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 2: Revelations and Reverberations of an Abandoned State

Wow, after reading my previous posts on here, it's been nearly a year since I've blogged. Sometimes, I feel that my creativity has suffered, due to my overall anxieties of how I feel about myself and my life. Although, I have been writing in my diary on many occasions -albeit, my minimal efforts have been noted in my diary - I still have lots of thoughts and ideas how my creativity will pan out.I procrastinate a lot and sometimes I feel this is affecting how I express myself with my words.

However, I can safely state, right now, at this moment, I feel that the root of my uncertainties lie with my departed mother. This is not to apportion blame on my mother, as I am aware that I have to take responsibility in my creative expressions. But it is definitely part of my 'makeup' as such. I don't want to be seen as a victim, as I am a survivor of my circumstances. Nonetheless, I can now place all of this into a clarified context.

My mother, Caroline Wuraola Olagundoye, passed over in 1989, June 30th to be exact.
Every time this date comes, I feel a sense of ambiguity and vagueness. Don't get me wrong, I had a kind of reverent respect for my mother, I mean, she brought me into this world. But the crux of my uncertainties et al, is that I never KNEW her. She was a mystery to me in life as she is in her transition.
Asking my mother about her life 'back home' was to commit a cardinal sin. I only started getting a better focused picture when she passed from her family members. This was because, myself, together with twin sisters and twin brothers decided to take her body 'back home' to bury her. Sometimes, I regret this decision. Only due to the fact that I, together with my children, are unable to visit her graveside. However, I know that her spirit is 'rested' in being buried 'back home'.
But back to how I feel about my mother.
As I said previously, she gave me life. Unfortunately, she didn't give me a sense of 'self' and who I was. Although she gave me some tools for life - 'tangible' being the key word that always cropped up in conversations between us both, she never led the way to see how I could attain this.
I have felt divorced and isolated from my Nigerian/Yoruba culture - I will be writing about this in other blog entries - simply because when my mother passed, all of the minimal contacts I had went with her.
So now, with my reflections and memories,I still try to conjure them up. Something that I can pass onto my own children as part of their legacy. But dang, it's hard.

To be continued...