became the adults whose attention I craved. My needs at school were met, but at home I grew sullen and resentful for reasons I did not fully understand. As a teenager I broke curfew, dated boys of whom my mother did not approve, picked arguments with her that I was smart enough to win. In many ways I became a cliché: I wore black clothes, channeled my fury into bad poetry, pondered why I was enraged all the time. As the gulf between my mother and me grew, I threw myself into investments that would pay off: research papers and Honors French, school newspaper and Advanced Algebra. Still, though lauded by adults for working hard and outpacing my peers, something still felt wrong. Though I had finally accepted the person I was—shy, watchful, awkward, brainy—I was always adrift, a puzzle in search of a missing piece.
Though a gifted student, after high school graduation my mother discouraged me from attending college, recommending that I instead find a job so that I could start paying rent. But I had grown to love school, the only place I felt valued and confident, so I navigated the scholarship process alone, winning a full ride to a local university, where I was allowed to spread the credits over part-time attendance in order to work full-time to support myself. I was hurt when my mother did not attend my college graduation ceremony, when she later begged off the launch party for my first book. I told myself that it didn’t matter, suppressing the knowledge that the approval of a parent is a potent, perpetual thing. Even as a bright, successful adult, I persistently felt unworthy, often crying myself to sleep while reliving the many instances when I’d felt shortchanged. Sometimes I would recall myself as a little girl and envision how I would have cared for her: allowing her to choose less showy glasses and matching outfits, reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn alongside her, screaming myself hoarse when she reached out her hand to accept a ribbon, a medal, a diploma.
Even after meeting the man I would marry and finally feeling loved and respected, carved into my psyche was the deep-rooted belief in my worthlessness. I carried it around like a boulder in my gut, used it as an unconscious lens through which to view all of my interactions, doggedly tried but failed to outrun it. Then, when I was pregnant with my daughter, I had a heart-clutching epiphany: her life would be shaped by my bitterness, depression and low self-esteem. If I did not pluck out the toxic thorns that continued to wound me, they would remain to poison my child. For the sake of her mental health I knew that I would have to radically alter my vision of myself, reconstruct the image of who I was, extinguish the power that my mother’s behavior continued to exert over me.
The first step was listening to the people who said that this is not uncommon, that most parents have favorite children, that some even have no qualms about revealing it. The next step was believing them, not just in my mind but in my gut. Then there was the step I wish that I had skipped, and that was confronting my mother, who called me insane before engaging in a lengthy tirade that likely continued long after I walked away. Foreseeing no progress on that front, the final and most difficult step was excising the hope for an emotionally healthy relationship with my mother. She never apologized for her behaviors—she never even admitted to them—but this was irrelevant as I finally understood that I was the one who had to change, to accept that she was simply unable to alter the vision of herself as a loving, impartial parent. Once I internalized this fact, I no longer felt unworthy or “less” than my older sibling regardless of what our mother felt.
I have a loving, healthy relationship with my daughter, an only child. Though my husband and I had agreed that we would have two children, I did not conclude until many years and hours of therapy later that I was unable to confer the heavy weight of second birth status on another child.
John Chizoba Vincent is a poet, Author, Cinematographer and filmmaker. He was born and brought up in Aba and later moved to Lagos where he had his tertiary education . His works have appeared on allpoetry, Voicesnet, Poetrysoup Poemhunter, Africanwriter, TuckMagazine, Gaze,naijastories, Praxismagazine, Nairaland, black boy reviews and forthcoming in BrittlePapers. His writings have featured in many anthologies both home and abroad. He has five books published to his credit which includes Good Mama, Hard times, Letter From Home, For Boys Of Tomorrow. He lives in Lagos where he writes. |
WRITING IS NOT A CHILD’S PLAY
Writing is not for lazy minds, it is not for those who cannot think beyond where they are or what they see. It is not for those who cannot think outside the box neither is it for those who want to do it because others are doing it. It is not for those who have no purpose to which they write. It is for those minds that can think and brainstorm and proffer solutions to some problems, situations, circumstances and, pass a message to the society as well create an ever lasting impression on people’s mind. Our writings mirror the society and serve as the eyes of the masses; it is not a child’s play to be called a writer. You must live up to the task of a writer.
I could remember when I wrote ‘writing is not for little children’ and posted it on facebook and some other sites, I could remember that I was attacked, some asked me why I would say rejection is normal to writers. They asked me if I know the emotional trauma some writers go through each time their works are rejected by magazines or sites they send them to. I was not able to convince majority of them that being a writer does not mean that you cannot be rejected, in fact I can boldly tell you that each month, I receive close to ten rejection emails from different magazines and sometimes, some don't even reply my message or acknowledge that they have seen my work submitted to them. You can be abused anytime especially in this side of the world where we find ourselves. In fact, rejection should be something you shouldn’t be afraid of, you must learn to accept it as it comes, and you must take it as a normal thing without much ado about it. spread your wings and embrace it and never give up on yourself because your works are rejected out there and other people’s works are being accepted, not every magazine fits your works, not every magazine will accept your works just the way they are; not all of them will accept them the way you write them and the way you present them or your style of writing. Every poem or prose or short stories have their own magazine and place. For the fact that this magazine did not accept one of your poems does not mean another won’t accept it. We are not perfect writers and
perfectionism is not part of Art. Art ia not perfect taht is why we have critics who see art from different angles and approach it differently.
If someone like Graciano Enwerem took ten years to write and publish his book, what then are you rushing to do with your manuscript? Give it time and keep working and developing it. if someone like Samson Kukogho was once rejected and later, the same book that was not accepted somewhere won the Guarantee Trust Bank and Okada Books dusty manuscript award elsewhere; then you have hope of getting your book published. If Harry Potter’s author: J.K. Rowling was rejected many times and today, she is among the wealthiest and famous writers in the world, I bet you, you have not really started writing. I have over seven books submitted in different publishing houses here in Lagos and some of them have not really give me hope of publishing my book; but I still hope in them. There will be many rejections that would certainly come on your way if actually you want to choose this career, you can’t escape the heat of rejection from publishers, if actually you want to be a writer, you must buckle up your shoes.
It is not all about posting on facebook and having people clicking on the like button, some of them that click on the like button don’t read the post and some of them don’t read 6% of your write up. Don’t be deceived, you know your flaws when you are being rejected. Although some of these magazines don’t tell you why your works are rejected, they only say it does not meet up with their magazine’s standard. You see, I’m still a child when it comes to writing, I’m still building my craft; building myself to be a better writer to reckon with. I have witnessed many rejections from different publishers. I have over thirty manuscripts in the shelf. Some I wrote five years ago, some eight years ago and some two years ago. Each time I'm to clean the shelf and i look at them, I always have tears stream down from my eyes because they are those books I took my time to write, some of them I spent six months and some one year and some, more than one year.
Sometimes I ask myself when these manuscripts will turn to a book but get no answer to these questions. I have written to many magazines and I wasn’t paid for it, what was I looking for when I wrote those things to them without looking at money? You know I'm only looking for a way to establish that name: John Chizoba Vincent, because, if I don’t establish it, no one will take me serious as a writer. Even this one you are reading will be rejected too by some magazine i may send it to.
There is always a striking difference between what you write and your personality and how you present it and so therefore, becoming a writer, you have to lay down aside many things. You don’t first consider the money, you don’t consider the pains, you don’t consider rejection, yes, it will be very hard for some people to accept your craft but you have to first work with passion and the pleasure in your muse, get recognized before money start coming. You don’t rush it, it is obvious here in Africa, Nigeria precisely that being a writer that has no name is like being a rejected personality. People take you for granted but it all depends on how you present yourself, it all depends on how strong you are to your craft, if a mere word from a critic can weigh you down then you don’t have business here. The first week I posted my work on a what’sapp group, a guy from the group wrote to me in privately that I should stop writing, he said that I was killing the art itself. I was discouraged because it hurt when someone condemn your work without knowing how long it took you to create the work he just condemned without even reading the entire work. I let go of it that day but it took me another one week before I could write another thing.
Meanwhile, we won’t forget how writer’s block frustrates many of us. Sometimes you are completely blank, you don’t even know where to start or where to end. It funny how some of us manage to get out of this, the emptiness and blankness of our thoughts and some critics out there don’t understand this. Some of them just want to make sure they tell you how bad you are, how bad your write up is, how bad your tenses are, how bad your punctuations are; where you miss it. Some of them don’t do anything
than this. They sit in a comforyable place, eyes wide, waiting for you to drop that work of yours on facebook or what’sapp or any site for them to rubbish it and tell you how bad you are as a writer. And these set of people cannot correct you or tell you the right way to do it, they are always ready to wash you down any time. That is why you have to be strong as a writer, you can’t fight them all, and you can’t win them all. They are like lion that lay in wait for its prey.
Even those up there, I mean those people we look up to as mentors and follow up their footsteps don’t even have the time and resources to help you and me. It is a one man race, a one man journey. You have to establish yourself first, your name, and style of writing. No one is here or there to spoon feed you as a writer. Do exactly what you want to do, don’t allow anyone to turn you into their mugu, a follow-follow goat, not every dress of a man will fit you. Create your own future, create your own style. It is not a child’s play to pick up your pen to write. I must commend all writers all over the world. Take it easy, it is not easy to endure that pain, to have that sleepless night; I bet you don’t even know where you’ve being read and where your names have gotten to and where your name have being mentioned. Don’t see yourself as a loser because someone out there wants you to feel like that. It is only you that know you and knows what you want to achieve as a writer. Don’t give up, keep checking and searching for ways you can improve your art, we need new voices, not sagging voices. We need writers with principles and policies who can cast down fire here and look the sun in the face. We need brave personalities who could stand against these vices when everyone else is on the run.
However, don’t let your growing voice be controlled by theirs. Reason with reasons, you must find a purpose why you write because if you don’t, you will be easily pushed to the ground. It is not easy to rise from this side of the world as a writer, anyone that tells you that it is easy; it is a set up. Work more on yourself. I have written sometimes to a woman that works in one Television station. I can’t remember her name now, I was introduced to her by a friend and she called me and I went to Ikeja GRA. I was excited that for the first time I was going to be paid as a writer no matter how small it was going to be. This was around 2015. We booked an appointment to meet by 4 pm. Before 3 pm I was already there. We discussed and she promised to pay me as soon as I finish up the manuscript. I finished up the first draft and sent to her email and that was the end. She never called again even when I called her she would busy my calls. I got tired of her until I stopped calling.
Later, a friend of mine who shot the film told me that my script was shot and the other of my friend who edited the film said the same thing. I was devastated. I could not say anything to anyone in particular. It happened just like that and it made me stopped writing script for film producers. You see what I am saying, i stopped because i was broken. You know it is not even a child’s play for you to start and finish something that people will read and tell you how great it is. Writing is for the brave heart, many people would frustrate you and make you look useless; like you don’t even know what you are doing. It is for those who can stand when the tide is higher than them, it is for those who can look beyond where they are now, those people that can push ahead no matter the rejections and abuse here and there.
Furthermore, when writing, you don’t just write because you want to write, you don’t just write because something comes to your mind even at that, you must settle down to know how to relate what comes to your mind to your readers. First, you must hold your readers captive, they must follow you in your journey, they must reason with you or reason better than you. You mustn’t leave them stranded on the way; you mustn’t leave them in a point of no return. You must find a way to create a balance between you and those that read you. There are some readers that won’t have luxury of time to go through your description of a particular character while some have the time but in all, you have to play safe, balance the equation in a rightful way.
Take your time, study your craft and your audience, build yourself in it; it takes time to blossom, it takes time to stand. It is not something you start today and it grows today. It comes gradually. It starts taking shapes as you spend time with other people’s work, as you spend time studying how others are doing it. It starts to take shapes as soon as you realize who you are, what you can do and you can channel those things to achieve a common goal. Take your time, don’t rush it, keep building and studying to improve in your craft where necessary and hope for the best. The problem that most of us have is that we are in a hurry to be called an author, we are in a hurry to see our book published, it is good but the way you start is how people out there will rate you in years to come. So start in a clean note, start in a brave style and leave a mark they can’t erase. There is no how you will not be remembered after you are gone.
In conclusion, be yourself. Be who you want to be and don’t try to write like Wole Soyinka or Chinua Achebe or Helon Habila. If you are good, you are good and your voice must be heard somewhere and sometimes in history pages, It might be now or tomorrow but keep working because what you engage yourself in is not a child’s play. It needs gut and bravity..
I could remember when I wrote ‘writing is not for little children’ and posted it on facebook and some other sites, I could remember that I was attacked, some asked me why I would say rejection is normal to writers. They asked me if I know the emotional trauma some writers go through each time their works are rejected by magazines or sites they send them to. I was not able to convince majority of them that being a writer does not mean that you cannot be rejected, in fact I can boldly tell you that each month, I receive close to ten rejection emails from different magazines and sometimes, some don't even reply my message or acknowledge that they have seen my work submitted to them. You can be abused anytime especially in this side of the world where we find ourselves. In fact, rejection should be something you shouldn’t be afraid of, you must learn to accept it as it comes, and you must take it as a normal thing without much ado about it. spread your wings and embrace it and never give up on yourself because your works are rejected out there and other people’s works are being accepted, not every magazine fits your works, not every magazine will accept your works just the way they are; not all of them will accept them the way you write them and the way you present them or your style of writing. Every poem or prose or short stories have their own magazine and place. For the fact that this magazine did not accept one of your poems does not mean another won’t accept it. We are not perfect writers and
perfectionism is not part of Art. Art ia not perfect taht is why we have critics who see art from different angles and approach it differently.
If someone like Graciano Enwerem took ten years to write and publish his book, what then are you rushing to do with your manuscript? Give it time and keep working and developing it. if someone like Samson Kukogho was once rejected and later, the same book that was not accepted somewhere won the Guarantee Trust Bank and Okada Books dusty manuscript award elsewhere; then you have hope of getting your book published. If Harry Potter’s author: J.K. Rowling was rejected many times and today, she is among the wealthiest and famous writers in the world, I bet you, you have not really started writing. I have over seven books submitted in different publishing houses here in Lagos and some of them have not really give me hope of publishing my book; but I still hope in them. There will be many rejections that would certainly come on your way if actually you want to choose this career, you can’t escape the heat of rejection from publishers, if actually you want to be a writer, you must buckle up your shoes.
It is not all about posting on facebook and having people clicking on the like button, some of them that click on the like button don’t read the post and some of them don’t read 6% of your write up. Don’t be deceived, you know your flaws when you are being rejected. Although some of these magazines don’t tell you why your works are rejected, they only say it does not meet up with their magazine’s standard. You see, I’m still a child when it comes to writing, I’m still building my craft; building myself to be a better writer to reckon with. I have witnessed many rejections from different publishers. I have over thirty manuscripts in the shelf. Some I wrote five years ago, some eight years ago and some two years ago. Each time I'm to clean the shelf and i look at them, I always have tears stream down from my eyes because they are those books I took my time to write, some of them I spent six months and some one year and some, more than one year.
Sometimes I ask myself when these manuscripts will turn to a book but get no answer to these questions. I have written to many magazines and I wasn’t paid for it, what was I looking for when I wrote those things to them without looking at money? You know I'm only looking for a way to establish that name: John Chizoba Vincent, because, if I don’t establish it, no one will take me serious as a writer. Even this one you are reading will be rejected too by some magazine i may send it to.
There is always a striking difference between what you write and your personality and how you present it and so therefore, becoming a writer, you have to lay down aside many things. You don’t first consider the money, you don’t consider the pains, you don’t consider rejection, yes, it will be very hard for some people to accept your craft but you have to first work with passion and the pleasure in your muse, get recognized before money start coming. You don’t rush it, it is obvious here in Africa, Nigeria precisely that being a writer that has no name is like being a rejected personality. People take you for granted but it all depends on how you present yourself, it all depends on how strong you are to your craft, if a mere word from a critic can weigh you down then you don’t have business here. The first week I posted my work on a what’sapp group, a guy from the group wrote to me in privately that I should stop writing, he said that I was killing the art itself. I was discouraged because it hurt when someone condemn your work without knowing how long it took you to create the work he just condemned without even reading the entire work. I let go of it that day but it took me another one week before I could write another thing.
Meanwhile, we won’t forget how writer’s block frustrates many of us. Sometimes you are completely blank, you don’t even know where to start or where to end. It funny how some of us manage to get out of this, the emptiness and blankness of our thoughts and some critics out there don’t understand this. Some of them just want to make sure they tell you how bad you are, how bad your write up is, how bad your tenses are, how bad your punctuations are; where you miss it. Some of them don’t do anything
than this. They sit in a comforyable place, eyes wide, waiting for you to drop that work of yours on facebook or what’sapp or any site for them to rubbish it and tell you how bad you are as a writer. And these set of people cannot correct you or tell you the right way to do it, they are always ready to wash you down any time. That is why you have to be strong as a writer, you can’t fight them all, and you can’t win them all. They are like lion that lay in wait for its prey.
Even those up there, I mean those people we look up to as mentors and follow up their footsteps don’t even have the time and resources to help you and me. It is a one man race, a one man journey. You have to establish yourself first, your name, and style of writing. No one is here or there to spoon feed you as a writer. Do exactly what you want to do, don’t allow anyone to turn you into their mugu, a follow-follow goat, not every dress of a man will fit you. Create your own future, create your own style. It is not a child’s play to pick up your pen to write. I must commend all writers all over the world. Take it easy, it is not easy to endure that pain, to have that sleepless night; I bet you don’t even know where you’ve being read and where your names have gotten to and where your name have being mentioned. Don’t see yourself as a loser because someone out there wants you to feel like that. It is only you that know you and knows what you want to achieve as a writer. Don’t give up, keep checking and searching for ways you can improve your art, we need new voices, not sagging voices. We need writers with principles and policies who can cast down fire here and look the sun in the face. We need brave personalities who could stand against these vices when everyone else is on the run.
However, don’t let your growing voice be controlled by theirs. Reason with reasons, you must find a purpose why you write because if you don’t, you will be easily pushed to the ground. It is not easy to rise from this side of the world as a writer, anyone that tells you that it is easy; it is a set up. Work more on yourself. I have written sometimes to a woman that works in one Television station. I can’t remember her name now, I was introduced to her by a friend and she called me and I went to Ikeja GRA. I was excited that for the first time I was going to be paid as a writer no matter how small it was going to be. This was around 2015. We booked an appointment to meet by 4 pm. Before 3 pm I was already there. We discussed and she promised to pay me as soon as I finish up the manuscript. I finished up the first draft and sent to her email and that was the end. She never called again even when I called her she would busy my calls. I got tired of her until I stopped calling.
Later, a friend of mine who shot the film told me that my script was shot and the other of my friend who edited the film said the same thing. I was devastated. I could not say anything to anyone in particular. It happened just like that and it made me stopped writing script for film producers. You see what I am saying, i stopped because i was broken. You know it is not even a child’s play for you to start and finish something that people will read and tell you how great it is. Writing is for the brave heart, many people would frustrate you and make you look useless; like you don’t even know what you are doing. It is for those who can stand when the tide is higher than them, it is for those who can look beyond where they are now, those people that can push ahead no matter the rejections and abuse here and there.
Furthermore, when writing, you don’t just write because you want to write, you don’t just write because something comes to your mind even at that, you must settle down to know how to relate what comes to your mind to your readers. First, you must hold your readers captive, they must follow you in your journey, they must reason with you or reason better than you. You mustn’t leave them stranded on the way; you mustn’t leave them in a point of no return. You must find a way to create a balance between you and those that read you. There are some readers that won’t have luxury of time to go through your description of a particular character while some have the time but in all, you have to play safe, balance the equation in a rightful way.
Take your time, study your craft and your audience, build yourself in it; it takes time to blossom, it takes time to stand. It is not something you start today and it grows today. It comes gradually. It starts taking shapes as you spend time with other people’s work, as you spend time studying how others are doing it. It starts to take shapes as soon as you realize who you are, what you can do and you can channel those things to achieve a common goal. Take your time, don’t rush it, keep building and studying to improve in your craft where necessary and hope for the best. The problem that most of us have is that we are in a hurry to be called an author, we are in a hurry to see our book published, it is good but the way you start is how people out there will rate you in years to come. So start in a clean note, start in a brave style and leave a mark they can’t erase. There is no how you will not be remembered after you are gone.
In conclusion, be yourself. Be who you want to be and don’t try to write like Wole Soyinka or Chinua Achebe or Helon Habila. If you are good, you are good and your voice must be heard somewhere and sometimes in history pages, It might be now or tomorrow but keep working because what you engage yourself in is not a child’s play. It needs gut and bravity..