write a book

Who do we write for? Who occupies the grandstand? For years I have written prose that embellish the colour of my journey, words that give voice to the quiet murmurings of self-enlightenment and wings to the closeted dreams and quests that lie latent in my inner soul. I have never sought affirmation, for indeed – no view is truer to oneself than one’s own, nor have I condemned another’s observations of life in attempt to justify my own… writing is one’s man journey to the deep darkness of the soul – what we find there cannot be critiqued nor will it always be understood, from another’s observation – it can only be respected.

Not unlike all journeys of life, my writing has entered a new season in its expressionism. From the closeted poet has emerged a voice, a flagrant advocate for self-expression whose words are no longer questions, but are rather, sanctioned with belief. All voices however, no matter how loud, how sincere, how eloquent or intelligent are all subject to scrutiny, detestation, ignorance and disdain… the object of their motives is misunderstood, the sincerity of their beliefs is disconcertingly questioned and the onslaught of skepticism barrages against every vocalization of ‘truth’. Cyril Connolly once wrote ‘Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.’ Such wisdom cannot be competed with as it outlines with tragic pity the demise of many authors who deviate from their own pursuit of truth to entertain, appease and indulge the idealistic fantasies of their audience.

Connolly’s challenge holds accountable the sincerity of our motives, for in its simple object it questions whether we… in the darkened loneliness of our minds, when all lights have dimmed, banquet halls deserted and drone of voices silenced into nothingness… would pose the very same sentiments and entertain the very same thoughts and objectives of speech as we would when our audience is many?

I can only hope that the audience, no matter how persuasive or endearing, can ever sway the truth of my own beliefs or reduce my discourse to one of consoling appeasement or obligatory justification. May my words forever be centered in a grounding awareness and vocalization of self.

Sometimes in life it is far easier to create something anew than to pick up the pieces of that which is lost and seek to recreate it. It takes courage to remember who we once were, to have faith that those gifts which were once employed back when… can still be sustained by the person we are today.

I returned to writing last night and though so much has happened in the void of time since I last strung together a sentence, my fingers still found the way. The colours of the story exploded in brilliant hues and frozen memories implored my mind in agitated expectancy consumed by the insatiable desire to be freed from their ever-dormant captivity. Jack Dann once wrote ‘For me, writing is exploration; and most of the time; I’m surprised where the journey takes me.’ To trawl the deep wells of inspiration, to search the deep recesses of forgotten memories, to alight the spark of imaginative thought and reflective wonder… is indeed the greatest journey one can ever undertake.

John Steinbeck once wrote “When I face the desolate impossibility of writing 500 pages, a sick sense of failure falls on me, and I know I can never do it. Then gradually, I write one page and then another. One day’s works is all I can permit myself to contemplate.” That one verse epitomizes exactly where I am at in my progress thus far. Each day is born with an overwhelming sense of inadequacy and smallness in light of the task before me, however with each word that I write and each sentence that is strung, like coloured beads on a piece of wire, the formation of a necklace is being formed.

In a moment of inspiration last Thursday I was able to pen 3,000 words with such ease and clarity as I have not found in the past few months. My focus has been lured away from this task for quite some time as other priorities have fought for the helm and sought to deter my course. However, I hope in the coming months to breathe life into its decayed state and resurrect it to a finished piece by the end of this year. Perhaps optimism weighs a little too heavily in stating such a claim; however as someone once said so eloquently, ‘I would rather reach for the stars and miss, than have no stars to reach for.’

“Writing a long and substantial book is like having a friend and companion at your side, to whom you can always turn for comfort and amusement, and whose society becomes more attractive as a new and widening field of interest is lighted in your mind.”

Winston Churchill

Omit needless words. Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts

William Strunk, Jr

Winston Churchill once remarked that “writing a book is an adventure. To begin with it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public.”

The last few hectic days of Pre-Chistmas holidays are finally over and my life has resumed to afford me that highly sought after element of sanity and collectiveness.

I got a new laptop a week ago which overrides some of the technical problems associated with my writing and now have a few days of clear uninterrupted time and thought in which to continue with my African Journal.

Goal: 2000 words by Friday….

Alfred Kazin once wrote: “In a very real sense, the writer writes in order to teach himself.”

Perhaps that’s why some of us write… to trawl the deep wells of inspiration seeking meaning and articulated reason. Subconsciously, I think we all through writing probe our own thoughts, beliefs and dreams. In the silence we teach ourselves the lessons of life while all the while stringing their meanings into a sentence for someone else to read and understand.

I returned to writing last night after a stint of endless distractions and my hour’s effort contributed marginly to the progress of my 59,000 words. I fear however that the memories once so vivid and clear are now losing some of their colour and clarity. My memory of those small defining moments of the trip are starting to wane and falter and I fear that if I do not finish soon, some of those precious moments may be lost forever.

I find however that as I start writing, the memories start to emerge as though they were small buoys popping up above the grinding waves of the ocean. They bob up and down until I once again feel the rhythm and recapture some of those forgotten moments. It is as though I have returned to Africa and am reliving the experiences once again.

Grandma Moses once wrote, “What a strange thing is memory, and hope; One looks backward, the other forward. The one is of today, the other is the tomorrow”. Both have an integral part to play in our lives, however the most beautiful compensation of both is that our memories are the propelling forces which inspire hope.

The book I ordered ‘Out of Africa’ by Isak Dinesen arrived in the mail today. Though I have only managed to flick through the first pages of the text, the words have already inspired memories of the country I seek to write about.

The famous lines ‘I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills’ begins a reflective journey through the heartlands of Kenya and stirs the heartstrings of all who have visited the vast continent.