THE WRITER I AM BECOMING

The first time I wrote a piece of art, I sought the guidance of one of my aunties, who had a degree in literature and English. She had just completed her studies at a leading university in the country, and I thought this was the best time of my life. I had trouble writing good pieces in school. My imagination couldn’t translate into words, and hence, I did poor pieces. Then, we would be graded by teachers by the marks we garner from our pieces. I thought to myself, if I must improve my art. I must consult an expert. I was still a student in primary 5. During the April holidays, I approached my aunt and shared my vision with her. I just needed to make a page and a half of a story and share it with her for marking. I indulged. I then wrote ten pieces in two days. For the first time, I read my work. I was sure that some pieces were poorly told, but I shared them with you.

Write, write even when it doesn’t sound nice. Write!

The beautiful, young university teacher picked up my work and promised to share feedback when she could. I was delighted. This singular delight was unfathomable. I was very happy. Happy that I had a chance with good readership, advice, and guidance from a perfect person. Not that I hadn’t read any of her work. But she had spent four years studying these kinds of things. I was hopeful I would gather substantial marks. I just hoped that I had set out my imagination on paper as I had imagined it.

Reach out for help. Read other people’s work. Work together.

When she gave back the essays, I quickly went home and closed the doors behind me. I sat on the bed as I read through each of her comments. I looked through the words I had spelled wrong, the punctuation I had missed, and every mark of red on those papers. She gave a good score. I felt really good. I was happy. Happy that my work was being taken seriously by a well-educated scholar. My thoughts went through the roof. I was ready to experience art with its bare attitude.

I discovered that part of my problem then was the interpretation of literature. I did not interpret the guiding essay statement with clarity. So even though I had shared a good piece of art, it was out of context. I was just writing, and this was not everything. I needed to learn how to contextualize my art within the guiding principles. I needed to work hard for my piece of work. Just then, during that era, our mother brought us books. One of the beautiful books was the “Progressive English for Grammar Schools.” The book was prepared for Grammar Schools in Ghana. I now had a very strong urge to read books. To interpret words. I read the comprehension in that book not to answer the questions, but to make sure I understood each word in that story. I wanted to read and understand and place each word in the meaning that the writer had placed it.

Identify your neche. It is very crucial.

When we opened school in May, whatever people call the spring semester, I was waiting for the writing exams with both my arms open. I was eager. I waited. When our teacher of English teacher gave us a composition to write. I went all out. The composition had a starting line: “The dusk had come and she…”. Now the music started, and I tried to write this story to fruition. It was in the middle of the night when I discovered that my Grammar book had a good story about a spider. I decided that I would paraphrase this story into this scenario. I wanted to be the best writer in our class. Two ladies had become the best writers. They had the most beautiful handwriting, and their stories made sense. I so wanted to make it to this list of famous writers in our class. Small but magnetic.

Grow your motivation. Be motivated.

My oratory skills were top-notch, but I couldn’t write these stories in physical form. I couldn’t put the ideas on paper. It was difficult. It was what I yearned for. When my piece was read by our teacher, he was amazed. So, he passed my book around the staffroom to read the story through. He had not seen such beautiful handwriting and narration skills from me. I was braised.

Don’t fear. Your art is yours. Give it raw as it dawns to you.

Our classrooms were far from the main office in that the classrooms formed an L on the compound. One could see the teachers coming from their staffroom to the classrooms diagonally. He hummed his way to the class. When we received our books, I was amazed. I scored thirty-six marks out of the total forty marks. I was happy. But the goose had already been cooked. The teacher asked me to tell her my story.  It dawned on me that authenticity was key in writing. Your story sounds different. It tastes different when you say it like you do.

Today, I enjoyed good poetry and flash fiction. Comfortably due to these singular struggles, I have made miles, steps, and still, I am hoping that I will be there.