Redefining happiness and fulfillment When setting resolutions at the beginning of every year, I swear this is the year I’ll write. This is the year I’ll write almost every day as if my life depends on it. But by February, I often start failing on that promise as God and life take over. At first, I feel a deep sense of guilt that I have been unable to write for those waiting to read my works and, worse, that I am a disappointment to myself. And soon, I forget that I am not even writing. And the year ends, and another starts, and I promise again with pretentious forgetfulness that the new year is my year.
Whenever I introduce myself as an MFA – Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing student, one of the following questions I often get is, “What are your writing goals?” Unlike other clear goals I have set, I am sometimes embarrassed to admit that I am unsure of what I am chasing as a writer for myself. I can name a thousand things that I do for others in regard to writing but fall short when I talk about writing for me. When I started sharing my works online over 10 years ago, I wanted fame and to be seen. Then, my writing wasn’t as good or unique enough that if you walked into a bookstore and picked a book without looking at the author’s name, you’ll know it was mine. I was obsessed with Instagram, especially in 2015, because I had surpassed 1,200 followers. And in April 2015, I boldly decided to delete that account. However, before deleting it, I took screenshots of all my posts and the comments hoping to reflect in a few years when my writing was much more improved and I had more maturity to control my use of social media. I opened a new account at the end of that year and started afresh. Around that time, I made some really good friends online. Someone much older did the same around 2020. He even had more followers who engaged heavily with his wise words. When I discussed with him soon afterward, he shared his decision not to write or publish and just focus on enjoying life and having a good job… I tried urging him to return sincerely because I missed his writings. In the past two years, I can point to more people, some, who are my age mates, that followed the same path… either erasing themselves from social media or rebranding themselves to their profession rather than their talent and leaving thousands of followers hanging without looking back. I admire their bravery. Don’t worry, I am too cowardly to commit such crime. About a week ago, I shared with my thesis advisor that I have two ongoing manuscripts; a collection of romantic comedy poems and a nonfiction book centered on grief. He asked why I chose the first over the latter for my graduate thesis. Beyond the apparent reason that poetry comes easier, there are responsibilities I am ignoring, that the nonfiction collection would need to thrive. Over the past two years, the responsibility of being a writer, choosing one’s words intentionally and carefully has become unignorable.
For over a year, I have been trying to write a nonfiction piece about my decision to be non-feminist. Of course, I divert – this isn’t what the post is about; however, despite having written many versions of that piece, I have struggled to find contentment in what someone else might believe my words convey or “my intent.” Being in an MFA program, words now matter more than before. In conversations with friends, I often say, “This isn’t the perfect word to describe this but think of it as…” because there is something about using words with precision and truth that makes a difference in whatever is communicated. The alarming consciousness of how words can convince, manipulate, or change people and things is a heavy burden. The Side of Vegas You don’t Often Hear About – A Travel Series Growing up in a middle-class household in Nigeria, traveling to a different state or country for holidays wasn’t a thing. A holiday meant going to another relative’s house, and while I considered that luxury, I dreaded returning to school and answering the question, “What did you do this holiday?” Not because my holiday wasn’t fun but because there was unspoken anxiety in sitting among my classmates at the high-end primary and junior high schools I attended and hearing them brag about their trips to Lagos, London, or some fancy place in the world. I also dreaded writing essays about my holidays for the English Language class.
For eight years after relocating to the United States, I never took a flight to travel anywhere else. No, this isn’t something I am proud of, and many friends and family members often teased me about traveling. I only went to a few states nearby where trains and buses could go. I wasn’t afraid of flying; I just wasn’t delighted and excited to travel as a young adult following the context of holidays and vacationing, I grew up knowing or saw others around me pursuing. |