Tuesday 18 July 2023
Keep your heart safe and your writing spontaneous
If I am to be a great writer then everything I feel should be considered a gift, including the deep urge to do anything but write. So much of writing is channeling emotions, actions and inactions and pressing them into sentences. If I feel sad, it's a goldmine, if I feel joy, it's a thing to interrogate. Even my anxiety and desire to disappear is a budding exposé. It is as though writing does not allow for dormancy and aloofness of feeling. No emotion is safe with me. If I don't express it today, it will crawl into a story I am writing tomorrow or I will just be continually burdened by it. Maya Angelou must have felt this when she said,
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
What I am constantly thinking about are the ways in which I must tell these stories, especially since a certain kind of readership and relevance is important to me.
It's been months since I last wrote on this blog. I created my blog spontaneously and it is this spontaneity that has sustained it ever since. Of all the 58 posts I have written on here, only few of them were actually ‘planned.’ There is a surge before any post is written. I am not one of those writers who sit down and draft and plan, it just never works for me. Some of the best ideas I have gotten, even outside the writing space, did not come from planning and scheduling. It is usually me mindlessly scrolling on the internet or watching something till I have an aha moment that sends me to google doc or my notepad or WhatsApp( yes I text myself like myself is another person) Sometimes it's a dream. I have dreamt a poem before. I woke up and wrote it and it was fire. Sometimes it's during my Bible study or prayer time, I may be inspired to write a poem about grief because I read about empty jars in the Bible. The mention of fine fabric in the Bible may inspire a short story about warmth. I am going somewhere.
There is a creator I recently started following on Instagram, Keyede, and I really love her content. Her video on procrastination made me wrestle with my thoughts a little bit. She spoke about the sudden 3:am resolution we have to get our lives in order after wasting valuable time doing something unimportant and how it is not sustainable. In her words,
“ If you are honest and self aware enough, you will admit that these spontaneous intervention schemes, they don't work”
Don’t they?
She also used words like habitual and repetitive, both words I cannot fully associate with my writing process. Is my writing habitual, is it repetitive? If I am to be a successful writer should it be?
I listened to Adele talk about songwriting in an interview with Apple Music and she said,
“Whenever I have a successful writing session or it's not really a session, it always comes at a really akward point in my day. I always try and pinpoint what it is exactly that has made that song end up being finished and me thinking it's good enough to be on a record to play to people, and I always try to work out what it is so I can sort of jar it and then use it whenever I wanna write a song but I never can.”
She goes on to talk about how her ideas come spontaneously, often in the middle of the night. Now read Adele’s words again in the context of your writing experience, replace song with story and ‘on a record to play to people’ with ‘published in literary magazines for people to read.’ Stay with me.
I started actively submitting my writing to lit mags & presses when my writer friend sent me a message on WhatsApp, during our writing workshop together. I had read one of my poems in the workshop and according to her the poem was so good she tried to find more of my writing online but there weren't that many pieces, but then she found my blog and saw that I wrote a lot here. She wanted to know if I did it on purpose. If I was one of those writers who only preferred to publish their own pieces without caring about the visibility that submitting to literary magazines could bring. My answer was no. I just had not been fully indoctrinated into the world of submitting to magazines and saying "attached below are five shorts,” or checking if my work has changed to ‘in progress’ on submittable or waiting as long as six months to get either a rejection or acceptance. We talked about it and I started actively submitting. Like crazy. Like everywhere.
In that same interview Adele goes on to say that being an artist comes from deep within us and it is a necessity that we have to put it out. She feels as though art has become a transaction, a trade. On one hand, I understand but on the other writers, artists and creatives must eat. Is it even possible to draw a line between passion and trade when you desire to make the passion a source of livelihood?
I confess that the reason I stopped posting on my blog as much is because I am fighting. I am debating a lot of things. When I get a writing idea, I am immediately thinking about which lit mag to submit it to, if it fits their aesthetic, if I would get an acceptance. I would observe something and want to spontaneously make a blog post about it and just remember that there is a submission guideline I read that somehow suggests my observation would be a good fit. I legit used to write full blown short stories on this blog before and it was amazing. I don’t think I can anymore. I am constantly thinking of places to submit them to, almost like I feel my stories are more credible if they are published elsewhere. The thing about being in this unhealthy headspace is that I am getting nothing done. The urgency and spontaneity that fueled my writing has been slowed down by the desire to have a certain type of status as a writer, and this type of desire can quickly become a bland burden because it is no longer about what I want to share out of love for my craft but what is best suitable for a world someone else has created. I like to think my writing flows from God to me and that the flow will never stop, that I write from a place of abundance but I keep contradicting myself by rationing my writing at the expense of status and visibility. All I do these days is bookmark open calls and watch as their deadlines come and go. I am not actively blogging or submitting to lit mags, so Adele might be onto something with all this talk about trade.
Sometimes I wish I could jar the things that made up one great story and recycle it to make more and better stories that will grow wings and fly into the world by themselves so I don’t have to do the choosing and waiting. Leave me and my wishful thinking(insert tears)
If at this point you are waiting for me to arrive at one big teaching moment or to hear what I am doing to navigate this, I am doing nothing. Okay this is something; this spontaneous purgation of emotion that has become this blog post is something. I am also trying to just write without thinking of a home for the work. I think it’s a big mistake writing to appease an audience. As much as writers want to be read, Writing for readership is a risky thing. Readership cannot be the only foundation for which your writing stands. It is not solid to write solely for readers who might see your work and decide to go a separate way. It is safer to write first for yourself. Let the fulfillment be innate; for you first. Like Toni Morrison so graciously put it,
“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it”
As selfish as it sounds, let it be you first. Write whatever feels like purpose to you. Tell the stories you want to tell, stories that matter to you.
This is a note to self really. I hope to look back at this post a year from now and be proud that I had the courage to stop seeking validation and just create. And I hope this is your testimony too if you can relate to this. If you read up to this point, thank you. And as always this post was all over the place. But I hope you got the drift. Bye
Thursday 29 December 2022
2022: EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE ALL AT ONCE
I wasn't going to put out anything until next year. But my writing often returns to me in weird and urgent ways and I've wanted the speed with which I am writing this blog post for some time now, I am just typing everything out, unfiltered.
This year has been a very slow writing year for me. I wrote things in small and large amounts, but I didn't put out a lot of it because I felt it was not ready. I even wrote a whole chapbook of poetry and just hated the quality of the poems, I kept asking myself, 'Roseline, is this debut material?' I have done an audit of my writing and publications this year and I am a little unfulfilled. But unfulfilled in a way that still leaves room for grace because I am a fifth-year law student struggling to get my grades up, while still fighting with the fluctuation of my physical and mental health.
This year has tried me in many foundational ways, but I am sitting here in my parent's house, under a noisy ceiling fan, staring at the empty bottle of cold maltina I just gulped and watching my parents laugh about everything and nothing and it just occurred to me that as much as I want to say this was a sad year, I am deeply blessed to breath and witness life in this way.
The mere fact that I am surrounded by family, that no matter how bad things get, I can always find home and haven in the best people and places. There were family & close friends who held me through pain and loss and minute joys. Acquaintances who left me with compliments that lingered and elevated my aura like subtle vanilla notes on expensive Arab perfume. Situationships that showed me exactly the kind of love my body and soul abhors. Health scares that taught me to prioritize myself and take a step back from everything when I am overwhelmed. Family and personal crises that taught me what it means to drag the hem of God's tunic, till heaven has no choice but to release virtue and healing.
This is the year I was bad with money. A year where my finances moved steadily and simultaneously from buoyancy to brokenness in split seconds. It's the year that money showed me shege to the point where I had to start reading about finances and how to make my money work for me. Shout out to Money Africa! Bad as e bad, I know 2023 will be my money year. A year where I would experience softness, ease and premium enjoyment ( how I will make this happen, I don't know. But we move!)
I guess all I am saying is, 2022 forced me to learn. It's taught me that although routine and planning and structure give me anxiety, I must plan and have a routine to build the life of my dreams. I am learning not to rely on my brain to remind me of meetings and events when I can put everything on a calendar.
2022 taught me that I must be sensitive to the life experiences of others, even when I am going through a rough patch. That I must be conscious about warmth; to enable my loved ones not to start walking on eggshells around me. Truth is, the people you care about may never tell you how the depth of your pain builds a barricade and stops them from being themselves with you. They may never want to share their losses or wins because of the gloom you let your challenges create around you. Life is happening to everybody! Just in different measures and thresholds.
2022 taught me that the Holy Spirit is real. That God is real. That Jesus is real. Real to me. That God is resident in my heart and wants me and understands me beyond organized and performative religion.
2022 taught me that time is resilient. Like this year flew. Everything was happening everywhere all at once. It's why my expectation or wish for 2023 is to breathe. I held my breath a lot this year. I ran away from people, responsibilities and things and kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. My life was monotonous, not much thrill. I have learnt upon reflection, that there should always be space for fun in all facets of life. So live a little. Be goofy. Do childlike things.
2022 taught me that I want love. I want to give love and I want to receive it, romantically. Love that is me and my person, skin to skin, heart to heart, no pressure. You may not understand the courage it took to admit this to myself, if you know me, you know how much of a roller coaster and closed chapter this used to be.
2022 taught me that I am unkillable until my purpose on this earth is done.
2022 taught me that I am all surrounded. I really won in this friendship thing. I just thought about my people and the calibre of heart and grit is too golden. I really love close my friends and I want to be rich enough to spoil them soon.
There is a lot more to be said, but this is already a long read. See you in 2023 and please subscribe to my newsletter here
If you see any typos. Blame Grammarly and my Motorola keyboard.
.jpg "Roseline's blog")
Tuesday 16 August 2022
NOT AN EVOLUTIONARY SCIENCE EXPERIMENT - GOD'S AND GOD'S ONLY
Just two days ago, I sat down to examine the chaos that has been my life and it just dawned on me that I can name a thousand reasons why God should not make sense to me. I even saw a video on TikTok where a former fervent Christian itemized dozens of reasons why she stopped believing in God and I cannot lie to you, she made very valid points. I have seen people lose faith because of loss and pain. I have even had moments where I held my faith to light and questioned the potency of it.
I don't even know why I am making this post, if not to tell you that I have tasted a life where my faith in God was not the center of my being and I felt like a fish out of water. When I say faith, I am not talking about organized or performative religion. I am not even talking about being a churchgoer or posting scriptures on the internet - I am talking about the fierce and unflinching belief that there is a God, and that God knows exactly who you are by perfect love, purpose, and design. I cannot even rationalize it to you, I just know I am not an evolutionary science experiment or a product of the big bang theory. I chose to believe that I come from a perfect entity who gave life to the nullity of this world. It's easier that way.
Belief is powerful, it helps you power through. For some people, it helps them make sense of grief - to understand that a person they care about, has found peace in a place that is beyond this world. It can be a painful, yet hopeful thing. For me, it is in my heartbeat. As I breathe I know it, as I wake, I know it, as I move and love and grief and cry, I know it. I know there is a supreme being and He exists beyond my intellect or contradictions. It's almost like a burden. I have not been able to pray or study the word as I would like to lately, but today I did, and I just found myself shouting, 'God you are so real, it hurts.' Not that His existence is hurting me, no. It's just… I am fresh off a sea of doubt and this sudden wash of truth that has overwhelmed me feels surgical to my heart.
A series of events led up to this, but one of them is my writing. I feel more like a child of God when I write. It doesn't matter what I am writing about, it can be murder, sex, love, or history. I just feel like a god when I turn letters into stories and sentences.
I don't pretend when I write to God.
I say - hey God I don't trust you today because I am tired of life, help my unbelief.
I say - God, I am horny for no reason and if this body is truly the temple you say it is, help me worship my way out of this raging desire.
I say - God, I am jealous of my friends' progress, teach me to be happy for them, for I am not a witch.
I say - God, I don't like my body today, why didn't you create me without extra skin?
I say - God, I am not one of your strongest soldiers, is it not enough to bleed every month, why not take this severe pain away?
I say - God, representation matters, some people make serving you look like suffer head, I need more examples of your fervent daughters & sons enjoying this life.
I say - God, am I a rebel for believing that men and women are equal?
This type of honesty keeps me grounded. Because I am baring my heart in its broken and contrite form and you know what God does with a heart like this. He balms it with answers and courage and hope and love. I don't have all my answers yet, but what I have is peace, that I am led by light. That I am on a journey with the God of all heavens and earth and my answers are in the number of steps I am ready to take with this God.
This post is already too long. I just came here to say that if your faith is failing start with honesty, no matter how brutal, God can take it. Don't pretend because you don't want to look like a bad person or question God. Tell him exactly how you feel. It's therapeutic to talk to God. God would meet you exactly where you are.
I have more to say. But later. Talk to me in the comments.
.jpg "Roseline")
Sunday 22 November 2020
WHY I WRITE: OBEYING THE DIVINE
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I write to complete creation; to lend my hands to the moulding of this temporal space I am made to dwell in.
I make sentences because my father left me with a head pan of letters and a shovel of words. He named me a builder and asked me to draw light from darkness, to invent and cement a storyline. He threatened to throw my birthright to the dogs if I do not create a soft landing, a base, an accessible megaphone to allow for koinonia among my brethren.
I write with the audacity of a god, an heir to an empire the king left at foundation level and ascended into divine space. I write because I carry a yoke on my fingertips, a light burden that unearths itself in a form devoid of emptiness and ready to give the world shape.
When I write, I am obeying the last wishes of my grandfather, a gentle spirit and king in a small village in southeastern Nigeria. I like to believe divinity sent him as my forerunner to deepen and uproot languages with his tongue, to travel across dynasties, and baptize royalties with moonlight stories so that I can be worthy enough to unbuckle the straps of people who have walked through timelessness.
They say writing flows in my ancestry; that my mother and the mothers before her wrote on sands, that they registered shivers down the spines of men and scrawled threats into the palm wine keg of the drunkard who dared to beat them even before paper was invented. I write because I want to summon them, to make them have breath in this new world they are not accustomed to; to continue their legacy.
In this world full of limitations, writing is my escape route, my oxygen of confrontation, and my freedom lounge. When I write, I embody the temerity to call things that be not as though they are. Like a true daughter of a royal father, I give breath to clay and dare them to turn to dust.
I have the power to create life and take it, to transport bodies across continents from my favourite armchair and sprinkle diverse traits over the characters I have formed.
When I put my pen to blank paper, I feel like a god with the bravado to build anthills in the savannah, to come out boldly and declare that the beautiful ones are not yet born, to look at the yellow sun and slice it in half, to behold the severity of chaos and still declare that everything good will come.
I evade prosecution with my words. How I can boldly declare my sister a serial killer without facing the full wrath of the law or look the future in the eye and tell it that tomorrow died yesterday. I write because I can reinvent, alter time, build up, and tear down.
I write to remove the thorns of misogyny for daughters like me who will walk through tough paths on their journey to becoming unbreakable. I want to give them a weapon to bruise society when it tries to shrink them; to make them reject the suffering type of comfort that keeps them in anxiety with its claws around their necks.
I write to squeeze the necessity out of darkness until it is drained to comprehend the light. I write because, in a country clouded by bad judgment where I can be stoned to silence or death by anything that dares to fall apart, it is not my time to die.
I wrote this essay as a student at SprinNG & it was edited by my Mentor Ìbùkún
Wednesday 3 June 2020
I REWROTE THE LORDS PRAYER
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| Art by Laura H. Rubbin |
The World is heavy with bad news. I have been afraid, sad, and overwhelmed but I realized my father would want me to choose hope, he would want me to focus on him and surrender. This is just me making sense of a prayer Abba taught us himself. I saw Iyanu Adebiyi do it on her Instagram stories. So,
Here is my version of the lord's prayer
My fatherwho sits warmly above me
Your holiness purifies my tongue
as I call out your name.
I am here, in this temporal place you have created for me.
I am learning to twist this place
into a divine blueprint to reflect your
heavenly intentions
To make it as conducive as your
glowing abode
So that I can call you in for a feast
Fill my belly just enough for me to run out and run to you in split seconds
Needing and yearning from your abundance.
Father this girl is demanding
Asking that you hurry up with the dough
Because the bakeries here choose to
Feed me stone
I am hungry, fill me.
Blot away my red spots
Do not let my sin fix the weight of
The World on my chest
Father, take this filth and make it favor
I will peel off my resentment
And make room for reconciliation
I will not let the heat of my anger burn my
Neighbors skin
I will not be intrusive or call their dermis darkness
Father
My body is orgasmic at the sight
Of things that will destroy me
The path I have chosen is coy
My legs firmly planted in the fields of
Desire and I devour with gluttony everything that crosses my path
Drag me out of this route
Lead me out of this temptation
Father my soul wants to fall
Catch it with light
Save me from the dubiousness
of bad intentions
Deliver me from all Evil
And when this girl is clean
She will get accustomed to the
The infinitive landmark of your abode
The grandiose of your existence
The reign of your majesty
And she will know truly
That yours is the kingdom
The power and the glory
Till the end of all days
Read the actual lords prayer here.
I encourage you to do this, take any part of the Bible and personalize it, you can start with the Lord's prayer. Leave me a comment and you can even email me your version.
Stay safe and stay prayed up.