“I am choking, I am drowning. This pencil and these scraps of paper aren’t enough. I need colours, sounds—oils and orchestras. I need something more than words.”
I hate writing.
The recapturing of mental images, accumulated overtime, through words is tasking. English is a second language to me, second to pidgin (although, my Warri friends keep saying my pidgin is crap), which makes writing in English daunting. I also get arm and backaches whenever I type past a certain period, but I can deal with these aches because I wish I could draw.
Sometimes, when you write something and give someone to read, you see their brows converge in frustration as they try to drive through your gridlock of words (except you are that kind of writer who is skillful in drawing the reader in, even after the final full stop). Some don’t even make it through half of the…
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