The Frustrations of Becoming a Writer: Embracing without Fear

Ok. I have decided to blog about my journey on embracing my writing and becoming a writer. So many times I have been afraid to pick up my pen or touch type my keys, as I’ve just been afraid to ‘let go’. I’ve seen others who have taken the leap of faith into their creativity, and I feel that I am just sitting on the side kerb, watching the traffic of my creativity speed past me. Why do I feel so frustrated? Why am I procrastinating and giving up my dreams? Why am I fearing this particular journey? Why do I want to run away from the words that I have been forming  and fermenting in my imagination like a ripe mango, waiting to burst, with all the flavour and juices, but still continually beat myself up and tell myself that I cannot do it? What is my creative block that is stopping me?

Only I myself can answer all of my angst ridden questions.  It seems to me that I am self – sabotaging my words, my creativity. I am  taking my words hostage and refusing to open up the recess of my mind and just… write. I have it all planned; I’ve written a few chapters, and I know how this novel will eventually pan out to be, but yet, I have all of these frustrations and fears of becoming a writer. Maybe this small voice that keeps on echoing in my head, like bad audio feedback, is telling me that I need to stop seeking this pasture of creativity. But see, I have always surrounded myself with words. 

Ever since I was small and was able to read books independently, I wanted to write. I wanted to become a journalist, but my mama just looked at me; her eyes just gave me THAT LOOK, and I knew that this was never going to happen in my lifetime. I thought that I had committed a cardinal sin – in fact I had. She either wanted me to become an accountant – which was never going to happen, as I have dyslexia when it comes to figures. I think it's because when dealing with numbers, statistics and everything arithmetical, you are using your left hand side of the brain. I always was in tune with my right side, so this was just a fantasy for my mama. If I wasn’t going to be an accountant, she wanted me to become a doctor. Well, that realisation for me was never going to happen, as I remember when I was young I kept on having repetitive nosebleeds. The sight of blood to my young eyes scared me beyond beyond! My mama only wanted me to fulfill her dreams so she could brag about my professional status. It wasn’t that I was incapable of doing these particular careers, I just was not interested. So, I rebelled.

I used to write in secret. In my diary – there were no blogs when I was younger, as the information age was just a far away star in the constellation, and I was a young girl just wishing on a star. I wanted  to see my words take print and make sense to other girls, who looked like me, who spoke like me and was possibly going through the same growing pains that I was going through. I wanted my writing to be a filter for my life.

Now, I have come to the stage that I will write. I have my writing wings on and I am ready to fly to the next level; to take my impending novel and carve out my own literal landscape. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t sell; although that would be the icing on the proverbial cake; or if the awards don’t knock down my door ; although a little validation from the world of authors would gently boost my ego; or if it gets repeatedly knocked back  and rejected by publishers; that’s fine with me, I can always self publish it and take my own control, without others dictating to me on how my novel should read. Really, I have to write to survive. That may seem to be a bit dramatic, but it's how I am feeling right now. I feel that this novel that I have deep within me is ready to explode and I  just need to feel the fear, push against my frustration, expel my procrastination and just do it anyway. 

So, everyday, whilst I have the time, I promise to myself that I will at least try to dedicate two to three hours a day to my writing; something that I am guilty of not adhering to. But I will not be beating myself up, as LIFE sometimes takes over and so it may be impossible to do these hours.

One of the things about writing consistently, is that you have to be disciplined. I need to be disciplined in my creativity and also disciplined in writing this novel. I never want to be in a position in my own life and have regrets when it comes to writing this novel. I have made too many regrets on this wondrous journey, however, I have packed them away and placed them in a suitcase and  wheeled them away on an eternal vacation. 

For me, to be disciplined means that I will have the freedom to write authentically, clearly, joyfully, with abundance, freedom and with love. I see discipline in this context differently and this is something that I have to always have in mind when I get out my pen or pound on my keystrokes to take on the oncoming chapters in my novel.

So, yes, my fears and frustrations still present deep within. But what I need to do is turn these negative qualities into just words, where they will, in their own paradoxical way, keep on liberating me and where I can finally cancel out these feelings that are stopping me from fully embracing the real authentic me.

Part 1: Revelations and Reverberations of an Abandoned State - 2.8.07

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, far away from home.
But I have to prefix that and state, a fatherless child as well, and what, is ‘home’? to me, what does it mean to have a constant 'home?' A solid foundation?

The above mantra is constantly entering my current consciousness.
It’s like the refrain of my life - the coda to my life.

I’ve never comprehended the notion of home and family, I guess, that’s why, somewhat unconsciously (subconsciously?) I was always ‘seeking’ for the notion of family; basically, somebody to love me. It was hard to ‘love’ me when, as a young, black skinned female child, I felt that I had been abandoned by the parents who were chosen to give me life.
I was fostered at an extreme early age, to foster parents who I have conveniently repressed. Maybe, cleansed away with my own racial myopia and a lack of loving that I thought was created when my parents procreated me. Certainly, due to the sexual, physical and mental abuse that I had gone through at the time. There was no such thing as Childline back then. I had to ‘suffer’ in silence and graciously smile and flash my dimples, be patted and rubbed on my head as a good luck charm and told to be a ‘good’ girl. I guess, that is why, in reflection, why I found libraries, the golden age of Hollywood and daydreaming of being part of my internalised flight from my surrounding realities.

These white foster parents, who remain anonymous to me this day – this is most probably due to the passing of a mother who remained eternally secretive to me and a father who abandoned me – were the template of my early years and home life. What were these early years and home life to me? Why have I suddenly suffered from historical amnesia? Is it because it’s so convenient to fit into my life at the moment, where I feel that I am suffering from some kind of melt down? Where I feel hopeless, abandoned and lost, floating within self-pity?

At this point, if anybody, who is reading this blog and is further interested on transracial fostering within the West African community in the UK, I came across a succinct article online article in the Guardian, which touched on some salient points : http://society.guardian.co.uk/adoption/story/0,,1219560,00.html


2007 and has not been easy for me. I enter this year of my forty- fourth birthday and I feel that I have achieved nothing.

In January, I got a temporary job, where I was informed to ‘hit the floor and run’ Why, this has been the motto with my life, especially with my constant nomadic roaming around since leaving home at the age of 17, or was it 18? Again, my historical amnesia is serving me very well.
I stayed on this job like a faithful servant. Not letting anybody down, getting no sense of assistance and support from my line manager – she was going through her own personal demons and crisis with senior management – and working with clients, managing staff who had no initial confidence of me due to the constant changeovers. However, I managed to succumb to all of this, even to the detriment of ill health. I was afflicted by a mysterious illness, where my initial doctor couldn’t diagnose anything. I had to take several blood tests. Afterwards, I took time off – approx two weeks, without sick pay – and came back to the organisation in total confusion. I decided, at that point, to hand in my notice. The staff that I was managing pleaded for me to stay on; the clients were sad to see yet another member of staff to disappear in the void due to the overall organisation’s disrespect of their staff. I was asked to apply for the post permanently. However, the pay wasn’t up to my standards. Additionally, it wasn’t where I wanted my career to be headed.
After a while, they (senior management) persuaded me to stay on. I did. Reluctantly. Only to be stabbed in the back whilst I was in Holland with Enson. I found out, through a phone call, that I wasn’t needed back. Just in time for the new tax year. How convenient.

So, I licked my battle wounds and notched it up as experience and subjectivity.

The issue of being fostered by white foster parents is an issue that I am constantly exploring. I only wish that I had a great wealth of knowledge of what had really happened in my early life. I wish that I could ask my parents about this. Because then, I guess, I would then start feeling ‘whole’ within myself. I am constantly in a state of flux. Trying to figure out my identity and trying to understand where I ‘fit’ into this global community.

This, and other issues, I will be addressing on this blog. It’s therapeutic to me. It’s healing to me. It’s time.

In the analogy of show business, I will be breaking my leg to discover the truth about who I be…