I stressed so much about what my first blog post should sound like until I decided that it should sound like me. Shocking, I know. I wanted perfection, I wanted my words to hit your hearts like an arrow shot with a vengeance, I wanted your literary palates sated with my mastery of form and wit. It’s easier being me though, so yeah, hello! Couch potato princess here. Welcome to my world.
I’ve been journaling a lot these days, and though I’ve not gotten to the point where my thoughts and, consequently, my words are more refined, I’ve begun to see myself in a new light. Actually, I’ve begun to see myself. End. And more often than I thought possible, I like who I see. It is like having a twin with whom you share a consciousness.
When I started, I confessed tentatively, courting the romantic idea that someday, after I am long gone and my material legacies are moved to a museum, my journal will be read—a glimpse into my life. Now I tell my journal everything, my hesitancy to be free pushed away by the rawness of my feelings and the need to get everything out. If you don’t journal yet, this might be your flimsy wake-up call.
I have a few drafts in my folder all teaching stuff about writing—writing believable characters, writing our stories like foreigners, etc. I wanted my blog to be ‘professional’. I wanted it to inform, to tell everyone I knew my stuff. But the closer I got to launching, I realised that I don’t want to start something I will struggle to maintain, so I am taking a page from an acquaintance’s book and ‘writing about my obsessions and interests as they interest me’.
Niching down to writing about the very act of writing might work for someone else, but I’d rather write whatever comes to me as I go on this journey finding the things I love, reading African novels I’d want everyone to read, observing similarities or inconsistencies that make these novels work, and just writing what I learn.
The idea scared me when it first came to me because it sounds like a recipe for disaster—indecisive, unsure, everywhere all at once (everything I do not want to be)—but I’m certain I can make something beautiful out of disaster. I mean, I do write sad stories. And I did promise you a few stumbles and the gist such falls would produce.
This is me telling you to brace up for a bumpy ride this first year, because I will write about my obsessions and interests and the occasional five-minute wonder when I find something curiously morbid. I promise not to stray too far beyond the bounds of African literature and writers like you, because that is what this website is all about anyway. And who knows, maybe I’ll eventually settle into a rhythm with writing about writing.
I’ll constantly be in your face as I take you on every odd journey and delusional rant, until I weave myself so tightly into your subconscious you would not know where you end and I begin. (You’d get used to the horror.)
Now, I won’t be as transparent with you as I am with my journal (that would get me arrested or taken to a remote island where I pose no threat to anyone’s sanity) but I will be an open book in the hopes that you’re interested enough to read me.
If you haven’t already, grab a copy of Your Easy-Peasy Guide to African Fiction, and dive into the world of African fiction. It’s a small welcome gift. You’re welcome.
Also feel free to browse the site and read my About Me page for a feel of the person behind the screen, or send me a cutesy message because you’re an awesome person and I would love to hear from you.
Welcome to Soo Writes. I am Soo, and I write magic.
