For the ones who never move

This article is best enjoyed whilst listening to the song “Middle ground” by Mark Wilkinson —https://open.spotify.com/track/5QrinQuG80AtUgbAO1A4HW?si=f95da8bcd1da4f50

I haven’t written in a bit. Except for this. But when writers say “I haven’t written” it usually never means exactly that. It’s like when women say they’re broke but that usually means they don’t have spending money.

That analogy reeks of misogyny, but forgive my use.

Photo by JKalina on Unsplash

Truth is, I haven’t written anything I’d consider remotely okay —something I would be proud to share with my close friends just to hear them sing a little of my poetic praise. I haven’t written anything in a bit that I’ve felt halfway confident to even submit to a magazine with the halfway hope they might think it halfway decent to be published.

I remember telling a friend that I thought Brittle Paper Magazine might be in love with me when they had accepted three of my short stories back-to-back and crowned me their writer of the month in February last year. I was elated and felt cocky. And so, early this year, I sent them a couple of pieces. I am proud to say, they were all rejected.

These days, my first draft words are usually so drab, that I scrap them and instead go on Twitter to repost cleavage pictures of gorgeous women. These days, I find when I am about to write something to share, I ask myself “If you weren’t you, would you even read this?”

The answer is usually “no.”

So, if you’re reading this, I apologize for subjecting you to this directionless piece. I know none of this “woe betide me” angst is new or remotely novel but I implore you to be patient with me.

I have written this because today whilst having a conversation with a friend, I realized I had to do something to move. Even if moving most times feels like an illusion. I need to mimic the idea of moving —the idea of progress. Writing for me has always been how I found my bearing. Without it, I feel like a lost sailor in a vast ocean, drained of strength, and contemplating drowning. Writing is how I move; not just literally but figuratively.

My life is no fairytale. But it’s no tragedy either. But I have come to that age where it feels a lot weirder to continually expect the universe to make a first move as though it’s some Bumble date. These days, my destiny is a product of my locomotive design. And in my head, all these would be easier if I could move a little.

A little win here. A little success there. A little bit of positivity amidst the negativity that is constantly casting a shadow over me.

So, I apologize again. This may make no sense. But feeble as an attempt, it is still one I need. An attempt to move —even if it is just a little or if moving itself is an illusion.

Again, none of this makes sense.