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.
