Memoirs of a writer.
I scribbled something in my notebook, read it, shook my head and marked the page with an angry ‘X’. If I read the page later and still wasn’t impressed, it would end up in the waste paper basket.
“Good morning, Mr George.”
My writing table faced the window. Anybody who passed by in the compound could see me writing. However, I didn’t expect anybody to pass by that early except of course the owner of the house who had a mini-warehouse at the back of the building. She stopped in front of my window and looked at what I was doing.
“Good morning,” I replied cautiously, expecting her to move on and leave me alone with my thoughts.
“Why are you at home and not at work?” she inquired.
I wondered why she was asking. She had never been interested in what I did for a living as long as I paid my rent.
“I am a writer. This is my work.”
Technically, I wasn’t a writer because until then I had not written or published anything for public consumption.
“Ha,ha,ha!” She laughed with derision and looked at me with pity.
“You are a writer? You better get a job like everyone else instead of deceiving yourself that this is a job. Is this how you plan to feed your family?” She walked away, still talking to herself and shaking her head. “He says he is a writer. Wonders will never end.”
Her words stung and hurt me deeply.
I stopped writing and set the notebook aside.
I bowed my head for a few minutes. I was in pain.
Her words shattered my concentration. Doubts rose up in my mind and attacked the very foundation of my confidence.
I stood up in despair and walked around the apartment like a somnambulist, with absolutely no idea what I was doing. I attempted to clear my head from the fumes of dark thoughts that assailed my mind like a nazi blitzkrieg, with intent to obliterate whatever stood in its path. After a few minutes my mind cleared and I returned to my table. I read a few lines of what I had written and admitted to myself that she was probably right. What was I even thinking trying to write a book?
A few months earlier, the thought seized my mind to write a book and just wouldn’t let me be until I gave in to it. I prayed about it and it persisted. I shared my thoughts with some of my friends and this was what they had to say.
“When did you become a writer? Are you no longer a singer? Hey, everyone. Praise George wants to become a writer!”
“Are you sure you can write?”
“Who reads books these days?”
“How will you make money from books?”
“Have you ever heard of anyone in this country who made money from writing books?”
After listening to all they said, I stopped sharing my thoughts with them and decided to pursue the desire The Lord had placed in my heart. I started work on the book. I wrote all I knew on the subject and continued writing until my words began to take on a life of their own and started looking like a book.
Sitting at my table, I lifted up my eyes in silent supplication. The morning sun streamed through my window and flooded the room. The voices of street hawkers filtered into my room. I felt discouraged but I was committed to finish what I began. It was important for me to finish this book because my future depended on it. More than anything else, I needed to prove to myself that I could do it.
I tore the page marked with the huge ‘X’, crumpled it into a crude ball and threw it into the waste paper basket. I took a deep breath and resumed writing in my notebook. It was a struggle. Words were evasive, hiding in deep corners of my mind. Like a determined suitor, I courted them patiently until they yielded their soul to me.
I wouldn’t allow my landlady or anybody else sabotage me.
I wouldn’t allow my doubts crush me.
I wouldn’t allow my past steal my future from me.
I wouldn’t allow my failures hinder the possibility of experiencing future success through my writing.
I was determined to be a writer.
I prayed with passion and pursued my persuasions, my purpose, my path.
My soul birthed words. Bright, beautiful, breathtaking, liberating.
Today, thousands of people find my words. Like them. Honour me by buying and reading my books. For this I am grateful.
Twenty years have passed and I am still writing.
On the day The Lord Jesus comes to take me home, He will find me writing or speaking with passion from my soul to an enthusiastic group of people, eagerly listening to the things I have written or things I am about to write.
You see, technically I am not a speaker.
I am a writer.