Expressionism

So I was talking to Titi today about my friend Sam, whom I’ve been friends with for years and have forged a really close relationship with. Titi was shocked to realise that Sam doesn’t know I write.

First of all, I’ve never thought of myself as someone that writes. Once in a while, I get inspired and all these ideas and thoughts come in to my head. “I hear the voices”. Other times I go for long periods without thinking about anything or having any inclination to express my thoughts. Sometimes I ignore the voices. Ok I don’t literally hear voices but the ideas that come to me or the inspiration to express some of the random things that float in my head, seem so far removed from me that I see it as something separate. So again, I have never thought of myself as someone that writes.

I can’t remember how I started writing poetry. I remember one summer when I was attempting to do a long distance relationship. We used to send each other emails every day and he’d always send one so I’d see it first thing and vice versa (time difference allowed for that). One day, I sat down and wrote this poem. It just sort of expressed how I felt about him and my excitement about the relationship. I didn’t save a copy so I don’t remember what I wrote, but he loved it. He read it back to me a few months ago (bastard refused to send it back) and to my surprise, it was actually quite good and not at all cheesy or cringe-worthy. I think that may well have been my first foray. I started writing properly, when I wrote Love’s Departure. I remember my friend telling me how her boyfriend was moving to Nigeria which basically meant they were going to split up because she had no intention of moving and the relationship couldn’t go anywhere. I just started daydreaming and had this image of this woman feeling sad about her lover leaving her and it inspired me to write that poem.

I started writing my blog because I had one particular summer where my life went topsy turvy. I’m the sort of person that attracts drama anyways but this particular summer was astounding. Even for me. I remember thinking, if I ever told someone random the things that happened to me that summer, they’d never believe it was possible all that could happen to one person. So I decided to write down all the little stories. I then decided to put them on a blog after a few months. The stories were sort of a journal in a way or at least some means of ensuring I remembered what I got up to that summer. Because some of my friends knew the ins and outs, it didn’t seem weird showing them what I wrote. They also helped with editing and feedback on my writing style. (At one point I had notions of writing a Dirty Havana Trilogy style book (in terms of writing style not content!))

Anyways, I basically don’t see myself as a writer. I think I would say I’m more of an … expressionist. I’ve read too many books by brilliant authors or even several pieces that people have written, not to mention some amazing bloggers, to ever consider myself a writer. But nevertheless, my expressionism is definitely a big part of me. I didn’t quite realise it till today but it is. Yet, I find it hard to tell people about it. I panic when people make innocent comments about stuff they’ve read or my comments in emails. I’m just ever so slightly (?) neurotic because a lot of what I write is very personal even when I’m writing about other people or situations. My writing opens a lot more about me than I would necessary wish. It’s even soo bad that some might say I have a recognizable style.

I don’t quite know where I’m going with this but this one of the millions of thoughts clouding my brain tonight. I guess I can use this as forum to thank all the people who inspire me to … express myself. You know who you are. I’d also like to thank those writers whose brilliance has enabled me to transcend to new heights of appreciation – you’ve blasted the scope of possibility to infinity. I salute you.