I have this file folder on my phone named CREATIVE NOISE, it contains all my half baked articles and ambitious ideas that I have not come around to finish, I got this concept from one of my favorite bloggers-Biko, the composite pit from where stories grow or sit for ages without seeing the light of day. Well, I keep this little ‘black book’ because most of my brilliant and overly ambitious ideas come to me when I’m riding in a matatu– Ok I know what you are thinking, this guy has a loose screw in the head or something- most writers will go on camping trips, hire a cottage in the woods, book a trip to Zanzibar, just to get the creative juices running and matatus are not particularly known for their comfort or ability to inspire especially not matatus from the side of Kenya I come from- noisy, old and carelessly driven by fluent swahili speaking, miraa chewing drivers.
Well, I hate public transport as much as any other budding-low-income-middle-class-citizen with ambition, I live for the day I will get myself at least a half decent car but since that day is neither today nor tomorrow, public transport will have to do. This hate helps me slide into some sort of creative zone, a comfort zone where I lock out everything and everyone and start narrating stories in my head, off course I will barely remember these tales once I get to where I’m going and decide to put them down on paper and this is where my folder comes in handy, just by writing down a single sentence or a short paragraph I am able to remember most of what I was thinking about, some sort of a random access memory. So every once in a while I will go through my folder looking for inspiration or stashing some more articles for a rainy day.
Last week I did not really get around to posting anything on the blog not because I did not have any creative ideas to put down but because (haha, wait for it) I was suffering from performance anxiety –no it’s not bedroom related angst for those of you wondering. Well, I just got my first comment on my blog and now every time I sit to write something, I question every sentence that materializes on my screen- they simply feel inadequate, they suffer from esteem issues. I must have started more than twenty or so paragraphs and locked them prematurely in my creative box. Look, before the comment I never knew anyone read my barely dignified journal, I always figured that people I shared the link to would just click on it and when they found out it wasn’t anything really interesting they would quickly close the browser and go back to whatever they were doing before my rude interruption – you know how you react when people share unsolicited links. Now there is evidence that someone has been reading my work, its kind of scary and exciting, I feel like I have to mind what I write. But writing is an expressive art, you put down what you think what you feel no matter how contemporary your work is.
So, yesterday I sat down and decided I was going to start my week with an article, taking my ‘bull’ by its horns.
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