Writing Assignment One: the three m's that inspired me to write

I never considered myself a writer until recently. Perhaps only when contemplating this assignment did I try the term out as if it were a new pair of shoes: slightly uncomfortable but hoping they’ll wear in to fit with time. With much regret I dedicated so little of the last 10 years putting pen to paper however that changed a year ago. I want to guide you through my narrative in becoming a writer with the hope to inspire others to explore their own narratives through written word.

I had never understood writing to be something you had to work at: you were either good at it or you weren’t. I used to consider myself an adequate writer or at least someone with a passionate voice, until I began working within in a team of Ivy League graduates from the US (I’m British). I soon discovered I had been fooling myself: my writing was incomparable to those around me. I gave up. I embraced my long meandering sentences, schoolgirl grammar and unimaginative vocabulary; I resigned myself to being average and leave writing to those that were innately good at it.

Looking back there were several factors that changed my literary path leading me to this moment: describing rhetorically why I am a writer with a cause.

Firstly, although outwardly resigned and self-deprecating about my lack of skill, surreptitiously I still held to the illusion that I did have potential but was trapped behind years of neglect.

Secondly, I took a job in marketing for an indigenous women’s organisation, and I was inspired to communicate the mind-blowing work this organisation was undertaking. I wanted to capture, package and send the women’s tear-jerking stories and heart-warming successes across oceans to my western peers, sat comfortably in front of their Mac-books. I felt obliged to give justice to the narratives of women who are forced to leave their rural communities to work in slave-like conditions in urban sweatshops, never earning enough to break free from the chain-laden poverty trap. I wanted to communicate that despite North American trade agreements bringing local economies to their knees there was hope. We as consumers can make a difference by supporting grassroots organisations like AMA (amaguate.org) who offered a viable alternative through the trade of ethically made products. I believe that words carefully selected, arranged and formed into a coherent and persuasive argument will shame and empower people to stand up and change the system crushing our global friends’ countries.  This is often a timely process but written word helps us to educate, inform and empowers our communities.

Thirdly, an unexpected byproduct of this process was the sense of pride I personally felt by producing my own literary creations. Similar to one of the women’s weavings painstakingly sewn with detail for hours on end to create intricate designs, I too had a vision and worked with dedication to create it. Like a painting I splashed a blank canvas with my carefully chosen word combinations, filling it with color and passion in my own unique style, and adding my name at the bottom.

Lastly, in May of this year Maya Angelou died. To me Maya Angelou was more than a writer. She was a link to my past: she was my mum’s favourite poet. We read her poetry together as a young teenager and I would sit and watch her read her rhythmical prose in bed. As a family we selected one of Maya’s poems to read over her coffin on the day of her funeral. Later, I read her poetry to soothe my grief, to inspire my own poetry, and in subsequent years to widen my understanding of what it is to be an African American as a partner to one.

The day the news reached me that Maya had died I unraveled. Maya had been a sturdy six-foot cypress standing entwined between my past and my present, arms spread wide, palms stretched out like star fish; one hand interlinked with my mother’s and one helping to balance me during challenges of my present.

When Maya Angelou died I became unsteady; I felt bereft. I was bereft because of what she represented in my life. It was this realisation that forced me to write about the importance of this magnanimous woman for others to appreciate, using metaphors, poetic prose and detailed descriptions drawn from distant keepsakes in my mind.

It was apparent that writing had assisted in the collection and organisation of memories. As if they were instructions of a recipe that needed putting into the right order to produce an edible dish, my writing had created something tangible out of scattered thoughts. I felt relief, pride and satisfaction in completing such a piece as did my father; happy to see that the hard work and time spent building childhood experiences had not been in vain.

From there on writing became an addiction. I could be found at dawn in front of the glow of the screen, keys chirping like the dawn chorus outside. I lulled myself to sleep with the sound of the mouse clicking to revise the verses and lines I had written previously. I spent weekends deleting miss-spelt words, adjusting lines to flow more rhythmically, adding stops where there were misplaced commas and commas where I had forgotten to pause for breath.  

Since then I have continued to tackle difficult events in my past and present with written word. I contemplate life’s big questions about choices, aspirations, and of course love and its betrayals.

As a spoken word poet explained to an audience I was lucky enough to be part of, ‘poetry can help us find creative ways to process the world we live in’. I would extend this statement to go beyond poetry but to include all forms of creative writing. Maya Angelou wrote, ‘we need art to live fully and grow healthy. Without it we are dry husks drifting aimlessly on every ill wind, our futures are without promise and our present without grace.’ I agree with Angelou and relish in her statement so beautifully described.

Writing is a tool to enable us to lead a more meaningful, thoughtful and conscientious life. It helps us to coherently communicate who we are, the past that shaped us, to reflect on what we are currently experiencing, and how we feel about all of these things. At least this is the case for me.

The question is not whether I consider myself a writer or what is my cause; the question is how I can demonstrate the value of writing to others so they are also inspired enough to write. Perhaps that is my cause.